Yesterday I woke several hours before sunrise, which was out of character for me.
A late April snowstorm blew through Ohio last night, quick and heavy.
The end of the year leaves me feeling as if I’m supposed to be reflective; I find myself hunting for revelations that never arrive.
It’s almost like a new form of weather, this atmosphere of everyone waiting for this wretched year to end.
But for three or four minutes, something otherworldly seemed possible.
The first day of the last month of this nightly exercise, and I’m thinking about the value of this exercise.
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.
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.
In a superstore parking lot this evening, I watched some geese fly south, and remembered my parents’ relationship with birds.
We’re standing on the verge of an uneasy fall, unsure of just how high the curve will go.
Like painting legs on a snake. My in-laws taught me this Chinese idiom, a scold against unnecessary embellishment.
