At the bar, dumping out dozens of years-old Coke and Sprite cans, most of which had, by some bizarre alchemy, emptied themselves. Pouring the brown, Chicago River foam-esque sludge of whatever remained down the sewer drain.
The beautiful essay about “crip time” by Ellen Samuels (via my friend Jason): “When disabled folks talk about crip time, sometimes we just mean that we’re late all the time.… Other times … we mean, as my friend Margaret Price explains, we live our lives with a ‘flexible approach to normative time frames’ like work schedules, deadlines, or even just waking and sleeping. … I have embraced this beautiful notion for many years, living within the embrace of a crip time that lets me define my own ‘normal.’ And yet recently I have found myself thinking about the less appealing aspects of crip time, that are harder to see as liberatory, more challenging to find a way to celebrate.”
Basil munching bugs out of the air with the precision of a frog.
How Casey’s mom and aunt can send photos to their dad’s home via a wifi-enabled digital picture frame. Imagining the sweet Black Mirror-esqueness of that: your children are on vacation, and their vacation photos magically show up on your mantle every day.
How looking into any body of water — even a Great Lake — is freaky, evokes Jaws-style fears, because every shadow of every wave seems like the silhouette of a just-about-to-breach creature.
From far away on the water, watching a kid run down a large dune, like an ant on a sand pile.
The clouds moving slowly behind the dunes, at their same level, giving the impression they were a great white glacier moving along.
How I’ve always wanted a small boat, but after this great inflatable paddleboard excursion, maybe a paddleboard would be enough?
How being at the beach, more than any other physical activity, makes me feel grateful for my health. It’s the sunny, lake-soaked, totally active feeling of being on the beach that I remember when I’m sick or freezing…
E. B. White in his essay “My Day”: “A man sometimes gets homesick for the loneliness that he has at one time or another experienced in his life and that is a part of all life in some degree, and sometimes a secluded and half-mournful yet beautiful place will suddenly revive the sensation of pain and melancholy and unfulfillment that are associated with that loneliness, and will make him want to seize it and recapture it; but I know with me it is a passing want and not to be compared with my taste for domesticity, which is most of the time so strong as to be overpowering.”
In another essay, E. B. White accounting for the true cost of an egg produced on his farm, just as Noah Kalina did for his own chickens in his newsletter a few months ago.
Two kites: one stuck in a tree, another (a red squid) tied to a beach info sign, flying there in the sky all day with no one tending to it.
E. B. White in “Freedom,” an essay about the gross, allegedly good-natured acceptance of Fascism he heard brewing on the street in New York in 1940: “I just want to tell, before I get slowed down, that I am in love with freedom … and that I am deeply suspicious of people who are beginning to adjust to fascism and dictators merely because they are succeeding in war. From such adaptable natures a smell rises. I pinch my nose.”