This year, every day I spent in isolation was in preparation for the days when I could join others in something bigger than ourselves.
There is something exciting about anticipating a space before it is inevitably interfered with by a human—what might also be called living.
Despair too is contagious. We share it as we shed a spore.
Runners were perfectly suited for 2020. You’re telling us we get to stay more than breathing distance away from any other people? What’s the catch?
I have no idea what history will make of 2020, but the only record I have kept of this cursed year are blurry photos of shrubs.
The point is to accept that our impulses cannot save us from impermanence, that change and failure and death are inevitable—that stillness, as much as movement, is divine.
In a move critics are describing as “a bit on the nose,” I start playing a game about being trapped eternally in hell.
The crow is seen as a harbinger of death, a carrier of messages, a wise and knowledgable bird with a connection beyond this spiritual plane.
Sometimes we never made it to the lesson and simply reflected on the disasters unfolding—not as a way to understand, but to talk about the impossibility of understanding.
The brand of simplistic and overzealous moralism that exists online has long been tedious, but the pandemic has made it even more so.