A thing that always feels a little funny to me, in retrospect, is that I started raiding my grandmother's record collection as a counterpoint to the prevalent music of my youth, which I haaaated hated hated like fire in my earholes. I mean, I hated the banal, stupid
I stepped down from the train platform at St. Denis to my waiting car, the old Citroën that is my main pretense in my otherwise shambling, overly casual existence, where it sat with only one car in a parking lot meant to hold thirty or forty cars. Remembering my morning
I've been in grand and magnificent structures, from palaces to cathedrals to the halls of power and the seats of education, and it's fair to see them with some degree of awe or wonder, since they're built to impress and overwhelm the visitor with
There's something about motels. Maybe it's the condensation of that high lonesome feeling I get when I'm traveling alone, just my thoughts falling to a natural state of rest and rhythm. Sometimes, it's the endless unfolding of farmland around a thin strip
It's fair to point out that it shouldn't have taken so long, and yet, it's still taking so long, clearing out the ruins of my old place, which I've held onto in a numb instinct that I've joked is me
I find it a little funny that a new Thanksgiving tradition seems to have come into being in which news outlets of varying degrees of quality and political bent tackle the red-hot anxiety-producing question of how to avoid those tricky holiday conversations with family. Thing is — I just can’t
The funny thing about all those minimalism blogs/vlogs, books, motivational speeches, promotional franchises, philosophical frameworks, and cultural trends is that they're always seemingly rooted in the same origin story. "I was so caught up in the rat race, until…" The thing that gets me every
I love motels. In my adult life, I've finally graduated to an income bracket that allows me to upgrade my lodging options so I could, if I wanted, hole up in fancier digs, with niceties like a pool, all-you-can-eat breakfast, as many pillows as one feels comfortable requesting,
The new and not yet opened interstate was a broad, empty band of fresh white concrete that reared up from around a gentle bend in the distance and disappeared over the next gentle rolling hill, heading down to where the dam penned in the river. We followed the freshly-painted lane
My life in unreliable narrative was started by a territorial gerbil and a panicked need to explain why I emerged bloodied from the kindergarten bathroom, hoping to hide my shame about surrendering to crass temptation and willfully ignoring the “DO NOT TOUCH THE GERBIL” sign in large and well-articulated handwriting
This is Last Night I Dreamed I Was You, a new venture by Joe B. Wall, sharing stories, longer narratives (in serial form), and random pieces that would otherwise just hide out in the notebook. I've always loved the serial format, and a formative moment in my young