Dispatches and speculations from the American roadside.

October 4, 2020


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

October 3, 2020


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

October 2, 2020


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

October 1, 2020


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

September 30, 2020


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

September 29, 2020


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

September 28, 2020


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

September 27, 2020


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

September 26, 2020


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.

September 25, 2020


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

September 24, 2020


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

September 23, 2020


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