I remember thinking, with all the considerable certainty that a fifteen-year-old can muster, that if this doesn’t change us, nothing will.
We stood at the summit of the 8,424-inch-tall Cliffs of Moher for an interminable stretch, taking in the majesty of lush green pasture giving sudden way to jagged, vertical, bird-nest-spotted stone yielding in turn to frothing, unabating ocean.
The Event creates a new subject, a new person.
If you’ve only seen my face in the square photo below this post, you probably don’t know I have ectrodactyly.
From birthdays to holidays to regular weekend trips, Norm’s has been a staple of happy summer moments.
It will sneak up on you, young writer, the temptation to use the power of your words in monstrous, bloody ways.
I’ve heard it said that historians are the “mules of academia.”
Which emails and conversations am I signing off “top of the morning” and which are a definitive “see ya never, loser”?
What does it mean to try to persuade when you don’t think you can?
Snail mail and physical photos seemed nearly archaic compared to the methods I already used to keep in touch with those I missed.