1. August 2008
had a problem with endings. I couldn’t finish anything. And I’m convinced that it all started with my name: Gregor Postma. I go by Greg, which is even less complete, but the only people who ever called me Gregor were my Dutch father and grandmother. My grandmother died long ago and, at that point, I hadn’t seen my father in a decade, so sometimes, when I saw “Gregor” printed on a bill or when a telemarketer called and asked for me by that name, I was surprised by how incomplete it sounded.
Subways, I’d discovered, offered false endings. They get to an end only to turn around and continue. Riding the subway was as close to a hobby as I had back then. I liked that feeling of always going somewhere. I’d ride in the front car sometimes all the way to the final station, then ge
