inbox.

I’ve developed a certain tenderness for the glitch: the riddled, dysfunctional thing that evades the conditions of what might be expected and what might be known, rupturing unfamiliar territories, or maybe a glimpse into a second reality that has been there all along

It’s a bit like dreaming, which is always a bit like remembering.

Sleep is fine (but it has to be “productive” deep sleep, no naps!!); self-care is fine (so long as it also involves buying things, resisting aging, etc. etc.); exercise is great (disciplining and regimenting the body). But truly doing nothing, not even birding, not even gentle walking, not even organizing , where’s the moral value in that?

If you observe a sabbath, this feeling is not unfamiliar. You are well-acquainted with what others think of as the awkward restraints of just being . You understand its essential, restorative purpose — and marvel at others’ allergy to it. Why are we so terrified of stillness? To be still is an invitation to reckon with our smallness, our powerlessn