Atlas Minor • 2020 • November

Bear

Light snow here in Ohio, and the weather report was mixed with grim coronavirus forecasts.

The holidays remind me that I don’t have the type of family that appears in commercials and television specials.

Domestic rituals of all kinds will be critical during this long winter.

Sometimes I blame modern-day aesthetics for my difficulties. The optics seem wrong for devotion.

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.