Process

I’ve been trying to loosen up: fast collages, illegible notes in the middle of the night, and the smudges of a left-hander.

There's beauty in repetition, the steady accretion that comes with committing to one thing day after day.

I have a knack for taking the longest, most taxing route to common knowledge.

The first thing I do with a new notebook is write something stupid and messy on the first page.

Tornado sirens rang the other day while I played mahjong with the in-laws. The sun went down at 9:02pm, the humidity is building, and there’s a supermoon tonight. You can never see further than your headlights: this old slice of trucker philosophy makes more sense to me with

They look less and less like recognizable humans, these billionaires buying everything we care about: books and newspapers, transportation and the moon. And now Twitter.  I have no moral objections here. Perhaps I should, but I’m not sure if Twitter was any more righteous when it was governed by

These have been long days of hanging vinyl and caressing air bubbles with a squeegee as C. and I finished installing a situation in the atrium of a school. Over the past four weeks, we’ve collected over one thousand dreams from students ranging from kindergarten through high school. It’

Snow-blasted skies and temperatures around zero. The sun goes down at 5:49pm. I thought about Haruki Murakami while C. and I wandered through hotel lobbies and fields of snow. The days around my birthday often find me rethinking the rhythm of my life and nursing morning fantasies, and this

Wind chills in the single digits and still no snow. The sun sets at 5:27pm tonight. It took some time to humble myself and write yet another draft of this novel I’ve been working on for years. But at last, I’m settling into a steady writing groove

Sunset: 5:14pm. The blurry days between Christmas and New Year’s Eve stand outside of time. These long nights are tailor-made for dusting off childhood memories and tending to personal passions. Perhaps this is why I’m dredging up my old delay pedals, tape decks, and loop machines. I’

A pair of snapshots from installing a new project in the chapel at Green-Wood Cemetery: last month we started painting the first of 2,880 holes, and last night Candy Chang applied the final touches as she balanced on top of a precarious platform of light. Of all our projects

Six years later, I have 88,000 words about an elderly truck driver, a frightened voice on the radio, and a very loud god. It’s the nineteenth draft of this story, and it still has problems, but it’s as good as I know how to make it right