It’s always good for me to be reminded that writing is a physical act.
I’m chilled by how quickly phrases like “the other side” have become so natural. Because that’s the grammar of war.
To erase the “I” and stand outside of time, writing like a ghost.
I wonder if there’s anything to learn from my recent drift towards color and my desire to return to monochrome.
He said, “The president recognizes the best way to restore normalcy to people’s lives is to bring back entertainment options.”
I switch the channel and a meteorologist says, “Just behind this vortex is a wall of water getting ready to surge.”
The First Lady stood in the Rose Garden and lectured us about civility while her husband smirked.
Tonight I sat outside in the unfamiliar terrain of southeastern Ohio, lit a candle, and watched the stars.
First memories are such peculiar creatures, these fuzzy impressions and garbled snapshots that teach us how to see the world.
For a glimpse into the brainpan of America, you can’t beat late-night AM radio.
Heading west on Interstate 70, there’s a beautiful sunset and it’ll have to do for tonight.
An empathy machine sounds like a pretty good leader right now.
Somewhere in southeastern Ohio, I drove past two ranch houses sitting side by side with tidy sidewalks and neatly mowed lawns.
A woman at the supermarket kept making a noise I could not decipher.
Somewhere north of Columbus, we tuned in to the first night of the Democratic National Convention.
The body remembers slowly and forgets very quickly.
Maybe it was the barometer dropping, the rearrangement of air pressure.
We’ve entered the last stretch of summer when everything is overripe and so green it feels obscene.
An old man pushes a shopping car filled with metal scrap and hollers about demons.
By now I should know the only way to outrun my bullshit is to keep writing.
