I love how Terry Pitts, the writer on the blog Vertigo, writes about time: The cinematic version of time passing, which often shows a succession of calendar pages disappearing off the screen, blown away by the breeze, was never how I understood time. For me, it’s the constant repetition, the endless mimetic motion of theContinue reading “What Time Looks Like”
Three bursts of pandemic poetry, courtesy of word magnets.
Entered that world once again,
and there he is, my dear friend gone.
I send a friend request, despite —
Just need a moment to pretend.
A Q&A published at Tessa Love’s Wander Home. Tessa is publishing a series of profiles on travelers and at-home explorers, and she asked me a few questions on what exploration and home mean to me.
When I travel, I confront my past selves: the curious and idealistic, the wistful and unhappy versions of me.
After watching Boyhood, I wonder if I’ve been looking at it all wrong. Perhaps there are no versions, but just me.
And now, I can’t write that post here. The words were fluid in my head: a space where nascent ideas are brilliant, where then and now blend, and where everything makes sense. My shower creates a similar space: when I wash my hair, the running water and the mundane task at hand release the flow of thoughts. Yet when I sit and try to put these words down, I can’t slip back into that zone.
It feels odd, perhaps unnatural, to age in a place as timeless and anachronistic as Las Vegas: where night is masked as day, where clocks are nowhere to be found, where things happen and are never spoken of again once you’ve left.
Such different life paths
From each other, and from mine
Yet New York City is like glue
Where these intersections materialize
I have nearly 50 drafts in my blog’s dashboard — waiting, forgotten, abandoned.