In 10th grade English, as our final book of the year, my class cracked open Kurt Vonnegut’s 1969 novel “Slaughterhouse-Five.” After a grueling year of classics like “Gulliver’s Travels,” “All Quiet on the Western Front” and “The Canterbury Tales,” I assumed that “Slaughterhouse-Five”
I’m terrible at keeping journals. I admire their purpose, but I can never keep up with the commitment. I always stop to doodle and quickly get sick of hearing myself talk about the same things over and over.
It’s only been six days since the first coronavirus cases were reported in Michigan, but it feels like an eternity has passed. My heart sinks every time I see another student moving out of their dorm, lugging mattress pads and portable fans across the street to waiting cars.
Hello readers. I hope that you are well, that your hands are washed and that your thoughts remain calm. I’ve had this B-Side in my calendar for over a month. I am so excited that it’s finally here. I remember the day I put it in my calendar.
Two hands on a clock. A date in a history book. Tiny grains of sand cascading through the waist of an hourglass. Time tends to be malleable. Hours melt across disciplines, years stretch between facts and minutes explode underneath microscopes.