Journal

Dispatches and speculations from the American roadside.

Mortichnia

Sometimes you come across a phrase that haunts you all day. A few words scraped from last night’s dream, maybe an odd line in the news.

We’re still living through a season that requires the suspension of disbelief, but perhaps it’s possible to believe we’re heading somewhere better.

Men with amplifiers delivered gnostic interpretations of the facial expressions of various health officials.

Tonight I came across Tolstoy’s three questions, and they feel especially pressing in these overloaded and disorienting days.

My interest in triangulating art, faith, and the day’s events feels increasingly toothless, maybe even oblivious.

The silence was stunning. It had presence and weight that nearly muted the birds and the steady beat of three choppers in the sky.

I say hello to an old man with a power drill and a bucket of screws. Everything’s coming so fast and ugly this year.

A news anchor said, “We are descending into something that is not the United States of America tonight.” I’m not sure if this is true.

The White House went dark tonight in response to the protests across the street and spreading throughout the nation.

The presence of the police introduces the prospect of violence like a promise, and that promise came true by nightfall.

A man stood before the crowd of reporters, his eyes filled with pain and conviction.

When I flipped on the news around midnight, my concerns about running, writing, teaching, and everything else felt stupid and indulgent.