The upside of a quiet weekend is ample time to think, the kind of loose thinking that occurs when one is being profoundly unproductive, when one should be studying for an investment exam but is instead looking up rough collies for adoption and reading a funny but poorly structured feminist memoir. The kind of thinking that occurs in those spaces.
I have been thinking about: how the Old Testament has become more difficult to me over time; Georgia the puppy; the anecdotal mystery of why you always see so many nurses out smoking; the appalling state of reproductive rights for women in the world, not to mention the United States; my siblings; other people’s siblings; more heartbroken, beloved friends; Anne Sexton; scars; the appalling state of the world in which teens are getting the majority of their sex education from porn; fonts; the virtue of getting to stay and not die.
And then I look up and see Guion, playing guitar, writing new songs, and I realize that we are inhabiting wholly different spaces. His mind is fully engaged, 5,000 miles away from mine, but we can stop, make eye contact, and then there we are, together; we meet each other again.
A peaceful, efficient weekend. Back to the book sale again; ran a lot of errands; Guion was on tour with Nettles, the Hill and Wood, and Camp Christopher in D.C. and Princeton. One of the highlights of the weekend was a photo session with the incredible Kristin Moore, who took us out to Chiles Peach Orchard in Crozet for a fun afternoon among the spooky/awesome dead trees. Kristin is so sweet and encouraging and she made us feel OK about being in front of the camera, despite our overwhelming awkwardness.
My paternal grandfather passed away this weekend. He was a happy man who flew helicopters and told jokes, but I did not know him very well. It is a strange feeling, to acknowledge that you feel so empty and detached about your grandfather’s death, but my heart is heavy for my father and his siblings. They feel something for him that I never got the chance to, and for that, I am sad. Rest in peace, Papa John.
Snax with a box of clementines, which are easily the main reason winter is passable:
Faroes. Good friend Ross McDermott went on an adventure to the mystical and hidden Faroe Islands and his photographs of the trip are just incredible. It looks like such an enchanted place; I want to go! (Ross McDermott’s Flickr)
Palmetto Bluff. Meredith visits this amazing inn in South Carolina. I’m a sucker for hanging moss; it makes me want to go read a dozen Eudora Welty stories. (Meredith Perdue)
Our Bella, Ourselves. As a self-respecting woman with a functional brain, I have a lot of disdain for all things Twilight. But this is a very interesting perspective on Bella Swan–the weak, useless, defenseless, and indecisive “heroine”–as a mirror of her fanbase. Teen girls love these books, because they see something of themselves in Bella. Sad, but maybe true? (The Hairpin)