A Collection of Personal Writing, Photography, and Things I Like
Getting It Done in a Pandemic
“That is the way. You are the unclean hands bearing sustenance, supplies, correspondence. We are the cleaners, the receivers, the curators.”
Secrets
When Nathan was a child, he found her in a snow bank. He recognized her limbs, her body, her face—she was sleeping soundly. She was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen, and he decided he would tell no one. Instead, he traced her features with his glove and lay down next to her, his little secret. He named her Emily.
Cold Start
This platform is old and wooden planks, streaked in yellow paint and sprinkled in piles of salt. We wait. We sniffle. We breathe steam into the dry and jagged morning air.
The Job of a Shadow
On a Wednesday, Tom’s shadow called out sick. You see, it had been a dry and clear November, so Tom's shadow hadn't had any time to rest.
Updates from the Water Cooler
On Tuesday, Tim brought a picture of his baby in a baseball uniform. Did you see it? Well, his baby’s name is Dean, and Tim put the caption, “Deanball,” which is a play on “beanball” and made everyone laugh. It was adorable.
A Life Conducted
For tears and years, life rushes by, a colorful dizzying torrent. An orchestra blowing, bowing, plucking, and tuning peg turns in a clamor. In thumbs and fingers and spit-valve dumps, the noise grows louder. And louder. AND LOUDER.
Jeremy's Christmas List
I’m never sure how to start letters. Is that a good start? Do I need more of an intro? Probably not. I mean, you’re Santa Claus. You know a lot of stuff.
The James' House
We were creators of dreams and custodians of promise in the James' house. In the springtime, we set up tents around their fire pit in the late morning, and we traveled in a caravan of sedans and coupes to the supermarket for marshmallows, hotdogs, and liters of soda.
Imaginary: A One-Act Dialogue
Philadelphia in the fall.
Two men, WILLIAM and BRENT, are sitting on a stoop in front of a rowhome. They are drinking bottled beer.
Fiction: Note to Self
Dear Nick,
The other day, Mrs. Rosenthal asked, “What do you imagine you’ll be in the future? Where will you live, and what will you be? Do you have anything you’d want yourself to remember?”
the park. 5:00 p.m.
On Sunday night, as the world resets to face another workweek, you walk through the square.
