Dispatches and speculations from the American roadside.

May 25, 2020


After sixteen hours of talk radio, interstate winds, and screaming into metal boxes for food, my grip on the world grew slippery.

May 24, 2020


Riffling through my small box of family memories, I came across a note written in an unfamiliar hand.

May 23, 2020


Thinking about the blurry line between media consumption and my soul.

May 22, 2020


Time is a concept. Time is a flat circle. Clocks only measure other clocks.

May 21, 2020


Each morning I wake to the imaginary babble of fully-formed news reports and television clips while skating across sleep.

May 20, 2020


I write and work. I step outside and look at the sky. Sometimes I go for an ugly run. I make phone calls. I tend this journal. Repeat.

May 19, 2020


I remember watching the darkness in my bedroom when I was small, hypnotized by grey-pink flecks while I waited for sleep.

May 18, 2020


Maybe we’ll have a vaccine soon. Maybe the president will poison himself. Things can go either way these days.

May 17, 2020


The Chinese takeout spots along First Avenue have pulled up their metal shutters. The florist is open.

May 16, 2020


We might remember crouching on the sidewalk, frantically trying to gather the teeth falling from our mouths—not the circumstances that led us there.

May 15, 2020


We spent a few hours in the park because it’s almost possible to forget this pandemic while hiding in the grass beneath a tree.

May 14, 2020


An otherworldly landscape of alkaline and soda towers surrounded flat waters without a single ripple.