There is a sadness in the pursuit of becoming. This melancholy blooms not as a sharp ache from a sudden loss, but more as a slow dissolution of esteemed bonds that once seemed shatterproof. The anguish arrives quietly while you are occupied in the trenches; it unpacks softly, never making a sound that alerts you…
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There is a brief, unsettling moment when you wake up from a dream and still don’t know who you’re meant to be. Both the wakeful and dream worlds are equally true in that liminal space. The pillow you’re holding and the lover who just left your arms have the same ontological weight. No less real…
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Just heard Grandma let out a rather sudden hiss that cut through the afternoon quiet like a blade through silk. She is sitting alone at the kitchen table, no book before her, no radio playing, no conversation partner to provoke displeasure. Yet something has reached across time to touch her – some fragment of memory…
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While listening to a talk by Jon Ronson last week, I recalled a childhood experience that I recounted in a letter some time ago. Today, I’d like to share Ronson‘s talk, and will be introducing the talk with this excerpt from the letter: … …It was probably in the American equivalent of sixth grade. Our English teacher presented us with a comprehension…
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