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.
I told myself it was a trick of the light rather than the result of the grey in my beard.
Shuffling through nature’s silence with strangers felt oddly intimate.
I pondered the idea of a Vegas-themed casino until I gave myself a headache.
These are days of shooting down unidentifiable objects in the sky.
Twenty miles west of Barstow, where the desert appears especially endless, I glimpsed the Tank Man in Tiananmen Square.
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.
William Kentridge’s smoldering landscapes look like scenes from a fast-approaching future. Meanwhile, a Chinese surveillance balloon was spotted over Montana.
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.
Ten years sober today. Proof there’s such a thing as grace.
