White skies, flurries, and temperatures around zero. The days around my birthday often find me rethinking the rhythm of my life and nursing morning fantasies.
Night flight to Utah. I find so much peace in the electrified grids of cities. Nine years sober today.
Grey skies and light flurries with dangerously cold temperatures on the way. Meanwhile at the library, a middle-aged man is braying about spreadsheets.
Lovers speak in monologue and monotone. They thrash and sulk in shadows.
Ohio. The snow outside my window is melting as soon as it piles up, and there might be a lesson here.
Blank skies, single-digit temperatures, and the sun goes down at 5:38pm. Here in the Middle West, I’m filling the quiet with books and music, absorbed by text and sound in ways I haven’t felt in years
Clear skies with highs in the mid-thirties, and it finally snowed last night.
They’re calling it a “Saskatchewan screamer,” this weather system moving across the Tennessee Valley.
An old track that I made from a pair of half-speed classical loops, a lot of reverb and crackle, and a touch of Joseph Campbell
There’s an old Roman maxim that fear gave birth to the gods.
There’s a waxing gibbous moon and omicron everywhere. Ronnie Spector died today.
Another frigid and atmospherically pointless day without any snow. My brand new cassette tape arrived.
Wind chills in the single digits and still no snow. If I’m not paying attention, I can push commas around for hours.
The grey skies of January continue, the moon is in its first quarter, and I bought a tiny telephone.
I woke up wondering if I would live my life any differently if I measured my age in days or hours instead of years.
