Journal

Dispatches and speculations from the American roadside.

Noise

I miss being around sounds I can’t control.

Maybe the question shouldn’t be “Are you still watching?” but “Why?”

He stood in front of an airplane flapping his hands and crowing before a sea of red hats. All those red hats like angry sores.

A place where only the occasional shredded tire or dilapidated cabin would interrupt my fantasy that I’m driving on another planet.

While running through the rainy dark, someone stepped in front of me and took my picture for no apparent reason.

More and more, it feels like trying to critique the sky.

When you cut something down to the bone, every decision becomes much more dramatic.

And I realized this was because of that rarest quality of all these days: silence.

Lately I’ve been having a dream about a weatherman grinning in front of a map while talking about a hurricane of bullets.

The fly felt like a portentous symbol in a year that has reached the caliber of myth.

I once saw an old woman in a red sundress flying a big yellow kite down a busy street.

As if I’m doing something wrong just by living in such an embarrassing time.