Journal

Dispatches and speculations from the American roadside.



July 19, 2020

Echo

Tonight I’m craving the kerchunk of a rewind button and the ritual of scotch-taping the edge of a cassette

July 18, 2020

Run

They say you never see a cheetah stretch, but maybe I should. My legs always hurt.

July 17, 2020

Anchors

Rode the subway home in an empty car except for me and an old woman wearing a t-shirt that said, “Love is so gangster.”

July 16, 2020

Soul

These medieval Catholics were haunted men who desperately wrestled with the question of a soul, not like the playful Greeks who made up the world as they went along.

July 15, 2020

Spear

And what is my intuition telling me? My first thought is to turn down the volume on the world so I can hear.

July 14, 2020

Remembrance

There’s a strange dynamic to this nightly journal, this sensation of writing against time. Or more precisely: writing for myself in the future.

July 13, 2020

Breakup

Nobody died from the pandemic in New York City the other day.

July 12, 2020

Empty

Ten years later, I still remember the sight of a young couple marching along an empty desert road in Nevada.

July 11, 2020

Fiction

Lately I’ve been torn between the possibilities of fiction versus my compulsion to record each day’s events in this nightly journal.

July 10, 2020

Rain

There’s something oddly soothing about the sound of traffic peeling down wet streets on a rainy night.

July 9, 2020

Embers

Maybe it’s an ancestral memory of bearing witness through the night while tending to the flames.

July 8, 2020

Sleepless

You can almost taste it, that bright metallic sensation which floods the brain when it decides there will be no sleep tonight.