It’s hard for a lot of us to write because — well — why bother? As the country crumbles and the ugly fascists lay waste and the appeasers make excuses, as the silent civil war progresses, as tens of thousands of children die and now starve in a cruel exchange for the random killing of evil men, as those who think this is justified walk around my neighborhood, practice their religion with impunity, as people “disappear” into prisons, and a dead woman lies in a Georgia hospital incubating a fetus for the State, why bother digging into one’s own interior life or even try to make sense of the workings of the tiny little mother mind™ as it tries to discern the reasons for Sophie’s dystonia and how to keep going in this dystopia? It knows very little but that jacaranda tree across the street — a child’s drawing, an hallucination of purple — is a delight.
What keeps coming to mind: “What has been will be again, what has been done will be done again; there is nothing new under the sun." Ecclesiastes 1:9
A poem I read this week and loved: “Wreck” by Stefania Gomez
What I’m reading and re-reading:
A Farewell to Arms by Ernest Hemingway Faithfull: An Autobiography by Marianne Faithfull The Book of Love by Kelly Link
What I listen to whenever I’m feeling despair about certain things:
XOXOXOXOXOXO I am reading Doppelganger by Naomi Klein and entranced. Not depressing. Maybe I've already encouraged you to read this book....
My elderberry is magnificent in full flower.
Love you,
Thank you 🧡