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.
Our tiny house, at 131 square feet, will simply be the innermost core of our world.
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 pondering where my writing lives.
I have nearly 50 drafts in my blog’s dashboard — waiting, forgotten, abandoned.
So here I am, molding jet lag into something productive and creative, carving out a bit more time.
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.
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.
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.
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.