Monthly Archives: November 2016
But, during the Advent season, I remember why I like my name.
New Prescription: Jumbo supreme maxi pads—the kind only elderly people who can’t control their bladder anymore wear.
The toy most worthy of keep-me-up-at night-excitement was the authentic kids archeology dig kit. For a mere $29.99 I could uncover the secrets of history.
In a way, Arrival occupies a new world, too. Because while the film is interested in its aliens from outer space, it also asks us questions about aliens in the biblical sense. Strangers. Outsiders.
Hey girl, you wanna climb the power line towers to watch the sunset over the peach orchard? Hop on my four-wheeler and I’ll show you the back forty.
And I invited my dad to join me. At the time, I wasn’t sure of the precise reasons I did it, it just felt right. In retrospect, I think I understand it better.
Never enter unknown territory without good instructions from the absent officer. Otherwise you will stumble into a jungle of twenty-four small people’s very specific needs and probably make severe tactical errors.
When the state of the world overwhelms me, I turn to tried and trusted remedies.
What follows are the most common statements which I have seen expressed from people and camps eager to move on and put this toxic election behind them.
Never have I felt more American / than lying on my back in a middle Illinois / gas station, duct taping my car together
“All adoption begins with loss.” I’ve chewed on that phrase for months, and the flavor hasn’t yet gone out of it.
and when it bursts I imagine in my place a heap of broken bylines allusions clickbaits hottakes jpegs gifs intros outros all spooled out on the floor
Somehow, slowly, stealthily, podcasts have become the soundtrack to my life.
Some were written before the election and some after, but each of them answers the question “How can I be a Christian citizen of the United States of America?” in a uniquely helpful way.
But the elephant is still there. Always there. And on day four, my co-worker and I decide that we just need to talk about it.
Maybe it’s the state of my own fractured life that allows me to listen past the fractures in the composition of Bon Iver’s latest offering, 22, A Million, to see the transcendence hidden inside.
The most concerning aspect of this new policy is that it does not leave any room for thoughtful, spirit-led discussion and potential disagreement.
Day four and I wonder if it’s okay not to write about this.
Tell me: am I using the wrong words? Wearing the wrong clothes? When I say “black lives matter,” why does it translate into “yours doesn’t”?
Let America be America again.
It’s November ninth. I’m broadcasting to you from a bunker deep underground near the Earth’s core where it’s still warm. The election was yesterday, and we all know what happened.
Russians, emails, and lies (oh my!)
We made a Pop-Tart assembly line. You know, to save time. An assembly line of two people. I toasted the Pop-Tarts and my brother Andrew buttered them.
What could have been? What would have been, always debated. Again and again, the future and now, and tears, but only hers.
I will be at church at midnight on Christmas, because that’s my job now. I’ve surrounded myself with tradition and ritual, and I feel right at home.
The woman looked at me like I’d asked to give her a dead fish, which, considering I looked like I had come out of the forest, wasn’t wholly misplaced.
You may not have realized this, but the world came very close to ending last Sunday night.
This post, though it may not seem like it at all, is much more personal than anything I’ve written thus far.
Let’s buy our sofas at a rummage sale and/Cover the spots with afghans someone knitted./Let’s learn to knit.