Articles

Her British husband messages from Maine:
I need more time 2 think. It’s peaceful here.

We are entering in reverse order of our deaths. You don’t need to translate this.

the fool who drinks the moon learns the moon’s old lesson

But your face is quicker than sparrows

Somewhere on this parched estate a beggar is looking for me. So says the boy.

My way of reading is something I’ve had to contend with, shape, and revise over the course of my life, even day to day, really, and is the most fraught relationship I have with any side of myself, in part because for most of my life I’ve believed that voracious reading is good reading.

Dwelling contemplatively is hard. The imagination is, for too many, a foreign country. Arguing about is easier than being. Perhaps this is true in the same way that it’s safer and more comfortable to talk about God than risk actual encounter.

Olive doesn’t know why she’s rushing to the brick building with the barred windows and parquet basement floor, and this is itself a kind of proof of urgency.

I feel I’m floating on a pond
of sadness,

They had set up tents. Not all; some had a few blankets thrown down and were lying on them. Often there was a man with a woman and child on each blanket. It seemed a little odd to me, because some had dug a hole and built a shallow shelter with the blanket on top. It might get very windy and cold at night.