September 2020
Training
“You’ll be working at least seventeen hours on Election Day,” he said. “So bring a sandwich.”
Shame
Tonight’s first presidential debate was a fitting spectacle for a degraded nation.
Dots
If I’ve gleaned anything from keeping this glum journal throughout this year, it’s that I keep returning to the language of grief.
Converge
It’s my mind that kills me, the constant looking at my watch until I remember how to forget about time.
Lull
But tonight there’s light rain, our windows are open to the city’s hum, and there’s something dark and slow on the radio.
Homeward
We’re leaving the Ohioan wilderness behind, night-driving back to New York.
Birds
Standing in a superstore parking lot this evening, I watched some geese fly south, and I remembered my parents’ relationship with birds.
Shatter
Three moments in America today that reach beyond my ability with words, striking only the rudimentary language of grief.
Equinox
We’re standing on the verge of an uneasy fall, unsure of just how high the curve will go.
Plaza
A modern marvel where you can eat fast food on top of eight lanes of freeway traffic.
Closer
Last bonfire before we return to the city.
Spectrum
There’s a problem with modern grief, a rupture that cannot be filled with squishy words like mindfulness and acceptance.