> 178: The footing is ambiguous
“They Call Me Redbone but I’d Rather Be Strawberry Shortcake,” Amy Sherald
Hi,
I intended to send out this newsletter last week, but then two things happened: Our internet went out for two days, and I finally got COVID (heard of it?). I took it as a sign that delay was okay. I hope you're staying healthy in this strange late-summer surge we're having. Pandemics: I'm over them. Here's some art, ideas, and internet for you:
"I think writer's block is an umbrella term for a series of very different pains. There's the biggest one, the writer's block that comes from a fear of imperfection, which can be combatted by a writer carefully training herself to let her work be messy and impermanent...Then there's the writer's block that comes from being impatient with your work and not allowing it the time it needs to develop; if you long so much for publication and external ratification, your work can sense it and it will turn catlike and perverse and desert you. And there's the Writer's Block that's actually the canary toppling over in the coalmine, the way that your work is telling you that you're going down the wrong path and you need to reconsider some larger issues." Lauren Groff on writer's block.
I'm getting significantly less junk mail since I followed some instructions I linked in a past newsletter (and here's the link again). None of this is sponsored, I just want all of us to get less (bad) mail.
Can we talk about the Diamond Kosher rebranding?
With climate change escalating, where's a safe and stable place to live? Wherever you can join, or build, a strong community, says Bill McKibben. I also enjoyed his recent conversation with Chris Hayes.
Oh no: I found French Zillow.
Knuckle tattoo generator; Werner Herzog recites AI poetry.
Stuff I've cooked lately and appreciated: Deb Perelman's corn butter farro and rigatoni with eggplant puree, meatballs with peaches, basil and lime; gnocchi with tomato and red onion; tomato tonnato; everything I've made from Molly Baz's "Cook This Book;" coffee in a Moka pot.
Following on the above: Did we all know about pre-packaged, shelf-stable gnocchi? This stuff is great. It's basically pasta but even less effort, and it's potatoes so it goes with everything, and you can have a weekday dinner done in like 20 minutes.
I didn't love the film adaptation of Red White & Royal Blue but I did love this tweet and this article about it and this question: "Why are we spending time on these tedious hunks when the most suspenseful thing about the movie is how President Uma Thurman will pronounce any given word?" Sometimes art that doesn't really work can be more fun than art that does (and I loved RW&RB the book).
Feeling weird about: Soon outliving Elvis.
Looking forward to: Zadie Smith's new novel; the forthcoming movie Bottoms, ft. the internet's girlfriend Ayo Edebiri; Stephen Fry hosting the British Jeopardy; more of this season's already-intriguing Only Murders in the Building ft. Paul Rudd.
Wet things smell stronger,
and I suppose his main regret is that
he can sniff just one at a time.
In a frenzy of delight
he runs way up the sandy road—
scored by freshets after five days
of rain. Every pebble gleams, every leaf.When I whistle he halts abruptly
and steps in a circle,
swings his extravagant tail.
The he rolls and rubs his muzzle
in a particular place, while the drizzle
falls without cease, and Queen Anne’s lace
and Goldenrod bend low.The top of the logging road stands open
and light. Another day, before
hunting starts, we’ll see how far it goes,
leaving word first at home.
The footing is ambiguous.Soaked and muddy, the dog drops,
panting, and looks up with what amounts
to a grin. It’s so good to be uphill with him,
nicely winded, and looking down on the pond.A sound commences in my left ear
like the sound of the sea in a shell;
a downward, vertiginous drag comes with it.
Time to head home. I wait
until we’re nearly out to the main road
to put him back on the leash, and he
—the designated optimist—
imagines to the end that he is free.—"After an illness, walking the dog," by Jane Kenyon
Bye,
Laura