Category Archives: mysterious

Lightplay 09 – The Strangest Summer

Featuring guest epidemiologist Erin Graves Quansah
and guest poet Hunter Gagnon

What follows is an installment of Lightplay, my email newsletter. To receive this in your email inbox, subscribe here.

Hello, dear reader. I hope and pray that this letter finds you in good health and spirits.

It’s late August, and things are touch and go. The post office is run by saboteurs. The hills are aflame, and the convicts aren’t available to cut firebreaks for $1/hour because the jails are too rife with COVID-19. The policemen who killed Breonna Taylor are still at large. 

And yet life goes on. The strange peace of shelter-in-place is over, replaced by a new normal that is just as busy but with so many fewer opportunities for communion and release. I find the days slightly uncanny.

Sometimes, my answer is to look away from what’s happening, to focus on the task at hand. Writing my essay. Teaching my students. Baking bread. For much of this spring, that’s what this newsletter focused on, too. 

But the wider world is always just beyond the kitchen window.

This installment of Lightplay features two voices that can help us make sense of that world—especially COVID, which continues to spread across our nation and planet, as much as we may wish it wouldn’t.

  • The first is Erin Graves Quansah’s guest column, “An Epidemiologist’s Advice as Our Plague Years Drags On.” It’s a great and sobering reminder that we don’t know what comes next.
  • The second is a guest poem from Hunter Gagnon titled “Quarantine Poem 166 the virus lands.”

I’m so excited to be publishing these two pieces and sharing them with you.

Before we get to Erin’s column, I want to relate how it came into being.

One evening in early February, I spent almost two hours in a Walgreens in the suburbs west of Chicago, waiting for photos to print. It was dark and cold outside; inside, the fluorescent lights burned with the neurotic intensity of our young millennium. And behind the counter, a printer slowly disgorged sheets of glossy paper. Ever so slowly.

What could have been an ordeal was redeemed by the presence of my friends Ben and Erin. To kill time, we talked and perused the beer aisle. We spent half an hour inspecting the novelty toy section: oversize hard rubber bouncy balls, super-stretchy sacs of fluid with flashing purple LEDs at the center, a basket full of distressingly labile fake bananas. We tried to make each other laugh.

Shared boredom seems harder to come by now than before. I think it’s mainly because of my entertainment phone, though it’s probably also due just to getting older and getting to choose how I spend my time. I don’t prioritize long, boring hang-outs in the Walgreens.

But maybe I should. One of the best things about spending that much unstructured time with friends is that you end up talking about all sorts of things. Which is how, on February 9, 2020, I ended up asking my epidemiologist friend about a distant epidemic.

“Erin,” I said. “What do you think about this virus that has China locked down? Do you think it will make it over to the U.S.?”

“It’s already here,” she said. “There have been multiple cases, and it’s unlikely they’re catching all of them.”

“But now that flights are shut down, we can probably keep it out, right?”

“I don’t think there’s any way to stop it now. It’s probably already spreading in the U.S. We just don’t know where.” She shook her head and laughed. “It’s not good.”

I sucked my teeth and agreed that it sounded bad. What else was there to say in response to such a bad forecast? I didn’t know what to do with this information.

We moved on to talking about other things. And when we went our separate ways again—Erin back to Toronto, me to L.A.—I just kept living my life like normal. It was more than a month later, when the whole state of California locked down, that I remembered Erin’s prediction. She had been as right as right can be.

All of which is to say that last week, when I heard Erin again warning about what she thought was likely to happen, my ears perked up. Who could the second and third waves hit hardest? Why do we have to keep our guard up? It seemed important enough that I asked her to write up her thoughts so that she could share them with you, the readers of this newsletter. And I’m so happy that she accepted the challenge. Please enjoy this great guest column. I hope that it’s useful to you.

An Epidemiologist’s Advice as Our Plague Years Drags On
by Erin Graves Quansah

I’m an epidemiologist, specializing in maternal and child health, with some expertise in big data and administrative data analytics, all topped off with a few years of public health work. What got me into this work was a microbiology undergrad degree and a morbid fascination with the weirdest and least known bacteria and viruses in this world. For Christmas one year during high school, I asked for and received a 500 page book by Laurie Garrett called The Coming Plague: Newly Emerging Diseases in a World Out of Balance.

From that background I’ve been watching this pandemic unfold—and these are my thoughts. I started paying attention when the first strange cases of a pneumonia-like illness were rumored in the Wuhan region of China, followed the controversy over the reported number of cases, and then felt dread (/panic) as it started to spread across the world. It’s been crazy to witness all of the opportunities where it looked like we were about to get this under control, only to see it slip through our fingers and onto the next stage.  That said, it’s hard to know if that’s really the case or if we’re just dealing with a pathogen that’s perfectly suited to evade our world-wide public health infrastructure. 

So what’s my advice?

The most important thing to learn from this once-in-a-generation (hopefully) infectious disease pandemic is a healthy respect for the differences and intersections between population-wide and individual health. With infectious disease—more than with most other risks—the health of the individual depends so much on the actions and health of the population. The choices we as individuals make can have such a huge impact on the health (and potentially life) of every person we interact with. This is why it’s so important to parse out what each of us, as individuals, can do to keep ourselves as safe and healthy as possible: it’s the main thing that will keep the people around us safe and healthy, too.

There are a few things that we can each do to keep ourselves as safe as possible while maintaining our lives and our health. As we open up and get back to our lives, it’s important that we not let our guard down. We need to keep in mind the basics of social distancing, wearing a mask and managing our risk of exposure as we go about our lives. You may want to spend time having drinks or a meal inside at a restaurant, but it’s not a great idea. If you do, you should probably then avoid being in close contact with your older parents, grandparents, and other immunocompromised friends and family until you’re sure you don’t have COVID. (By getting a negative result on a test or letting fourteen days pass with no symptoms). We should all keep in mind what ‘risky’ behavior we may have engaged in during the last two weeks and try to inform others we may be around so that they can gauge their own comfort with the perceived level of risk.

Unfortunately, the mental health toll, economic damage, and damage from untreated chronic conditions resulting from this pandemic are likely to be more devastating even than the toll of COVID itself. This is part of why governments are relaxing their stay-at-home orders. For example, in the province of Ontario, where I currently live, we’re in ‘Stage 3’ of opening up, which means that almost everything you would normally do is now allowed, although in most cases a mask is required to be worn indoors. But this isn’t because it’s ‘safe’ to do these things. In my view it’s because we now have in place the hospital capacity, the ventilators and the public health staff to track and trace cases, such that we think we can contain infections and limit the impact of the sick on the health care system. And this is in Canada, where daily new cases are under 500 per day. The risk is exponentially greater in the U.S., where daily new cases are around 50,000. In both countries, you still run the risk of contracting COVID by going out and doing the normal parts of daily life that we were warned against when we first entered lockdown. This is why we need to keep our guard up.

In evaluating risk, I’ve found the following infographic from the Texas Medical Association helpful.

There’s one more thing that it’s important to remember. Viruses mutate, and pandemics have historically always come in waves. Depending on where in the world you are, we’re somewhere between the first and second waves of COVID.  In our most recent historic example—and there’s some evidence this is happening with this virus as well—later waves of a pandemic tend to be dominated by virus strains that have accumulated mutations to more effectively target younger, healthier, and more able-bodied people. This means that as the pandemic goes on, those who seemed immune to or felt unconcerned with the early waves may well end up bearing the brunt of later and, in many cases, more deadly waves.

None of this is certain, but without any existing information about how this virus will play out, we have to work with the best imperfect and partially matched historic information we have at our disposal. 

In the words of British Columbia’s chief public health officer, Dr. Bonnie Henry: Be kind, be calm and be safe.

It’s hard now to remember how back in March we were all bargaining. Oh, I thought, this might last another three weeks. Later, This will be over in a few months. Back then, the novel coronavirus’s invisibility almost invited wishful thinking like this. Oh, summer child. 

Now it seems obvious that fantasies about how this will all end soon are in fact exactly the thing that prevents us as a society from tackling the thing head on. But less noted is that these fantasies also keep many of us from making, in the meantime, good temporary workarounds. Only once we acknowledge our new reality does it become possible to fashion distanced and/or digital versions of some of our favorite activities.

I had a great experience of this the first weekend of August, when I attended the first-ever digital Mendocino Coast Writers’ Conference. I had played a small part in planning it—I designed the program, and my partner, Lisa Locascio, is the conference’s Executive Director—but I had no idea that the online conference would be such a success.

There was a lot that made it great, from some standout afternoon talks to the uniformly excellent evening readings. My favorite part was the morning workshop. I was in the speculative fiction workshop, which was led by Kij Johnson. She’s one of my favorite writers (if you haven’t yet read her story collection At the Mouth of the River of Bees, you’re in for a treat). But it’s never a sure thing that a great writer will be a great teacher. In Johnson’s case, she was. I took pages and pages of notes on her theories of how fiction works, how science fiction works, how scenes work. I wrote long letters to my workshopmates and listened closely when they critiqued my story. And it hardly seemed impeded at all by the fact that we were meeting over Zoom.

One of the delights of this workshop was that one of my classmates was the great and strange writer Hunter Gagnon. Hunter is a student of philosophy and ancient literature who draws on those sources to make peculiar fictions and haunting poems. He’s also himself a great teacher, which I know because the last few years we have taught poetry as part of the same program at Dana Gray Elementary School.

When I was putting together this special edition of the newsletter, I remembered that Hunter has been writing and widely publishing a series of poems about this strangest of summers. (Find more at his website, I wrote and asked if he had a brilliant but unpublished poem that I could run here. He sent the following one along.

Quarantine poem #166 the virus lands
by Hunter Gagnon

13,284,292 confirmed 577,843 deaths
7,373,782 recovered
3,428,553 US, July, the vision
             of these virus lands, cities like broken shells
flattened in a bright wave
the no mercy of God and his flashing blue light, his
                              mist, his vision of names
          tossed around
             Fort Bragg, Somersworth, the Portlands, the mythical
        at voice, no don’t misunderstand me my friend in the
        fire red chair not the voice as a category an abstract
        of content, but
                     Life voice, in the virus lands, mumbling out
                     in the teachers better kill themselves lands
                     in the get over your anger maybe then you’ll get
                     what they have no reason to give
These mosquito dog lands and risen rivers after turquoise morning thunder lands
These desert town lands of gas pumps and lightning rods
We live here
             with our reviled
             unhappy mumbling
             by vision
             by beauty
             by God’s blue light
                       gravel wash voices, our
                       goose weed crumb voices
this bullet-crowned ghost of swallowing, this talk for us of who we are
this talk they build and give to us
                                       in screen blue light, elevated
                 for chairs, cushioned
                                             and lawn
    in July, in
                  America, fourteenth, 2020 11pm

That’s about it for this special, late-summer edition of Lightplay. It’s time for me to give my attention to the raven standing on the branch next to me.

But before we part ways I think I should acknowledge that I’ve finally named my newsletter. It’s called Lightplay. One word. There’s no deep secret meaning behind it. Things need names, that’s all. Nonetheless, I hope it evokes for you something of the way light can play against a cardinal’s feathers, or through a rainshower, or off the moon.

Till next time, I wish you good health, good spirits, safety from the fires, and a free moment to spend outside, looking at the other birds. Stay safe.

23 August 2020

Land Acknowledgment: I want to acknowledge the land from which I am sending this as the traditional homelands of the Council of the Three Fires: the Odawa, Ojibwe, and Potawatomi Nations, and the Illinois Confederacy: the Peoria and Kaskaskia Nations. Many other nations including the Myaamia, Wea, Ho-Chunk, Menominee, Thakiwaki, Meskwaki, Kiikaapoi, and Mascouten peoples also call this region home. Indigenous people continue to live in this area and celebrate their traditional teachings and lifeways. I want to express my gratitude as a guest and to thank the original and current stewards of this land. (Adapted from the Newberry Museum land acknowledgment, which was drafted in partnership with the Chicago American Indian Center.)

Week 6: A Post-Protest Popsicle

What follows is an installment of my Writer’s Diary, which for sixteen weeks I am sending every Sunday. This current run has a central focus on food. To receive this in your email inbox, subscribe here.

Hello! This is the sixth installment of this email diary, and I vowed in the first one that this season would run for either 12 or 18 installments. I’m still not sure which one! Either way, thank you for being with me on this journey. We’re either half-way or one-third done.

A brief email diary today. Sometimes I want to say so much (I see you nodding), but other times it feels more right to sit with silence. To be receptive. To follow.

Today is one of those days.

A collection of protest signs: black lives matter, no lives matter until black lives matter, abolish racist police, etc.

In lieu of writing a long essay, I want to share with you some of these signs from this morning’s march against police violence. I think these signs, partly due to their roughness, capture something of the the sorrow and anger of these protests—and also some of the humor.

Another collection of signs from the rallies: Justice 4 George Floyd, Justice 4 Our FUTURE!!, we are not fighting alone, my students deserve better, silence kills

The protest began up on Hollywood Boulevard in front of Grauman’s Chinese Theater, and then it headed west, cutting down onto Sunset and then onto Santa Monica. There were maybe 30,000 people filling miles of street, with nary a policeman in sight. (Except, of course, the ever-present helicopters.)

The mood was oddly quiet, less fiery than last week. There was still plenty of chanting, plenty of fellow-feeling. It was just a little less intense. The rage and stark sorrow of the early days has shifted into a steely resolve.

Maybe we all feel a little tired, seeing so many reminders that this fight won’t be won in a day. I know I can feel this weariness. But then I gird my loins and vow to aid in this struggle as long as it takes to deliver justice.

Yet more signs from the protests: we're tired of this shit enough is enough, say their names, silence=violence, united we stand, all black lives matter, defend black trans lives, etc.

When we returned to our apartment, we were tired and hot and ready to sit. We needed something to cool us down and pick up our spirits. We needed popsicles!

So I opened the freezer and took out the mango popsicles I had set up to freeze in the morning. They were just the thing. A true refreshment.

And so I ask: why does our society relegate the popsicle to childhood? Why do so many of us willingly forget its charms just so soon as we hit our teens?

a picture of a home-made grape popsicle, glistening with cold and frost.

When we moved to L.A. in January, I finally bought a good set of reuseable popsicle forms off the internet, for about $20. They came the next week. I fill them with juice, give them a few hours in the freezer. In the afternoon, especially if it’s a hot day, all I have to do is grab one, run it under warm water until the plastic mold slides off, and ta-da: I am eating a delicious popsicle.

May I recommend mango popsicles, made using Russian mango juice purchased at the corner deli? That’s my current go-to.

In the picture above, you’ll see my sister’s favorite: concord grape juice. It does make an excellent popsicle. (Cassie got back into popsicles the way many people do: by having a kid.) The grape juice is a vibrant dye, however, so be careful you don’t drip on your white clothes.

My all-time favorite popsicle must the apple juice popsicle. I know, I know, the freezing forces much of the apple essence to the surface, leaving behind only vaguely apple juice-y ice crystals. It is not a ‘flavor-bomb for your mouth.’ Quite the opposite; this may be the quietest of the popsicles.

In lieu of instense flavor, the apple juice popsicle is redolent of hot summer afternoons when I was four. Feeling the breeze on my skin, wondering what life would be. Standing outside because I wasn’t allowed to eat popsicles inside. Looking at my sand box, my tricycle, the Pacific Ocean. Enjoying the way an hour passed, how much it held, how long a day was. How filled with wonders.

Those endless popsicle days constituted an era of my life. Only this year have I discovered how to time travel back to them.

a picture of light running in through redwood trees and reflecting against a trunk.

I hope today has had some wonder in it for you, dear reader. Perhaps the wonder of seeing your fellow citizens rise up in the name of justice. But if you’d like a little more wonder, a few sweet minutes of it, consider the humble popsicle!

Be well. I’ll see you next week.

June 14, 2020


I have been fascinated by design since I joined my school newspaper in 9th grade and was invited to help with layout. The tactility of moving type around a page, of pairing text and image, and of feeling the printed results in the hand—I fell in love. I have been setting type ever since.
I do graphic design and book design on a contract basis. Please write with any inquiries or to be sent a portfolio.
What follows are the design projects and essays about design that I have posted to this website.

World-Building Essay Wins Award

I’m pleased to note that my essay “Building Coherent Fantasy Worlds: Taoism and Earthsea” has been awarded the 2019 Library Research Award from Antioch University Los Angeles. The award came with a $700 purse, and I gave a short presentation on my research methods and process at a ceremony on May 15.

The award committee made this comment in awarding the prize:

“Your work ‘Building Coherent Fantasy Worlds: Taoism and Earthsea’ was excellent, exemplary. The committee was especially impressed and moved by the ways you traversed the concepts of Taoism and of LeGuin, both a melding and a juxtaposition of ideas and texts while creating your own small work to sit alongside those. It was an inspired and inspiring endeavor. Your use of library tools, the scholarship that the library collects, was well done, and allowed for a depth of interaction with the texts in question. And your paper, your writing, was a pleasure to read.”

The essay circles around the subject of world-building—the way that writers of fantasy and science fiction create worlds that differ from our own but nonetheless seem believable. I focus primarily on the work of Ursula K. Le Guin, tracing the way that her lifelong interest in Taoism influenced her creation of the world of Earthsea. If you’re interested, you can read the paper by downloading it from the AULA Library website. I am working to adapt it into a craft essay for wider publication.
(To apply for the award, I also had to write a reflective essay on my research process. You can read that essay here.)

The Body Is an Object

I’m happy to announce that Juked has published my story, “The Body Is an Object.” Here are its opening lines:

We grow marijuana in the summer and smoke it in the winter. It turns out it’s a lot of work to grow good pot, but we offset the difficulty of harvesting by hiring friends to come up from the city and help. They like the extra money, and we enjoy their company, seeing their tents out the window over the sink, if only for a few weeks.

Some nights I stand outside the cabin, staring at the stars. It’s lonely out here. I know that Venus has set. I think that that one orange-twinkling star might be Mars. There are only a handful of rocky chunks circling our sun, each impossible to reach. The distance to the next sun is unfathomable. How big the universe is, with its trillions of stars in their little clusters. How big the world itself, and us all spread across the surface. Why are Annie and me a couple? Fate seems cruelly deterministic right about now, and I dig my bare feet into the cool soil.

I want to fuck Carolina. She’s Jasper’s friend; I’m not sure if they were a couple at some point. I don’t know why, but it’s just been burning through my head since they came up to trim for us. Her round cheeks, wide hips, big butt, her belly. I edge around her in the kitchen, and I feel her life force right there up against me. Nothing happens, but I smell her fruity cologne and she is a whole other world. I get turned on, making my toast as she washes out her mate cup next to me, and I have to take myself into the bathroom, splash cold water on my face. (Click here to keep reading.)

The Blood-Sex Iconostasis

I’m thrilled to announce that my story “The Blood-Sex Iconostasis” was published today in Joyland San Francisco. Here are its opening lines:

Night falls over town. The fog doesn’t recede. Sodium lights flicker to life. Some hold steady; others strobe on and off in lugubrious, neurotic cycles. The sky takes on the sickly orange glare of their light. The parking lot at Safeway empties. Cats are fed and dogs put inside for the night.

Benjamin lowers the blinds and wanders from room to room with a candle on a drip pan. Beneath a bag of tealights in a box he packed before college, he finds his compass. It still has lead in it. He reaches deeper into the dark square and feels the triangular prism of an engineer’s ruler, pinches a stiff parallelogram of eraser, pushes away the flimsy plastic cylinder of a cheap kaleidoscope. He pulls the ruler and eraser out, then finds his old clamshell phone masking-taped to its charger. He plugs the phone in and swipes his smartphone off. After almost a minute the ancient one flares on, screen glowing blue against the dark.

He sits cross-legged on his one nice rug and constructs a heptagram. (Click here to continue reading.)

A Brume of One’s Own

“At this moment, I expel a minor traveler’s flatulence (sorry), and with it, I experience the same chivalry he’d offered when putting Kate to bed, as he pretends not to notice. We escape its subtle brume, and I join my colleagues inside the bungalow.” — Sean Penn, Rolling Stone, January 9
th, 2016.


Joaquín Archivaldo ‘El Chapo’ Guzmán Loera, Altiplano Prison: “Subtle? That is the very last word that I would use to describe what happened in that room. When I was a boy I sold special birds at the market every day, because we were very poor. The men would take these into the mines to test for poisonous gas. If I still sold those birds then Mr. Sean Penn would have destroyed my business. But I don’t sell those birds anymore. Instead I supply more heroin, methamphetamine, cocaine and marijuana than anybody else in the world. I have a fleet of submarines. Let me promise you this: Mr. Sean Penn will never be allowed on one of my submarines.”


Kate del Castillo, Mexico City: “I was asleep, but Sean woke me up. I knew he was a powerful man, but I never knew how powerful. Mr. Penn’s special talent will be an important tool in the coming revolution.”


El Chapo’s Head Caterer, In The Hills of Sinaloa: “Everyone knew something bad was about to happen. The gringo ate ate too many tacos. It seemed like he didn’t want the enchiladas or the steak. He unfortunately ignored the first rule of Mexican food: don’t eat more than six tacos. But there was no stopping this American. He ate one after another while he gossiped with El Chapo. I estimate he ate seventeen tacos. There were none left for anyone else! Soon the gringo’s stomach swelled and his face turned the color of two-day-old blood. The first person to notice was El Chapo, I think, when he came back from escorting the actress to bed. He made a signal, and all of his soldiers went to get their guns and put on bulletproof vests. I don’t believe the gringo had any idea how much damage he would cause. Only yesterday I burned the down hut where it happened. The priest said an exorcism was out of the question.”


DEA Agent Moslin Rorby, Reykjavik: “It was a matter of the first importance that we locate and neutralize El Chapo, by whatever means necessary. There was a good lead: we had tortured a known associate of his, who told us that El Chapo liked his carne asada from a specific restaurant in Mazatlán. We arranged for the latest shipment to be laced with Polonium-210. Then we waited. But no one expected Mr. Penn to eat all of the tacos, and I think we all can say it was some kind of divine intervention that caused his body to isolate and expel the poison. Roughly forty minutes after the offgassing our sensors detected and were able to pinpoint the source of the isotope. You could say that Mr. Penn’s unique gastro-intestinal powers provided the final piece in the puzzle of locating El Chapo.”


Barack Obama, The Oval Office: “Good evening. Tonight, I can report to the American people and to the world that the United States in co-ordination with Mexico has conducted an operation that captured Joaquín Guzmán, also known as ‘El Chapo’ or ‘Shorty,’ the leader of the Sinaloa Cartel, and a terrorist who is responsible for the murder of thousands of innocent men, women, and children. Or as Sean Penn would say, a simple man from a simple place.”


Alfredo Guzmán, El Chapo’s Son, Mexico City: “After my father’s capture, some people in our organization reached out to Mr. Sean Penn. They explained that El Chapo wanted to do a follow-up interview from inside prison, and of course Mr. Penn agreed and promised to cross the border as soon as possible. Before we go to visit my father, though, I will take Mr. Sean Penn out to a big taco lunch. I have every reason to believe my father will be a free man once again.”


You have found the archives of Lightplay, my email newsletter. If you like any of these, I encourage you to sign up to receive future issues in your inbox.


01 – Salsa Ranchera
02 – the Great Sandwich
03 – Sauerkraut
04 – Beyond the Kitchen Window
05 – Recipe for a Protest Movement
06 – A Post-Protest Popsicle
07 – Change the Name!
08 – Bread
09 – The Strangest Summer
10 – American Trip
11 – Rainbow
12 – the Lost Travelogue
13 – Chronos, Nomads, Fruit



2015 Travelogue: China, Tibet, Thailand

7 – The Amateur Mountaineers
6 – Two Tibetan Print Houses
4 – Wachang to Litang
3 – Muli Monastery to Wachang
2 – Kunming to Muli Monastery
1 – San Francisco to Hong Kong