Journal

Dispatches and speculations from the American roadside.

Further

You can never see further than your headlights—an old slice of trucker philosophy that makes more sense with each passing year.

I’m beginning to understand why so many novels and television shows are set in the past.

Night walk to the corner bodega and I nearly forgot to wear my bandana.

The smile is the expression that can be seen from farthest away.

Tonight I miss sitting in diners and listening to people murmur and jive, scraping their forks and stirring their coffee.

Maybe I should work on my resume. Instead, I press on with reading The Plague, dropping the book every few pages to marvel at its resonance.

Strange how something you’ve heard a thousand times can suddenly knock you over.

Sometimes there’s poetry in anger, and I saw it scrawled across the street this afternoon.

Flipping through an old notebook last night, I came across a page dedicated to the first time I saw a painting by Hubert Robert.

There should be a clinical term for the sensation of wanting to look at my phone while looking at my phone.

I remember the sound of white thunder, that bone-shuddering crack as another piece of a glacier fell into the sea.

New York City. My attention span has been chewed up by the news.