Journal

Dispatches and speculations from the American roadside.

Pietà

The image of the Pietà occupies such a distinct place in memory that I often forget it translates to “the pity”.

I stopped at the window and gaped like a hermit suddenly confronted by society.

How tragic to enter a museum hoping to feel dignified and ennobled, only to walk away feeling like a fool.

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.

Sometimes I blame modern-day aesthetics for my difficulties. The optics seem wrong for devotion.

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.

There was a time when people believed the stomach’s gurgles and rumbles belonged to the voices of the dead.