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it was george eliot who said

In 100, by Nora on July 22, 2020 at 9:04 am

we could never have loved the earth so well if we had had no childhood in it, if it were not the earth where the same flowers come up again every spring that we used to gather with our tiny fingers as we sat lisping to ourselves on the grass, the same hips and haws on the autumn hedgerows, the same redbreasts that we used to call ‘God’s birds’ because they did no harm to the precious crops. What novelty is worth that sweet monotony where everything is known and loved because it is known?

And each home-flight-return it’s clearer.

Morning Thoughts

In by Gracie on July 20, 2020 at 11:04 am

Lying in bed, drinking sweet honey

Reminding myself why to do the work, not for them! 

Avoiding associating with the undesirables in my own mind is work enough. 

So I stay here, respite. Until growing for the benefit of my own present begins to make enough sense. 

I think towards anger, confidence, suffering.

Anger is a dream expression.

Confidence is more than slinking on a panther’s skin but less effort than being the panther itself. 

Suffering is choosing to take medicine that was never prescribed to you, to numb it. 

Can’t it wait until morning? 

I answer, It’s morning now.

escalante

In 100, by Nora on July 9, 2020 at 10:47 am

snaking dust-warm slot canyons to make richard serra jealous, pictographs, jumping sweaty into frigid lakes, scrabbling on slickrock, underwhelming driveway fireworks and benignly restrictive utah liquor laws, an oblong, yellow moonrise over sagey breeze, like a huge plate rising over the edge of the horizon, obliterating the gathering dusting of stars, greedily but evenly shared plates on a dark porch, music tinnily intruding from a spotifying cracked iphone, dusty legs on creaky floorboards and papery-thin cottons thrown over sun-warmed arms in a lazy attempt at shielding from the finally-cooling air, shivery rustles through the brush and grasses, bees now silent. 

currently

In 100, by Nora on July 8, 2020 at 10:44 am

sitting on a shady porch in the lazy-warm sage-imbued breeze, looking at an absurd set of burnished and crumbling rock formations mesa-ing into the distance, monumental and wise but also constantly changing, bare, teva-imprinted sun-drenched feet, scrapes and bruises happily reminding my body of long childhood summers, when looking at plants and stars and bugs took up maybe 40% of my time; my laptop tries not to spoil the effect, obsequiously offering Google Sheets, wikipedia, and metmuseum.org, as I compile a presentation about a convertible 18th-century walking stick/flute/oboe, an instrument for aristocratic pleasure gardens (ones so unlike my own, current one).

all the way west

In 100, by Nora on July 1, 2020 at 12:43 pm

it’s the second half of the day so i’m facing the sun, and when it dips between the cotton-candy-colored crenellated eaves and crinolined crests of bush and divis and golden gate, it glances off that supposed-to-be-covered bottom half of my face. i trail it, trace it, whether it knows it or not. i follow it into the redolent park, where it counterintuitively hides itself behind towering, alien eucalypta dripping with microclimate nasturtia, berries winking to burst. pleasant-surprise sand makes the shady path slower and softer, and when i find the sun again i’m at the end. all the way west.