Oh my good gracious. Some whales are 200 years old. I can’t even.
Monthly Archives: April 2013
Today I read:
We walk on air, Watson.
There is only the moon, embalmed in phosphorus.
There is only a crow in a tree. Make notes.
— Sylvia Plath, “The Detective“
Instead of talking about the rollercoaster of my day, I give you Newspaper Blackout, Austin Kleon’s blog of erasure poetry ripped, as they say, from the headlines.
Just FYI, there are only four days remaining to help fund the excellent forest memory exhibition I’ll be taking part in this June. If you’re interested in trees, cultural geography, memory and book arts (among other things), please consider chipping in to help Amy defray the costs of mounting the exhibition.
Here’s my revelation about The Great Gatsby, on the third or fourth rereading of it:
This is realism written like surrealism. It’s so alive to strangeness, but what’s strange about it is nothing beyond the realm of possibility, not even anything particularly out of the ordinary (OK, well, with the exception of the extreme extravagance). And yet it’s so, so weird. There’s nothing perfunctory about this, nothing taken for granted, no obligation to comply to the drudgery of expected interactions. Everything is highly idiosyncratic, and that’s what makes it seem real, but also what makes it seem unreal at the same time.
I know everybody loves this book, but, man, I love this book.
I think I’ll save a full write-up until the show is finished, but I have to say I feel like I’ve been waiting for The Bletchley Circle my whole life.
It’s about a group of female codebreakers in post-WWII Britain solving serial murders. This is absolutely everything I love — feminism, friendship, mystery, period drama, cryptanalysis. I just — I can’t even. I’m so in love. The only problem I foresee is that there are only three episodes.
Today I read:
Where we live, the skies are heavy with sleep. Sometimes high-flying jets come down encrusted with it, like bees dusted with pollen. Fielded by Midas and thrown home, how beautiful these shining apparitions are. They roll unsteadily to a stop, transformed into fairy-tale coaches. A crack opens, a patch of golden coral swings aside, stairs descend, and then the baffled pilot emerges like a new Aphrodite from a peculiar Edenic shell.
— Shelley Jackson, “Sleep“