I meant to post this on The Morning After but got waylaid by my workweek, and then everything seemed saturated with the rawness of reaction so I put it off. Is it safe now? I hope so. Or maybe I don't ... This is Andrew C. Ferguson reading his poem "Scotland As an Xbox Game"... Continue Reading →
So I'm drifting on a sea of sadness and the only way I know how to get out of it is to shove this "too busy for [thing I like to do]" stupidity off the raft. Last year I didn't read many books or see many films, so this year I'm aiming to consume 50... Continue Reading →
You genuflected outside the gothic cathedral the day after I got officially old. My nose was running and cold and I turned from the great grey edifice to see the only familiar face for miles. On that face, the expression I tried to capture: irreverent yet strangely penitent, maybe just tired from walking or overwhelmed... Continue Reading →
It wasn't what she said, but how she said it. Not an unkind word, but the way the letters like soldiers with pikes were ready to do damage and could wait to do it. She could wait. She was ready.
Sometimes it is enough to know without thinking where the milk is, or the bread, or how to sidestep with a ducked head, "sorry" under the breath to anyone, or to half-unpacked boxes. What a luxury it is to be thoughtless, to grow into the cracks of a place like a weed and not a... Continue Reading →