There is a great sucking hole in my chest. The present has trapped us all; the future tense has disappeared, and with it all sense of possibility.
To be depressed is to experience a flattening of time. The present is an eternal moment, unbearable as such, flat and grey and stretching out as far as you can see. The future simply doesn’t exist. The past is there, in the early stages, ready to enfold you with memories of past misdeeds, but in deepest despair all that really exists is the endless present. …
When I was on staff at the International Business Times in 2015, I had an editor who hated jargon. “If you use the word ‘space,’” he said once, “you better fucking be talking about outer space.” I did my part by creating a Jargon Jar. Into the jar clanked coins every time one of us used “content” or “space” or whatever dumb MBA or tech neologism had been handed to us by sources who sounded like — and were mostly nothing more than — hucksters.
A number of running threads quickly made themselves apparent during the seven months I spent in 2017 crisscrossing America: loneliness, disconnect, virulent xenophobia and racism, conspiratorial thinking. But the one that surprised me the most, perhaps, was that of grift.
Everywhere I went, I was confronted by some kind of scam — powdered drink supplement multilevel marketing schemes, bullshit “theological universities.” Grift was woven into so many people’s daily lives. National stories of frauds like Fyre Fest and Theranos and Dirty John dominated news cycles.
The light fixtures were what tipped me off. You know the ones I’m talking about — you see them every time you go to Ikea, coolly geometric, and every time, you wonder if they’re worth the effort of getting them installed in your ceiling. (They’re not.)
I was in a non-chain coffee shop in Columbia, South Carolina. I was on a mission to the cities and towns closest to the geographic center of each state, and this was only stop №6 of 50, but I remembered seeing the same lights in coffee shops in Bend and Portland in Oregon, and…
You always have a feeling.
Sometimes that feeling comes during a phone call with a guy who talks like he’s on satellite delay, warning you not to allow him to host you on a trip. (A warning you ignore, like some kind of innocent.) Sometimes it presages a midnight e-mail from a former source now professing his all-encompassing love for you.
This feeling is the fear that your female-ness is all that matters to straight men. That your worth, to them, is derived entirely from their desire for female attention. The fear that the attention they seek is sexual.
The reactions of people in my life when I told them about the Centerville project were largely expected: enthusiasm, or that slight delay where the listener put together that yes, I meant all 50 states, or “Wow, I’m jealous.” What were less understandable were the ones who took this to be some kind of grand vacation, some indulgent Hunter S. Thompson-esque road trip to Find Myself.
Forget for a moment the framing of this project — an effort to put together a word-mosaic of America at this moment in time — and focus only on the physical scope: every single…
Read more in A Young Woman's Guide to Crisscrossing America Alone (And Not Ending Up a Dateline Episode) · 7 min read
Day 133. The heavily wooded slopes of this mist-wreathed mountain in the middle of Connecticut are suffused with an energy that borders on the mystical. Ghostly birches look aflame, while mosses shine neon. Slick stone slabs jut into the damp air.
The wind is fierce here at the top, at the edge, looking down. At least, you think you’re looking down — your field of vision simply vanishes into the grey, the ground who knows how many hundreds of feet below. The sounds of other lookeylous have vanished, even though you’re only a few dozen yards from them. …
Well, this story was supposed to serve as a capper for this publication. But Medium decided they liked the story, so they plucked it from obscurity (i.e. removed it from this publication) and featured it and made it look very nice. They even recorded a woman with a lovely voice reading it! That was great, but it also meant the Centerville publication was without a bookend.
Content Warning: Suicide
Three years ago, a bathtub full of blood. A fluttering of eyelids, a tightening of the gut after it hits you — that this is not nearly enough blood — that you have failed.
This is not about what led up to that moment. This is about what comes after.
Imagine, if you will, that you have been shot.
Imagine going to the emergency room after having been shot. Imagine having to detail the circumstances of the shooting to five different people, each of whom seem unable to understand why you got shot; none of whom…
Call it “Chekhov’s Journalist.” That scene, you know the one, seemingly inevitable in any movie or TV series with a plotline that concerns a journalist, wherein the reporter bangs their interview subject.
But while there’s probably more of a market for a “Young Woman’s Guide to Banging Your Way Across America” book or TV series, I’ll relinquish that idea to some enterprising young person for a nominal fee and/or an executive producer credit.
I was looking to chronicle American life at this moment in time, and though I wasn’t being bankrolled by a major publication — I made my money…
Read more in A Young Woman's Guide to Crisscrossing America Alone (And Not Ending Up a Dateline Episode) · 8 min read
Freelance journalist. No fixed abode.