‘he wasn’t all there…’

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Uncle Arch…We drove past the front door pretty much every time we visited Dad’s parents but we only went inside on one occasion. My sole memory is that one wall of the living room was unrendered and that the place had an air of profound sadness, though the latter may have been my own projection. He never came to Christmas lunch at our house with his brother and sister-in-law. I can only assume he wasn’t invited. In our entire lives Fiona and I saw him a handful of times at most, during that single visit and at a couple of family funerals and weddings. He seemed placid and slow and a little scruffy, but otherwise not greatly different from many other guests. He never married, never had children. I don’t think he worked. Later when I asked Mum about him she said, ‘He wasn’t all there,’ and refused to elaborate so that I have no idea whether he had some kind of learning difficulty or whether he was heavily medicated for a psychiatric illness, but he lived independently into his sixties so whatever difficulties he faced were not insuperable ones. I’ve since worked with many people like Uncle Arch, the kind of people we pass all too easily in the street, forgetting that they have stories and experiences and interior lives of as much value as our own but who get pushed to the edge of society, who are excluded from family events because they’re seen as shameful, because their personal hygiene isn’t perfect, because they might behave inappropriately, because we don’t know how to behave in their presence. I can’t think about Uncle Arch without thinking of how completely and how effectively he was written out of our lives, and I’m embarrassed to admit that I never once looked around the table at Christmas lunch and thought about him sitting eating his Christmas lunch alone four miles away.

— Mark Haddon, Leaving Home: A Memoir in Full Colour (Doubleday, February 17, 2026)

Notes:

Walking. No where to go. And all the time to get there…

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It’s now, like mid-afternoon on Saturday.

Wally looks up: “Dad, how about nap time.” He jumps up, tucks in, and drifts off.

I feel his little belly with each inhale and exhale. What a great sleeper. Prior to drifting off, I reflect on the last 48 hours — my 19th year anniversary at this stop, to the day.

My desk has been cleared of the work phone, the headset, the zoom lamp.

I turn on my PC to find Corporate Security has wiped all of my corporate apps and my system access. Just like that, gone!

The hum of 100-200 emails a day, conference calls, zoom calls, phone calls, road trips, presentations, strategy sessions, client meetings, staff meetings, back-and-forth commutes, etc etc etc has gone silent.

19 years. Gemini estimates the production and ingestion of 1 million emails requiring 1/2 Terabyte of storage.

“What’s next?”

“I can’t see you sitting still for long.”

I stare at the screen. My fingers tap on the desk, habitually reaching for the keyboard. No task. No task. No Task. No Task.

“How do you feel?”

Right now? Unsteady.

“So what’s the plan.”

(Try to)

“Sit still and let the world do the moving.” (Stegner)

I burst into tears. Love is hell.

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Tonight I see what looks to be a tick on the dog’s eyelid. I get a pair of tweezers from the bathroom and kneel to remove it. He looks at me askance but lies there in beatific patience. I smooth the fine yellow fur on his head, apply the tweezers to the tick, and clamp down. But it is not a tick—just a little black growth above his eye. A stream of blood trickles down his snout, and he doesn’t flinch. I gasp. He leans forward and licks my hand, to forgive me for hurting him, with blood in his fur. I burst into tears. Love is hell.

— Daniel Poppick, “The Copywriter: A Novel” (Scribner, February 3, 2026)

Notes:

  • Book: I Loved it. Not recommended / Cautiously recommended.
  • NY Times Book Review of “The Copywriter” here. Notable quote from review: “It’s simultaneously a quotidian task — it’s just another copywriting assignment — and also a monumental moral decision. In action, it may seem like a small choice, but in a vast and ugly universe, sometimes small choices are all we have.”

I went into rehab recently…

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I went into rehab recently. It wasn’t to treat substance abuse, though both drugs and alcohol are banned at the facility I checked myself into. Rather, I went to free myself from the noise that is disrupting our mental health in the 21st century.I shut off my phone and laptop and locked them away for three days. But this was more than a digital detox: I joined 50 other people in taking a vow of silence. Instead of scrolling or chatting, we spent hours in guided meditation and the rest of the time alone with our thoughts. As silent retreats go, this one was brief. But I had never kept quiet for so long in my life, and I hadn’t been without my electronics for that long since I got my first iPhone 18 years ago.

I craved the unplugging, but I was admittedly skeptical about elements of the experiment. I didn’t think I had the patience for meditation, and my few previous attempts at yoga typically ended with the administration of Advil. […]

But underneath all that woo, I also found something true. The silent unplugging made me appreciate, in ways I hadn’t fully understood, how much my phone has hijacked my attention. In the notification-free quiet, I wondered: Have I forgotten how to just be?

 Of course, the world’s religions have been practicing forms of monastic silence for thousands of years. The difference is those ancient orders, and even those who went on silent retreats in pre-smartphone decades, didn’t have Instagram accounts. Now, when we go into silence and turn off our devices, we are entirely isolated. In our always-on, hyperconnected world, this is disorienting.⁠⁠

⁠⁠I expected I would go through some digital withdrawal, and that happened. Dozens of times, I felt an involuntary urge to reach for my phone: to check the time, to take a picture, to see if the snow had canceled my flight, to look up “upma” before ladling some onto my plate, to order Valentine’s Day flowers, to find out what I was missing and who was trying to reach me. It felt unnatural not to be scrolling while waiting for a session to begin.

But something else happened during those three days that I didn’t expect — and it was frightening…

— Dana Milbank, read more here: “I went into phone-free silence. Something disturbing happened.” (Washingon Post, February 13, 2026

Puffins…

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It’s not always the obvious that is the source of danger for the birds. On Craigleith, famous for its puffin colony of ten thousand breeding pairs, the population of what is undeniably the cutest and most comedic of all seabirds fell in a few short years by 90 per cent because of tree mallows, giant invasive plants whose roots make it impossible for the birds to dig the burrows where they incubate their eggs and raise their young. Ever since the calamitous fall in numbers, volunteers have been working to eradicate the mallows. In spite of the efforts of more than a thousand supporters of the puffins, the mallows persist, though their numbers have been reduced sufficiently to allow the puffins to start rebuilding their colonies. They’re a welcome sight; it would be a hard heart that didn’t feel a rise in its spirit at the sight of a puffin.

— Val McDermid, Winter: The Story of a Season (Atlantic Monthly Press, December 30, 2025)

Notes: