The Saturday Rumpus Essay: I wanted to be sure to reach you
I have no answers, but I can feel my feet.
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mourning
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The Sunday Rumpus Essay: An Ocean of Hatted Absurdity
I wonder if in absence I will now come to conflate him with the character I’ve drawn. Or with the character I’m drawing now.
Who Do You Cry For?
Who do we remember and why do we mourn? Teju Cole writes about unmournable bodies for the New Yorker.
The Pot Thrower: Notes on the Death of a Brother
If Charlie had finally lost his focus after all these years, well, no wonder. I’d have lost it after about fifteen minutes wrestling with CF. We had to help him find his resolve again and get back his health, not stand there crying.