Kanagaroo Paw - which I carried all over the market and then back to the apartment because my stepmom wanted to buy it for my dad. It's huge and beautiful and he loves it.
Compostable Spork
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also: rock climbing, gardening, foraging, dog-snuggling, writing stuff and occasional genetic engineering (she/her)
Library haul. I entirely blame the #sffbookclub for this. (Thank you! Can I get a snowday now to snuggle up and just read?)
Doggo so proud to be included with the big kids. "We're snuggling now, right?"
Lately, I've been doing this more than writing. (That's me trying to get my right toe onto a tiny hold, while barely touching the hold with my left hand. I fell a moment later. And again and again.)
Is writing gone from my life? I'm surprised but I feel much happier without it. These little mastodon scraps are oddly satisfying. Just *thinking* about writing - how I might structure what I want to say - feels enlightening. Feels like, right now, enough.
Went to the bookstore for valentine's day and found myself super turned off by the profusion of male authors. Figured this looked about perfect for where I'm at. The store clerk offered me a valentine and inside was a quote from nabokov. My partner quickly (wisely) swapped me for hers, which had maya angelou.