I am motivated, professionally, by this idea that I can always do better — or, more accurately, that whatever level of accomplishment I can currently claim isn’t enough. In a sense, I don’t allow myself to enjoy whatever success I’ve attained; I’m forever re-assessing my status or beating myself up for not yet having reached some higher, better plateau that seems to lie perpetually just beyond my grasp. I don’t let up on myself.

This isn’t bragging, nor is it career advice. It’s a strategy that got me where I am today, but it’s exacted its own kind of price. As much as I try, and as intent as I am on reshaping my behavior, I have a difficult time appreciating what’s good about my life. And this careerist sensibility bleeds over into my personal arena, too. It’s caused me to have a hard time creating consistently meaningful relationships with the people I care about. Or maybe this perpetual dissatisfaction was hardwired into me deeper down, turning me into an efficient desk jockey on the one hand, while on the other hand leading me to continually seek other, ‘better’ relationships — meanwhile becoming disaffected and disconnected from those I care about.

Either way, it’s not a sustainable strategy for living. I realized lately that I haven’t done a good job appreciating what I have or, especially, who I have in my life. I’m not completely without gratitude, but I have spent a lot of time in the company of people supposedly near to me while daydreaming about being elsewhere — thinking about design, or playing on my computer, or just not being present. On the whole, I think that I would have had a much nicer time these past three and a half decades if I’d just been mentally there, if I’d really appreciated the people around me, let them know that I was really with them, and happily so. I would have had a lot more fun, and I think those in my life would have, too.

I’m going to start doing a better job with that. Happy Thanksgiving, everyone.

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You know those people who show up for work in the morning with nothing with them except, say, a newspaper or a notebook or maybe a jacket slung over their shoulder? They look like free spirits, right? What with their conspicuously absent shoulder bag or briefcase or other such encumbrance — they seem as if nothing holds them down, as if they’re unshackled men and women at one with nature — or with their commutes, anyway

That’s not me. I feel compelled to load up every morning with a bag or briefcase in which I carry a stack of papers, my checkbook, a wallet, a small attaché for credit cards, my New York Times identity card, a point-and-click digital camera, extra pens, my iPod and my iPhone, the latest issue of The New Yorker and my keys. Whew. As much as I would like to do without this uncomfortably extensive inventory of must-have items, I can’t.

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Okay, I need to set all modesty aside for a moment in order to write this post, mostly so that I can start with the premise that, all in all, I get a lot of crap done. I’m not saying it’s all amazing, wonderful crap, but I’m pretty proud of most of it. Somehow I manage to work a demanding, full-time job; I write fairly lengthy posts for this blog; I keep up with a nontrivial set of duties at AIGA New York; I design and co-publish A Brief Message; I maintain a robust enough social life that I get to see friends I genuinely like several days a week; and, not least of all, I take pretty damn good care of my dog.

Now we’ve established that, I can address the fact that, fairly frequently, people ask me how I get all of it done. It’s not easy, but it’s not that hard, either, mostly because there’s not a thing on that list that I don’t care about passionately. I like my life, my career, my work, my friends and I love my dog. All things considered, I feel like a pretty lucky bastard.

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Oof. I had a look at my handwriting the other day, when I scribbled a note to accompany a package I was sending off. My chicken scratch looked horrible, nearly illegible, even. After years and years of keyboard use, my penmanship has clearly deteriorated.

It’s not that I write by hand so rarely that it was a shock for me to see how poorly formed my letters are. But I was writing at a moderately greater length than usual, and it made an impression on me how malformed many of the letters turned out. I had to go back in and add missing strokes and stems to many of the otherwise inscrutable letters just to make sure I didn’t come across as some kind of maniac.

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This week I extended my Fourth of July holiday by taking today, Thursday and tomorrow, Friday, off from work. The idea is that I’ll stay home and do nothing. It’s the vacation that most people, myself included, never allow themselves: luxuriating in an uninterrupted stretch of free time, without the hassle of travel, packing, site seeing and social commitments, and in the comfort of their own home.

I’ve been kind of burnt out for a few months, so I’ve been looking forward to this with great anticipation. So far I’m just hanging out, doing whatever I want to do, whether it’s watching television, or catching up on my reading, or hanging out with Mister President or fooling around on the Internet. It’s terrific; I’m letting myself off the hook for stuff I don’t feel like doing, and crossing off long-procrastinated items off of my list of things I’ve been wanting to do. I recommend it.

Unfortunately, the agenda for this miniature sabbatical does not include a heck of a lot of blogging. It just takes too much time to write these posts, and for this five-day weekend, anyway, I’d rather be doing other things. I’m not saying I’m not going to be blogging at all (or posting links to Elsewhere). I’m just saying the posts may be short. Like, this short.

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