Light in August

The first week of August hangs at the very top of the summer, the top of the live-long year, like the highest seat of a Ferris wheel when it pauses in its turning. The weeks that come before are only a climb from balmy spring, and those that follow a drop to the chill of autumn, but the first week of August is motionless, and hot. It is curiously silent, too, with blank white dawns and glaring noons, and sunsets smeared with too much color. Often at night there is lightning, but it quivers all alone. There is no thunder, no relieving rain. These are strange and breathless days, the dog days, when people are led to do things they are sure to be sorry for after.

-Tuck Everlasting by Natalie Babbitt

all the personality of a paper cup

In the gap between what one wants to say (or what one perceives there is to say) and what one can say (what is sayable)

When do we get enough time to do all the things we mean to? I've got lists of places to travel to, all these postcards to send. Here's one of the dark steel exterior of a library in Omaha, NE. When I found it, I thought of you. I was going to tell you about what the libraries of the future will be like when books are obselete. We will miss the microfiche, the open stacks fingerprinted with their past lives. Information will be a stream of electrons on handheld devices viewed in gleaming white rooms. There is a story to tell on the back of this postcard. One of these days, look for it in the mail.

modern modes of masculinity