The first week has dragged on. Almost to the point where at times it’s hard to believe that the clock is even advancing at all. I spend the days ping-ponging between feeling a frantic need to be productive and letting myself succumb to the stupor of this house arrest. Continue reading “Listlessness vs. Gratitude: round 1”
Every night before 8 it starts. The noise penetrates my bedroom window. The sound of a thousand hoof beats or maybe the beginnings of a wild street party born of defiance. But by now, I recognize the call and I join automatically, almost as if I don’t have a choice. Continue reading “Lines”
He was among the first signs of life I saw this morning. Clad in a t-shirt, jeans, and white face mask, he hefted a family-size pack of toilet paper under each arm.
This plaza, with its three strips of dog feces-laden grass, is the closest we have to a park. It has its regulars; the old men who come to play checkers, mothers lining the benches as their children play, the guys drinking cans at all hours. It’s a working-class neighborhood and this meager plaza is very much a part of the daily social fabric. Continue reading “Countdown to lockdown”
Why is everyone I idolize dead? I thought as I laid quietly in bed.
I had just finished Anthony Bourdain’s A Cook’s Tour and needed a moment to let it all sink in. The ending of a book is usually a moment of somber reflection for me. It’s a ritual that begins by reading the last page or paragraph twice, maybe three times, before closing it silently and falling into my thoughts. Each story is an emotional and mental investment and seeing it come to a close is like ending a relationship. You need some time to accept its conclusion and move on. Continue reading “On hope and endings”