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They said the birds refused to sing and the thermometer fell suddenly, as if God Himself had His breath stolen away. No one there dared speak aloud, as much in shame as in sorrow. They uncovered the bodies one by one. The eyes of the dead were closed as if waiting for permission to open them. Were they still dreaming of ice cream and monkey bars? Of birthday cake and no future but the afternoon? Or had their innocence been taken along with their lives, buried in the cold earth so long ago? These fates seemed too cruel even for God to allow.

Or are the tragic young born again when the world's not looking? I want to believe so badly in a truth beyond our own, hidden and obscured from all but the most sensitive eyes. In the endless procession of souls...in what cannot and will not be destroyed. I want to believe we are unaware of God's eternal recompense and sadness. That we cannot see His truth. That that which is born still lives and cannot be buried in the cold earth, but only waits to be born again at God's behest, where in ancient starlight we lay in repose.

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Jason Isbell: Running with Our Eyes Closed (2023)

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Just found out I was thirsty not by receiving a signal from my body about it but by dozing off and dreaming about cold water from different alluring angles. This is great. I think all my wants and needs should be revealed to me this way

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why is religious Christmas imagery all so joyful and pleasant? where is the inherent horror of the birth of Christ? A mother is handed her newborn child, wailing and innocent. Her hands come away sticky. Red. Simply by giving her son life she has already killed him. He is doomed from the beginning. Her love will not save him from suffering. Because the thing cradled in her arms is not a baby, it is a sacrifice: born amongst the other bleating animals whose blood will one day be spilled in the name of what demands it. the night is silent with anticipation. Mary, did you know? That your womb was also a grave?

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Robert Macfarlane, The Wild Places

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Me/the student who’s submitted an AI draft for every essay this semester doing it one last time for their final paper

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Jerry Dennis, The Living Great Lakes

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Last pic is me squashing beef with the tree I fell out of when I was ten

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Pre-snow pre-winter creep is an underrated mini-season

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Really good timing with this post. Idiot

Cormac McCarthy, Cities of the Plain

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Cormac McCarthy, Cities of the Plain

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Mount Hood, Oregon by Jim and Nina Pollock

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🐺🌕

The Crossing, Cormac McCarthy // Of Wolves and Men, Barry Holstun Lopez // “Full Moon,” Robert Hayden

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Hal Borland’s Book of Days

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It seems simple because it is. And refusing to resolve on the assumed terms that there’s something wrong with me or how I live has been a big help in making the exercise feel worthwhile, useful. I aim myself in a direction rather than treating myself like an employee who must be monitored and measured. The result is that I do find myself making time for a few things that make me feel physically, mentally, or spiritually good. And I don’t have to track what I’m doing; at most, I glance at my desk corkboard and see my MORE list pinned there and remember that I should try to do xyz thing that week—not because I “resolved��� to, but because it’s something that I know I will feel better having done.