Reading List
The idea of converting my library into pixels on a screen frightens me. Books are meant to be highlighted and dog-eared, their spines cracked and lying facedown on the kitchen table. This how they become part of the scenery and signposts for our memories.
Reflex
Ohio. Sunset: 8:36pm. I sneeze whenever I glance at the sun, which I’ve always taken as proof I am a night owl.
Headlights
Ohio. Sunset: 9:02pm. You can never see further than your headlights: this old slice of trucker philosophy makes more sense to me with each passing year.
Maps
Ohio. Sunset: 8:35pm. My map is upside down, inscrutable, and probably for a different planet.
Hand of God
Ohio. Sunset: 8:30pm. There’s a waxing crescent moon, and I’m reading about God.
Somnambulist
One of those fine afternoons when you wander into a dusty bookstore in an unfamiliar city.
Gaps and Threads
London. Another day of clouds and drizzle, and somewhere off to the left, I can hear Georges Perec: “Question your teaspoons.”
Midwinter Inventory
Ohio. Blank skies, single-digit temperatures, and the sun goes down at 5:38pm. Here in the Middle West, I’m filling the quiet with books and music, absorbed by text and sound in ways I haven’t felt in years
Broken Scales
Ohio. Sunset: 5:19pm. While I wasn’t paying attention, my life became gamified into metrics and streaks.
Crossroads
Four days left in New York City. Last night I finished Jonathan Franzen’s Crossroads, and even as I turned the final page, I was amazed I was reading it at all.
Burning
Sunset: 4:35pm. Tonight the moon is full. “When you do something, you should burn yourself completely, like a good bonfire, leaving no trace of yourself.”
Temptation
I’m attempting to read Gustav Flaubert’s The Temptation of Saint Anthony.
Clay
The Stand brought me back to teenage nights of staying awake into the small hours with a flashlight, promising myself just one more chapter.