I have zero interest in football, which can make it challenging to move through American life.
Reading
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.
Hill House, famously not sane, bothers the soul because Jackson describes the perception of horror, not the horror itself.
Maybe I was primed for horror because I woke before dawn on a Sunday morning.
My map is upside down, inscrutable, and probably for a different planet.
While explaining myself to the grumpy clerk behind the glass, I realized I had no idea where I legally lived.
In Steve Erickson’s Shadowbahn, the Twin Towers reappear in South Dakota, wholly intact and without explanation.
Finished Stephen King’s The Stand today and, even at 1152 pages, I was sad when I read the last sentence, as if a friend had left town for good.
This story has seeped into my dreams, grinding at my thoughts like sand in the teeth.
