Some housekeeping: I’ll be moving this newsletter off of Substack. This isn’t my first platform switch - I’ve been in the game since the early days of tinyletter - and it probably won’t be the last. I’ve been actively looking to switch since at least the privacy fiasco and the commentary (to say nothing of the “business decisions”) from the Substack team haven’t changed my mind.
As part of this transition, the Substack incarnation of this newsletter will effectively if selectively 404 - you’ll have any of the missives you’ve received by email, of course, and for now you’ll still be able to access direct links to the entries if you were a paid or free subscriber as of this one. Once I’ve confirmed the new setup, I’ll delete this account entirely and those URLs will stop working.
Crucially, whether you’re a paid or free subscriber this shouldn’t change anything for you (though if you’re a power user of email filters then you may need to tweak those). I’ve spent enough time building and managing websites to know that there’s probably something I’m not thinking of, but I shall fight those gremlins when I get to them. Onward.
I reject pathetic fallacy except when the weather agrees with me.
Wore a fancy fascinator to a Zoom birthday party and wasn’t the only one. Attended my first Zoom baptism. To believe in ritual is to believe in the past and the future at once. What do we still believe, a year later?
This week has felt like a series of endings and a series of beginnings and I’m not sure I quite know which are which.
We’ve sprung forward, and now it’s still light outside.
I read Matthew Salesses Craft in the Real World in one sitting this weekend and highlighted every other page, or nearly. I still believe that some books (some music, some films, some games, some art, somee people) find you when you are ready for them.
What is the space between courage and recklesness and how do you know when you’re there?
A wise woman
once told me, don’t worry about you,
worry about who you could be.
I want to be the woman who sits
on a desk and writes pieces of oceans,
rivers on a white space in a place
where imagination has no border.
— from Truth is I would like to escape myself by Nour Al Ghraowi