It’s too hot to think. The cicadas are too loud and the air too thick. I am reduced to my simplest parts — scrapes and sweat and bug bites and bruises. I am the condensation on a cold drink and the pages of a book. I am a cold shower after the beating sun, cool water sizzling and surprising on sunburnt skin.

It’s too hot to think, so I don’t. I look at flowers and polish sunglasses and sit right next to the air conditioner. I let the ocean push me around instead of my thoughts. I let the grass…


Independence Day (Observed)

Sometimes it doesn’t feel like there’s much to celebrate.

Of course, arguably, there isn’t much to celebrate any year. A country full of people we tried to erase, built on blood and bones of slaves we kidnapped and broke and buried. It’s hard to love a country that pretends to be more noble than the graves it filled and trampled to get here. Especially now, with the oceans on fire, and insurrectionists storming the Capitol, fueled by members of our own government who convinced them that only their vote should count. …


Strange, how little I miss my commute and how yet how much I miss being on the way.

I miss the line of demarcation, several miles long, between my bedroom and my work life. I miss being on the way, in between. The transitional moments where you don’t have to be anywhere. I miss getting lattes on the way to activities, and dinner on the way to a show. I miss the feeling of the city sliding away under my feet as I head home.

I miss airports and train stations. I miss airplane mode.

The pandemic has been all…


I haven’t written much this year — mostly snippets in my notes folder on my phone, the equivalent of scrap paper doodles, and journal entries in a notebook I dug up from the piles of blank ones that never quite fit. I’ve always used writing as a way to sort out my feelings, make sense of things, organize the world in fiction and prose so I can better understand it and myself. I read and wrote a lot of fiction before Trump was elected. I read and wrote a lot of nonfiction after, for reasons my therapist and I are…


Electability is a myth. It’s a story we tell ourselves to justify the soft bigotry of low expectations. It’s how we explain away our own prejudices, our own fears. We project them onto someone else — someone we haven’t talked to, someone we’ve never met. We can say “I don’t think Elizabeth Warren can win” and pretend it means “I would happily vote for a woman, but I don’t think anyone else will.” When it really means “I am afraid to vote for a woman.”

There are perfectly valid reasons to dislike a candidate — they speak in soundbites instead…


************SPOILERS BELOW******************

I want to write about the new season of Veronica Mars but I don’t know how. The show, the character, the relationships are so tied up in my heart. Veronica Mars was where I put all my angst in college, where I put all my misery and uncertainty, where I retreated when I felt lost. I hated my first year of college and so my body stayed there but my brain was in Neptune, California wondering if Logan and Veronica might one day be able to get their shit together enough to love each other without the hurt.


Yesterday the firecrackers on my street started around 4pm and ended just after midnight. I don’t own a smoker or a grill, but I did the best I could by slow cooking a picnic roast and slathering it in my mom’s secret barbecue sauce. We watched Independence Day and rewound to make sure we didn’t miss the speech. We watched Independence Day 2 which isn’t as bad as everyone says it is, and National Treasure. We drank whiskey. We looked at Twitter.

Someone said it was like being forced to celebrate your ex’s birthday and we laughed too hard because…


On Monday night, Trump tweeted that next week ICE “will begin the process of removing millions the millions of illegal aliens who have illicitly found their way into the United States. They will be removed as fast as they come in.”

Remember all the articles after the election that told us our fear was overblown? Never mind that from the first time Trump came down a gold escalator to tell us that Mexicans were rapists, that the only way to make our country great again was to keep out all of the brown people, that we’ve been told to take…


I say often (and have gotten in trouble on Twitter for) that fatalism is neither helpful nor interesting. It’s a rather dismissive phrase that belies its hopeful, and perhaps naïve core. It’s not that I think Trump can’t win again. I learned that lesson the hard way, as did many other people of my privilege and politics. We know now that Trump can win, that he can win again, that whatever the depths that (white) Americans can imagine, the floor is lower still. But when you say it with certainty, when you say “will” rather than “can,” you erase the…


We told you we were scared. We told you when you nominated a candidate for president with a record of sexual harassment and assault. We told you when more women came forward about his creeping hands on airplanes and in hotel lobbies. We told you when he was caught bragging about it, how celebrity made him invincible, made us silent. We told you again and again and again — they don’t see us as people. They don’t see us as human — they see us as bodies they imbue with purpose, objects they animate with their desires.

After a wave…

Sara Danver

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