Journal

Dispatches and speculations from the American roadside.

Extreme

This year has made conspiracy theorists of so many of us to some degree.

I find myself craving the days when a 303 sounded like it contained all the mysteries and possibilities of the world.

Today the president went to the hospital after testing positive for the coronavirus.

A mixture of marble and steel that looks like a collision of the past and future.

“You’ll be working at least seventeen hours on Election Day,” he said. “So bring a sandwich.”

Tonight’s first presidential debate was a fitting spectacle for a degraded nation.

If I’ve gleaned anything from keeping this glum journal throughout this year, it’s that I keep returning to the language of grief.

It’s my mind that kills me, the constant looking at my watch until I remember how to forget about time.

But tonight there’s light rain, our windows are open to the city’s hum, and there’s something dark and slow on the radio.

We’re leaving the Ohioan wilderness behind, night-driving back to New York.

Standing in a superstore parking lot this evening, I watched some geese fly south, and I remembered my parents’ relationship with birds.

Three moments in America today that reach beyond my ability with words, striking only the rudimentary language of grief.