I’ve been obsessing about an old banker’s box. It’s tucked away in a spare bedroom. There isn’t much in it: some punk rock posters, letters, photographs of a long-closed homeless shelter, and a handwritten diary. After decades of disinterest in the box, I find myself seeking it out, particularly the diary. Hoping that it can help me make sense of what is happening in the world around me.
The fact is, I just can’t seem to get my bearings. I search for signposts and familiar patterns, but it’s like looking through the distortions of a funhouse mirror. My political, social, and environmental certainties have been knocked off their axes. The world is in uncharted territory. These are troubled times. Disorienting times. Frightening times. Blame it on the fire tornados or the COVID-19 pandemic or the data-driven AI that is poisoning the well of human conversation. Blame it on toxic capitalism.
