Journal

Dispatches and speculations from the American roadside.



February 14, 2020

Future

A vaguely human-shaped slab of bronze staggers into a ferocious wind, its body on fire, determined to walk.

February 13, 2020

Ghost

The first gods must have been born while we slept.

February 12, 2020

Stranger

Nearly every advertisement on the subway trumpets the virtue of having your favorite meals, outfits, entertainments, mattresses, and toothbrushes delivered straight to your door.

February 11, 2020

Dreams

Waking up this morning, the world doesn’t feel much different from the illogic of sleep.

February 10, 2020

Powerball

The only noise tonight is the highway and it sounds like the sea.

February 9, 2020

Clutter

I catch a glimpse of a beloved actor from the 1980s smiling across three flatscreens in an empty lobby, encouraging everyone to triple reverse-mortgage their homes.

February 8, 2020

Badlands

Strange how I’m embarrassed to write our president’s name, a name that looks like an obscenity on the page. Maybe it’s because I thought we deserved a worthy villain.

February 7, 2020

Decision

I scroll down the aisles of the office supply store, soothed by the racks of folders, binders, and containers that promise an organized and efficient life.

February 6, 2020

Twilight

‘Civil twilight’ is an elegant term for the moment just before the sun sinks beneath the horizon. It might be a fitting name for these strange years.

February 5, 2020

Boot

My eighty-year-old German neighbor and I picked at our omelettes while a television in the corner of the diner delivered the vote count.

February 4, 2020

Change

New York City. The skyline stopped me in my tracks this afternoon, reminding me that I live in an increasingly alien city.

February 3, 2020

Seeing

Walking down street tonight, I find myself paying closer attention to shadow and light, reminding myself that yes, this is plenty.