If the phone is the new mask of Greek theater, a personō for us to sound through, perhaps our kids just understand better than we do how to really use it. Because as Bowie showed us, the self is a kind of fiction.
essay
We were here
Books are one of the few things we can touch and handle in an intimate way and then share with strangers when we’re done.
I’ve been waiting for a guide to come and take me by the hand
We are living this life where everyone we encounter is just a version of ourselves, the same as in dreams. How long have we been imagining shapes in the clouds? Or telling stories?
A fair way to go
It is the hour of 4, and the light is best for where I sit on the chaise-lounge, beside the scabby hot tub that’s been dry all summer. The hot tub is kaput because the large fir popped up the… Read More ›
The first death
The dog’s warm tongue on my cheek, the den by the window where the sun comes in to expose the hair on my carpet, the dust on the lamps, the dirt on my legs from the morning’s hike. Going up… Read More ›
Bill Pearse 