Son of Ten Unmediated Pleasures

1. Deep right-field seats for Opening Day, hot pretzels against the roaring cold.

2. The smell of thyme on my hands, and the smirk that tugs at my mouth when I give it a name.

3. Her hair, brushing my face.

4. The ping in the hamstrings, the twang in the quads, as the heart monitor ticks over 145.

5. Writing fiction longhand—ideas taking shape by an act of labor, building worlds like a carpenter builds houses.

6. Dough risen and resisting, humid with the panting respiration of yeast in a fight for life against my fist.

7. Warm sting of sunburn across the cheeks after an afternoon out.

8. Folding back into an Adirondack chair: it looks like it couldn’t possibly be comfortable, and then you’re in it and you never want to get up.

9. Twelve-dollar K-Mart jeans that are the match, for fit and comfort, of any I’ve ever owned

10. Being the hero. Killing the giant.