As we consider each room, there is much discussion of orientation.
It’s nice to have a new place on the map to romanticize. And William Gibson has nothing on the Catholics.
Maybe one day we’ll reach a point when all possible frequencies have been recorded, every combination of words written.
For weeks I’ve been grinding through histories of medieval Europe in search of a point of inspiration.
Ohio. Sunset: 7:01pm. When I stepped outside this morning, I saw my breath—the first frost of the season.
Yesterday I saw the birthplace of William Blake, now a strip of concrete between an Indian restaurant and an expensive handbag store.
At a meeting in a church basement, I encountered a fine collision of the sacred and profane.
Last night we scattered into the dark, where the streets were empty except for drunks and insomniacs, the penitent and devout.
There’s a woman who can tell you the future by deciphering the contrails of experimental military aircraft.
More and more, I admire the imagery of Catholicism as a vocabulary of mourning.
No wonder so many religions began in the desert. The raptures and visions of the ancients were the most rational response to so much sky.
