She was always sending us loaves of her bread and every time she sent them off, she'd call at seven in the morning and talk for an hour. Graham bread. When it got moldy we used to call it Graham Green.
I've just read Ali Smith's introduction to the (surprisingly recent) English translation of Tove Jansson's Fair Play, which I suspect will be a new favorite. Among other things, it's about editing, in art and in life— an ongoing making and remaking of things, of days. An excerpt from the introduction: The book opens, then, on a simple… Continue reading ‘Fair Play’
I'm not sure when snowstorms became a thing to be numbered— they were fairly common as I grew up; happened rather regularly Upstate; had no names. Nonetheless, they do feel more fierce now than they did then. Then they were just snowfalls. Led to jolly fort-making or sledding. It all reminds me of Moominvalley, my… Continue reading Second storm of our current winter
Zac's contribution to the Museum, an excellent specimen of tintype in a pocket-frame I've been enjoying reading Cloud Atlas, by David Mitchell— "Then he asked, had it not been a seismic shock to be uprooted from Papa Song's and transplanted into Boom-Sook's lab? Didn't I miss the world I had been genomed for? I answered, fabricants… Continue reading Snufkin has broken camp