Essays, odds, and ends from an unsettled mind.
For one week I treated my neighborhood app like a television season, taking notes on lost cats, fence-line diplomacy, and the white van that launched a thousand theories. What I found was not just gossip but a rotating local theater company performing the small, strange drama of American neighborhood life.
For seven days I rescued everything from my phone's Recently Deleted folder and arranged it like a museum exhibit. The result was less a confession than a storage problem — and a surprisingly useful test of what I'm actually willing to keep.
For one season, I read only what a stranger at my local library chose for me — no ratings, no trailers, no recommendation feed. The experiment was less about books than about relearning how to be surprised by taste that isn’t mine.
I fed years of Rishece essays into an AI bio writer and got a version of me that was cleaner, faster, and weirdly unrecognizable. The experiment became a negotiation about keywords, tangents, and who gets to decide what a person is for.
A fallen branch, a petty argument, and a photocopier walk into a cul-de-sac. What came out was a one-page newsletter that now functions as my street's unofficial paper of record—and a reminder that local media is just neighborly surveillance with a masthead.
There’s a group chat on my phone that hasn’t produced a new message since 2022, and I still open it the way you’d check a house you used to live in. This is about the digital rooms we leave without ever really vacating — and why silence can be its own kind of company.
A docent-led tour through the closet where my abandoned hobbies go to wait. Sourdough, watercolor, binoculars, and the strange hope baked into every starter kit.
I filled a shoe box with twenty cheap local possibilities and asked a stranger to draw three. What I expected was a funny story about surrendering control. What I got was a diner breakfast, an estate sale, a matinee, and a fairly uncomfortable look at how I make decisions.
A stranger with a name almost like mine has been leaking his life into my inbox since 2015. I have never met him, never answered, and never unsubscribed. This is a note on what it means to keep the receipts of a person who does not know I exist.
Rishece is six letters that refuse to behave. A short essay on invented names, email typos, voice-assistant guesses, and the strange coziness of a corner of the internet you have to be told about.
The drawer is not a mess. It is an archive of good intentions — a tangle of orphan chargers, adapters, and cords for devices that no longer exist. A defense of the most optimistic square foot in the American home.
For one month, I treated a coffee shop bulletin board like a social feed and said yes to everything on it. What I found was less about lawn bowling and more about the strange, tender economics of being noticed by strangers with a stapler.
One summer of hosting and haunting garage sales taught me that the prices are almost beside the point. What people buy, what they won't touch, and why this odd ritual refuses to die.
I committed to one hour every evening on the porch with no phone, no book, and no excuse. Here's what happened when my brain finally ran out of things to distract itself with.
The diner booths are empty, the bowling alleys are condos now, and most of us socialize through screens we resent. So I started loitering in a grocery store parking lot on Thursday nights, and something unexpected happened.
There's a half-finished manuscript in my desk drawer, a jar of dead sourdough starter in the fridge, and a guitar I haven't touched since 2021. I used to see a graveyard of failure. Now I think I was looking at a map of everything I'm still curious about.
Thirty days of tracking my spending taught me less about money and more about the strange theater of guilt, math, and self-negotiation we perform every time we open our wallets. The $4 latte was never the villain. Neither was the $400 chair.
There's a corner of the internet I visit every night where the same faces show up, the same jokes get told, and nobody knows my legal name. Sociologists used to call that a third place. Mine lives in a browser tab.
Somewhere between the newsletter funnels and the SEO audits, the personal homepage quietly went extinct — and I think we lost something when it did. This is a defense of the website that answers to no one.