The desert is littered with bizarre facts, and I often think I invented them, like a fragment from a dream or a misremembered film.
Repetition on a grey November day.
For weeks I’ve been grinding through histories of medieval Europe in search of a point of inspiration.
I’ve decided to embrace the upside of insomnia.
Today I learned that Cheez-Its were invented in Ohio. There’s magic here. There’s also magic in a fresh notebook.
This morning I fed a robot a few sentences from the novel I’m writing, and it generated some startlingly accurate pictures.
This journal might become a halfway house for homeless paragraphs from the stories I’m writing.
White skies, flurries, and temperatures around zero. The days around my birthday often find me rethinking the rhythm of my life and nursing morning fantasies.
Ohio. The snow outside my window is melting as soon as it piles up, and there might be a lesson here.
Wind chills in the single digits and still no snow. If I’m not paying attention, I can push commas around for hours.
In the far corner of the library, an elderly man sighs over a big dusty book of trees.
Writing about online living feels tacky for some reason, even though it might be the only thing we have left in common.
The first day of the year, and there’s a new supermoon tonight. I tried my best to feel fresh and brand new for these first hours of 2022.
Last night I watched C. paint, and she moved so quick and loose, belonging entirely to the moment as she swirled her ink across a massive canvas.
“When you do something, you should burn yourself completely, like a good bonfire, leaving no trace of yourself.”
