Notes from the
End of the World

Each night in 2020 I’m writing a short post because I want to etch these strange days into my memory before I forget them. Before the world changes completely.

August 26, 2020

Weather

I switch the channel and a meteorologist says, “Just behind this vortex is a wall of water getting ready to surge.”
August 25, 2020

Untethered

Then the First Lady stood in the Rose Garden and lectured us about civility while her husband smirked.
August 24, 2020

Observance

Tonight I sat outside in the unfamiliar terrain of southeastern Ohio, lit a candle, and watched the stars.
August 23, 2020

Pegasus

First memories are such peculiar creatures, these fuzzy impressions and garbled snapshots that teach us how to see the world.

August 22, 2020

Scan

For a glimpse into the brainpan of America, you can’t beat late-night AM radio.
August 21, 2020

Sunset

Heading west on Interstate 70, there’s a beautiful sunset and it’ll have to do for tonight.
August 20, 2020

Machine

An empathy machine sounds like a pretty good leader right now.
August 19, 2020

Signs

Somewhere in southeastern Ohio, I drove past two ranch houses sitting side by side with tidy sidewalks and neatly mowed lawns.
August 18, 2020

Jeremiad

A woman at the supermarket kept making a noise I could not decipher.
August 17, 2020

Convention

Somewhere north of Columbus, we tuned in to the first night of the Democratic National Convention.
August 16, 2020

Grind

The body remembers slowly and forgets very quickly.
August 15, 2020

Tornado

Maybe it was the barometer dropping, the rearrangement of air pressure.
August 14, 2020

Buzz

We’ve entered the last stretch of summer when everything is overripe and so green it feels obscene.
August 13, 2020

Lot

An old man pushes a shopping car filled with metal scrap and hollers about demons.
August 12, 2020

Desk

By now I should know the only way to outrun my bullshit is to keep writing.
August 11, 2020

Puzzle

It’s an exhausting puzzle, trying to figure out which parts of this world to let into your head.
August 10, 2020

Bullet

Three days without television or constant internet access—unless I drive twenty minutes to sit in the parking lot of a Speedway gas station.
August 9, 2020

Logs

The cabin smells like cedar. There is no internet here. No cellphone reception either.
August 8, 2020

Cave

Americans of all kinds gathered together to admire their country’s geological features. All is not lost.
August 7, 2020

Road

I still remember the frantic voice of a late-night caller who said, “We can’t get the blood out of our eyes fast enough to see what’s coming next.”
August 6, 2020

Pack

We’re packing for a trip of indeterminate length.
August 5, 2020

Decay

Lately my dreams have been all garble and grime without symbolism or plot.
August 4, 2020

Debris

Maybe human brains aren’t equipped for this, absorbing painful images from everywhere at once without the ability to be present and act.
August 3, 2020

Moon

I should understand the rhythm of the moon by now.
August 2, 2020

Normal

Giving up on normal seems like a critical psychic adjustment these days.
August 1, 2020

Max

“You’re looking at the future: people translated as data.” This line from Max Headroom certainly holds up thirty-five years later.
July 31, 2020

Cigarette

There was a half-moon in the sky and a large man in a red pick-up truck was talking to somebody on the phone about Jesus.
July 30, 2020

Ready

“You can put on a jacket,” she says, “but you can’t take off your skin.”
July 29, 2020

Pray

When I consider the man I want to become someday, I often picture myself as someone who prays.
July 28, 2020

Demon

Today’s headlines featured phrases about “demon sperm” and “the umbrella man” because we’ve slipped into a psychedelic hell.
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