Today is a day which doesn’t seem to begin with the letter ”c” in any language. Monday, moaning-day, moon-day: a day improved by mooning about, mooching, and meandering. It’s the second anniversary of first pandemic walking and its consolations; that’s your first c-word, consolation. Weigh it in your hand, a friendly pebble. Walk it through its four syllables. Two paces up to a tree. A penultimate pause when you hug the tree (consentingly, always ask first) and breathe out; the Latin lato that’s the wide embrace as you’re carried and suffered by the tree; a last syllable as you murmur thanks quietly and fast, a little shy in case anyone overhears you communing with a tree, and you turn and go on your way, a little eased.
(more…)feminism
sabbatical project reading
If books are brilliant because they are full of wonder, consider how wonderful the bookshelf is. More than a tool—akin to how the book is more than a technology—the bookshelf organises reading, knowledge, and knowledge-making. It’s physically solid and has a comforting fixity. It’s movable, expandable, and contractable. It can be multiplied, encased, left to float on walls, become a room, be the base building block of a building. And still, a single shelf can be a library in its own right; and any horizontal surface can be a shelf, provided that it holds books.
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Juliet O’Brien 