Budapest, Hungary. February, 2016.

The Potomac River
Christmas Day, 2015

The lamp motif of this website, designed by my friend Melissa Armstrong, was inspired by mid-century Modernism. In the 1940’s and 50’s designers like Alvin Lustig and Paul Rand created book jackets for works by authors ranging from Henry Miller to Gertrude Stein. The designs were simple and bold, ideal for paperbacks and reprints. These were books to be dog-eared—to be passed around, beat up, contended with. Passages were underlined. They fell out of bed. Today, they are found at bookstalls and garage sales, musty pages recalling a thirst for obscurity and a thrill of the illicit that has lost its potency. Like all things past, we cannot recreate the time or place, but only pay them homage—a nod (or a bow) to three colors and a silkscreen.

Some places live up to their clichés. In the west of Ireland, we saw more rainbows in one week than we had in the preceding ten years back in the States. They came down in abundance_singles, doubles, some far off, some right outside the window of the car. We even saw some touch down in the foreground, in front of the horizon line, just right there_and you can imagine the ensuing scramble for leprechauns and pots of gold. But, alas, our rainbows only found power lines and penny walls.

The last of unspoiled arcadia is digital. I spawned into a jungle biome and spent the first night in a dirt hole while zombies groaned outside. Next morning, I built a better, wooden shelter. I mastered tools and spent nights mining rather than crouching in fear.

Soon, I struck off and found a spot between the forest and plains, not far from the seaside. I built a large stone house, smelted iron, and made armor. I lured in cows and chickens, planted rows of wheat. I tamed a horse and rode out on patrols.

One night, I lost my horse in a storm. Running hard for home, low on food, and chased by creepers and skeletons, I came over a rise and saw, all at once, the blaze of my complex, and felt a deep and ancient satisfaction. I ran through my gates, climbed the leveled hills, and ducked into my redoubt. I ate cooked meat and slept a blank, dark sleep until sunlight blued the distant hills.

That evening, I climbed a bluff overlooking the sea and pictured a new and better complex—with a glass castle, fake beach, boat launch, and diving tower. A Minecraft Club Med.

Figure 4. Metaphor is the lead horse of literature, pulling ideas from one place to another. But it’s hard sometimes to tell head from hind. Case in point: Do these dinner rolls look like glowing briquettes, or do these briquettes look like dinner rolls? The answer is neither: These are baked marshmallows. Metaphor can lead_and it can lead astray.