Been “back on my bullshit” (as @edanlepucki says on @momragepodcast), holed up away from home to work, by myself in my thoughts (a dangerous place to spend time?), sleeping like the dead or not sleeping well at all, grateful for @jbattilana’s cacio e pepe recipe and the easy availability of Double Dark Chocolate Milano cookies. This afternoon I went into town for more cookies, sparkling water, lettuce, spaghetti, and the sight of other humans, and while I was there I came upon two great blue herons arguing over a floating log on Saratoga Passage. There are worse things to fight over, no? Wanted to say hi.
2018 was a year of library-going, a year when I read more books - felt more eager to learn from them, more able to absorb - than I had in ages. Inspired by @wednesdaychef, today I made a list of what I read this year (the ones I remember reading, anyway). I loved many, in different ways, but the ones that most stuck with me are CMBYN, Vanishing Twins, The Neapolitan Novels (💥), Pachinko, and The Left Hand of Darkness. Thank you, @seattlepubliclibrary.
Last week my mom unearthed and brought over this xeroxed page from the National Catholic Reporter, dated May 25, 1990, with an article about her parents, my Nanny and Grampy, Elaine and Joe Mack. June has been fascinated for a while by all things Nanny - whom she and her cousins know as Grand-Nan - and when she saw the article on the counter, she asked me to read it aloud. We sat down at the table, and I started in, and I made it to the paragraph you see at the bottom of the third photo before the tears arrived. “Mama, why does it sound like you’re crying?” she asked, and I looked up and said, “Because I am,” and we laughed a little and talked some more, and she rubbed my shoulder, and I rubbed her shoulder, and I hope I remember it for a long long time.
Sixteen years this morning, and I miss him more today than I have in a long time. But it feels right, like I have more space for a hard luxury like grief, the ability to feel it and withstand it. He was worth it.
Fell away recently from posting so much here and am finding that it feels good to keep things to myself, in my own head, though in this weird age of ours, it feels oddly... unfriendly? Antisocial? Impermanent? Apolitical? BTW is there ANYTHING more painfully earnest than musing about social media on social media?
1. My teenage poetess self needed this passage 2. My teenage poetess self would have felt that this passage did not apply to her 3. My now-self is like my teenage poetess self in a lot of ways but she’s going to xerox this page and wallpaper her entire fucking house with it 4. Thank you, Verlyn Klinkenborg - and thank you, @ciaosamin, for mentioning this book in your Acknowledgments, which made me go out and buy it