It’s two-thirty in the morning, and a caravan of motorcycles and dune buggies are growling up First Avenue, their engines rattling the windows.
People are edgy, their dreams infected with anxiety if they can sleep at all.
I want to square my life with these instructions from Thich Nhat Hanh: “Vow to work for reconciliation by the most silent and unpretentious mean possible.”
We’re still living through a season that requires the suspension of disbelief, but perhaps it’s possible to believe we’re heading somewhere better.
Men with amplifiers delivered gnostic interpretations of the facial expressions of various health officials.
The silence was stunning. It had presence and weight that nearly muted the birds and the steady beat of three choppers in the sky.
I say hello to an old man with a power drill and a bucket of screws. Everything’s coming so fast and ugly this year.
A news anchor said, “We are descending into something that is not the United States of America tonight.” I’m not sure if this is true.
The White House went dark tonight in response to the protests across the street and spreading throughout the nation.
The presence of the police introduces the prospect of violence like a promise, and that promise came true by nightfall.
