It was a world in which we truly played with technology — where the field was level, and where everyone, no matter who they were or where they were from, had access to it. I came back to this place each weekend, as if returning to a womb to be reborn as an upgraded being — to interact in a frictionless realm where we allowed machines to manipulate our bodies like yo-yos, and where we responded to their maternal calls.
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One Landscape Does Not Fit All
Our tiny house, at 131 square feet, will simply be the innermost core of our world.
This Is Not a ‘Travel Blog’ (But It Is a Travel Blog)
In her essay about life on tour with a rock band, Claire L. Evans says that travel teaches her more about time than it does about place. I agree. My favorite kind of “travel writing” — or I suppose writing about place — embarks on an inner journey, and uses a physical location as aContinue reading “This Is Not a ‘Travel Blog’ (But It Is a Travel Blog)”
On Writing (and Evolving) Online
On pondering where my writing lives.
Fragments on Time: Found Poetry in My Dashboard
I have nearly 50 drafts in my blog’s dashboard — waiting, forgotten, abandoned.
26 Hours: The Magical State of Writing
So here I am, molding jet lag into something productive and creative, carving out a bit more time.
On Everything and Nothing & Reading and Not Writing
Sometimes I envision my Twitter feed as rushing water: my presence is a dam, and each tweet is debris making its way downstream. It’s now a challenge to let information simply flow—to let tweets swim by without me seeing or interacting with them.
Online Mourning and the Unexpected Refuge of Facebook
Alone, I sobbed. Yet I sobbed with Facebook open—his life revealed and exposed in bits on my screen, his friends spilling tears on his profile. I sobbed at home, by myself, but also with everyone else.
Notes on Home, Life, and Love
In between these meetings, we’ve created a space for us, just us, online: a portal through which that flow sustains. A borderless space that transcends geography, that exists somewhere only we can access.
That Thing I Wrote That Wasn’t True: On Facts, Memoir & John D’Agata
But something happens as time passes—as I drift further from a memory, as a fact is dislodged from the place it had once made sense. I begin to play with a fact: I pluck it out, examine it, and let it stand on its own. It is vulnerable: the context that hugged it is stripped away.