James A. Reeves
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Las Vegas

My dithering has reached its vanishing point.

My office has three little whiteboards that tell me what to do, and I rely upon them entirely because I’m a nitwit in the morning.

Las Vegas

And entropy makes itself known to me.

I told myself it was a trick of the light rather than the result of the grey in my beard.

Mojave Desert

Towers of red rock loomed over us like a beautiful threat.

Shuffling through nature’s silence with strangers felt oddly intimate.

Las Vegas

So much civilization where there shouldn’t be.

I pondered the idea of a Vegas-themed casino until I gave myself a headache.

Las Vegas

The reassuring cadence of living in the sprawl.

These are days of shooting down unidentifiable objects in the sky.

Mojave Desert

A landscape that functions like memory.

Twenty miles west of Barstow, where the desert appears especially endless, I glimpsed the Tank Man in Tiananmen Square.

Los Angeles

The games we play in museums.

C. and I play a game whenever we enter a gallery: after spending a few minutes looking at every painting in the room, we guess each other’s favorite.

Los Angeles

Landscapes that look like scenes from tomorrow.

William Kentridge’s smoldering landscapes look like scenes from a fast-approaching future. Meanwhile, a Chinese surveillance balloon was spotted over Montana.

Mojave Desert

Yet the interesting scenery on the horizon never seems to draw closer.

My little tics and anxieties seem to be moving from the vexing to the comic. Perhaps this is one happy side effect of getting older.

Las Vegas

Ten years sober today.

Ten years sober today. Proof there’s such a thing as grace.

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