In my younger days I was obsessed with the idea of the “bohemian.” Reading flagship Jack Kerouac novels “On the Road” and “The Subterraneans,” as well as the Beat poetry of Gregory Corso and Allen Ginsberg, immersed me in images of voluntarily downtrodden seekers carousing through urban streets at night, proclaiming their visions of reality to any who would listen — either through their art or simply through the way they lived their lives.

I held onto a youthful, romantic image of bohemian life, as if traditional urges and societal parameters — stable job, marriage, a sense of moderation — were cumbersome speed bumps on life’s highway, and a life truly lived was one filled with unpredictability, passion and constant expression. I held onto this notion for a long time — until, that is, I entered bohemian life myself on a non-college, non-”dabbling,” receive-a-paycheck-or-not sort of way.