The noises emanating from the Land Cruiser’s transmission were grim. There was the uneasy whine of a transfer case that couldn’t quite disengage, the sickening spinning sound of a slipping
“The middle of nowhere” is a loaded idiom. It’s a vague-yet-precise phrase that invokes a certain situation or location, and which could be positive or negative depending on who says it. It offers up visions of amber waves and orange plateaus, of abandoned filling stations and faded glimpses of the past’s future. It is a place devoid of the decades of social construction required to populate a city with its traps and trappings.
A couple of weeks ago, I began to examine the oppressive idea that, “You can’t just do that.” Whatever that is. Then the notes and memories came flooding in about
I recently became aware of the improbable story of Amanda Coker. It is noteworthy in several ways. Firstly, she just accomplished something that is radically difficult to convey in words:
I shirk at the word escapism, though my counselor has encouraged me increasingly not to attach pejorative connotations to things just because some other people do. So, if I want
Sometimes you see something furry and want to touch it, whether it’s a puppy or someone’s velvet jacket. Sometimes you let a bartender plan the majority of your day with no idea of what you’re agreeing to.
How would you like to feel 10% less like spontaneously weeping and 90% less passionate about everything from the sound of music to laughing at jokes to your dog’s wellbeing?