Dispatches and speculations from the American roadside.

March 20, 2020


There’s a blush of dopamine, an uncoiling of the nerves: the smudged memory of doing arts and crafts in a classroom while a storm beats against the windows.

March 19, 2020


Tonight I sympathize with Will Durant’s wistful sketch of Rousseau: “He escaped from the stings of reality into a hothouse world of dreams.”

March 18, 2020


There was a time when I would count how many words I said each day. At night I logged the number into a notebook. Sixteen. Twenty-three.

March 17, 2020


These are long days of suspension. For a moment I convince myself that everything is just fine. That I must have imagined the whole thing.

March 16, 2020


Riffling through an old box of keepsakes, I came across a note that I wrote to her five years ago.

March 15, 2020


I run through Central Park, passing joggers with balaclavas and kerchiefs wrapped around their faces like they’ve been throwing Molotov cocktails.

March 14, 2020


I needed to work with my hands today. To be reminded that I can make something that takes up space and serves a need.

March 13, 2020


I’m beginning to understand the street preachers and late night radio voices who root through arcane numerology and biblical verses that implicate Wall Street, Hollywood, and the United Nations.

March 12, 2020


The streets hum with a hunter-gather energy that brings to mind the days before a hurricane. Except there is no storm, only the prospect of staying indoors.

March 11, 2020


Meanwhile in New York City, we’re told the subway is safe but we should avoid taking it.

March 10, 2020


A note on Barnett Newman’s portrait of “the agony that is single, constant, unrelenting, willed—world without end.”

March 9, 2020


The house of all the gods.