Journal
Dispatches and speculations from the American roadside.
Artificial
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.
Hothouse
Tonight I sympathize with Will Durant’s wistful sketch of Rousseau: “He escaped from the stings of reality into a hothouse world of dreams.”
Quiet
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.
Suspension
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.
Vigilance
Riffling through an old box of keepsakes, I came across a note that I wrote to her five years ago.
Distance
I run through Central Park, passing joggers with balaclavas and kerchiefs wrapped around their faces like they’ve been throwing Molotov cocktails.
Communion
I needed to work with my hands today. To be reminded that I can make something that takes up space and serves a need.
Closed
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.
Storm
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.
Spike
Meanwhile in New York City, we’re told the subway is safe but we should avoid taking it.
Denial
A note on Barnett Newman’s portrait of “the agony that is single, constant, unrelenting, willed—world without end.”
Pantheon
The house of all the gods.