> 172: The era of vibes, kindness logs, send a potato
They gave the T. Rex a lil jumper
Hi. If you've subscribed to this newsletter for a while you know that I put together a list at the end of each year of the stuff that resonated with me the most from the past 12 months—the stuff I find myself still thinking about or coming back to. I'll share my list next week, in the last 2021 edition of this newsletter, and would also love to hear what resonated with you. I'll circulate some of your thoughts here next week.
In the meantime, here's some art, ideas, and internet for you:
"When I had to have a baby before I was ready to, it felt as if my family was saying to me: Your time’s up. On to the next. Be the vessel, open your body and give us something more valuable than you. No one asked if I was ready to be a mother or a wife. No one asked if I was ready to disappear." If I could make everyone in the United States read an essay it would be this one, especially in light of the imminent demise of abortion rights here.
Olivia Rodrigo's Tiny Desk Concert is so good, location and all.
"At some point during the course of 2021, the word 'vibe' became utterly ubiquitous. I tried to count but would lose track of how often it was deployed in conversations with friends. I couldn’t stop myself from using it, either, the way you can’t stop yourself from yawning after someone else does. It caught on like the Strasbourg dancing plague of 1518, spreading long past the point of semantic satiation. What did it mean? What didn’t it mean?"
This is such a nice gift idea from the New York Public Library: Dedicate a book in circulation to a loved one. Or send them a potato with their face on it. The universe is a rich tapestry.
Kindness logs and Min Jin Lee on kindness: "I do find that the more you do it—the kinder you are—the easier it gets."
I hope Billie Eilish's "same interview, different year" series continues forever as a tiny Michael Apted-esque life-charting project.
"People who actually like your jobs: What do you do?"
There sat down, once, a thing on Henry’s heart
só heavy, if he had a hundred years
& more, & weeping, sleepless, in all them time
Henry could not make good.
Starts again always in Henry’s ears
the little cough somewhere, an odour, a chime.
And there is another thing he has in mind
like a grave Sienese face a thousand years
would fail to blur the still profiled reproach of. Ghastly,
with open eyes, he attends, blind.
All the bells say: too late. This is not for tears;
thinking.
But never did Henry, as he thought he did,
end anyone and hacks her body up
and hide the pieces, where they may be found.
He knows: he went over everyone, & nobody’s missing.
Often he reckons, in the dawn, them up.
Nobody is ever missing.—"Dream Song 29," John Berryman
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Bye,
Laura