January 31st, 2014 | 9:00am

Lake Huron, summer, just before midnight, and we are floating night blind through black water. M. and I have paddled past the first sandbar and its shallow eddies to the almost-deep—still and quiet here, our small boats barely swaying. At first, we can see nothing but lights from the vacation homes on shore, square amber windows glowing inside darkened shapes, a yellow half moon, the black outline of rooftops and evergreens cut out against an ink-blue sky. 

January 29th, 2014 | 9:00am

There was a pile of old vines and twigs in the vineyard. We lit a bonfire and the flames licked daylight into the night sky. Next morning there was a gray and black patch of coldashes, perfectly round. It looked hard, like crushed marbles, so I stepped on it. My boot sank deep into tiny feathers. A gray boot and a brow none told me I should have known better.

 

January 28th, 2014 | 9:00am

 

From the elevated train in Queens, I’d glimpse the phantasmagoria that was 5 Pointz. A riot of color and occasional faces covering every inch of the old, block-long factory, it felt hallucinatory. In a minute—not enough time for the eye or brain to take it all in—the images vanished and the train rumbled underground, heading to Manhattan.

January 27th, 2014 | 9:00am

We met friends north of Seattle, then drove to catch the ferry to Orcas Island and talked about Washington’s bikini baristas.  It would be another three hours before the ferry left, so we walked through cars and trucks parked in lanes straight as garden rows to the snack shop and overpaid for sandwiches, a banana, soda.  You sat on the asphalt behind a Chevy Tahoe, petting a pit bull someone had tied to the trailer hitch, and I took your picture.

 

January 22nd, 2014 | 9:00am

 

 

Details Concerning the Individual Denizens and Their Residences

In New Mexico, days end with soaking the frijoles for tomorrow. They start with a lump of bacon grease sizzling in a cast-iron pan, with chipping a chunk of green chilé from one of the blocks in the freezer. People like food that hurts them as they eat it. Even the cocoa has chilé in it and a Spanish name and must be beaten to a froth.