Journal

Dispatches and speculations from the American roadside.

Stimulus

A billionaire was on television this morning, and he’s worried about our social fabric.

Heavy rain beats against the windows and it’s the longest night of the year, one of my favorite moments.

How would knowing that consciousness lingers while the body goes cold change the way we reckon with death—or bear witness?

I absorbed so many forms of 1980s sitcom trauma.

“But I’m working on a special microchip that will block the signals of all demons and devils,” he said.

An elderly man collapsed against the base of a Bernini.

Maybe it has to do with the silence it brings, how it tranquilizes the world for a while.

There were days when our images were honored, even feared.

I’m reappreciating the joy of mundane events this year, the delight in everything happening as expected.

They gathered in Washington DC to wave flags with the president dressed up like Rambo, slicked with sweat and carrying a belt-fed weapon.

I feel more present in the world at midnight, most like myself.

Three thousand Americans are dying each day from the coronavirus, and two hundred thousand more are infected.