Ran five miles for the first time in weeks and it was ugly. I can deal with the new creaks and pains; it’s my mind that kills me, the constant looking at my watch until I remember how to forget about time and accept the grind of hauling myself around. This feels like a kind of mental training for dealing with this terrible year.

Fifty minutes later, I collapsed in the grass and thought about what next. For some reason I flashed on an aluminimum ladder, the long days spent cleaning out an attic stuffed with my childhood belongings as well as the things my mom and dad once owned. I liquidated dishware and stuffed animals. I condensed my Reeves history into a small wooden trunk that my great-grandfather made. Tonight I’ve opened it, and I’m sifting through postcards with elegant handwriting, a pair of brass bookends, and a small velveteen box with my parents’ wedding bands.

These things seem connected. The perpetual letting go of plans and assumptions. Maybe even stripping away and seeing what remains.


Plastikman – Converge

Consumed | Minus, 2003 | More
Each night in 2020, I wrote a short post for a series called Notes From the End of a World because I wanted to etch these days into my memory. Before the world changed completely.
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