Journal

Dispatches and speculations from the American roadside.

Stretch

We stopped at a rest area where a man stood on the grass, grinning at the moon.

I read about a temple where an image is treated as the living incarnation of an infant god.

I often hear people say they feel as if reality is slipping away. But perhaps reality is becoming more evident.

I found a rare picture of my mom young and smiling, caught beneath the overheated gloss of a 1970s photo.

I don’t want to become a prematurely old man, pining for a romanticized past.

Meanwhile, I keep forgetting the screen is a tool, not an environment.

I wanted to visit my favorite statues and paintings before things begin closing again.

Or take the word ‘disaster’, the inversion of ‘astro’, a term which means a negative star, a kink in the heavens that leads to catastrophe.

A profane old man would often tell me, “Fuck your feelings.” Then he’d remind me of the facts. That advice probably saved my life.

We knew it was coming. They’ve been telling us for months, and now it’s here.

How many times have I glimpsed a better, more spiritualized way to live—and retreated?

Words that haunt the unconscious: Trilobites, moonfish, and gorgons.