Journal

Dispatches and speculations from the American roadside.

Worship

Three years ago on a Saturday night in rural Pennsylvania, I saw a vision of the future that I cannot shake.

His gaze leaves me questioning my life choices and entire personality.

I passed a church sign that said, “Jesus paid the price, you keep the change.”

I catch myself patting down my pockets while feeling phantom vibrations, seeking synthetic communion.

I’m learning to carry my dead with me, to ask them questions while pacing the kitchen or driving to the supermarket.

If aliens landed, I’d probably mistake them for a guerrilla marketing campaign.

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.