Anthony Boodrookas

Take a small, representative sample, then zoom out to encompass a forest, a mountain or an entire planet.

“The Reason for God: Belief in an Age of Skepticism” and “Why Evolution is True” both lie open on the table like red and blue pills in Morpheus’s outstretched hands

In a blur of roadside poppies and mountain sequoias, a tablecloth of California landscape is pulled from underneath my feet, leaving me intact, if a bit wobbly, in Oregon

Under her guidance, the garden comes to life, speaking a new, silent language of smell and touch.

My “alternative” teenage eyes roll so hard they almost cut a sunroof into the car. For many former edgy high schoolers, this likely brings back memories.

As a result of this desire to believe, novels with unreliable narrators are often misunderstood.

Inexperienced in the art of casual dating, I did not land gracefully. Instead I tucked myself away and wrote poems.

This mindset creates dangerous misunderstandings about the value of literature and of the realities of mental illness.

My own culture often feels clumsily translated to my language, like a foreign novel written for an audience I cannot fully join.

The rich literary history of this city weaves a web around me that I wonder if I’m experiencing my surroundings directly or rereading someone else’s thoughts.