Domestic rituals of all kinds will be critical during this long winter.
Tonight I am grateful because I have a safe place to sleep, food to eat, and the freedom to make my own decisions.
I miss the dopamine loop, the carrot and the stick, and the rhythm of stepping outside for five minutes after each page or paragraph.
I tuned into the voice looping over the P.A. system, struck by how it sounded simultaneously rational and insane.
There was a time when people believed the stomach’s gurgles and rumbles belonged to the voices of the dead.
We stopped at a rest area where a man stood on the grass, grinning at the moon.
I read about a temple where an image is treated as the living incarnation of an infant god.
I often hear people say they feel as if reality is slipping away. But perhaps reality is becoming more evident.
I found a rare picture of my mom young and smiling, caught beneath the overheated gloss of a 1970s photo.
I don’t want to become a prematurely old man, pining for a romanticized past.
Meanwhile, I keep forgetting the screen is a tool, not an environment.
I wanted to visit my favorite statues and paintings before things begin closing again.
