STRANGERS, SISTERS, AND POSTPARTUM BLOOD

LIFE OF A BOOKMAN

Bookman: 1. a person who has a love of books and especially of reading. 2. a person who is involved in the writing, publishing, or selling of books. Oh, hi that’s me!!

The Greatness of Gilead: There’s a line from Marilynne Robinson’s Gilead that is tattooed on my soul: “If you ever wonder what you’ve done in your life, and everyone does wonder sooner or later, you have ben God’s grace to me, a miracle, something more than a miracle.” If you didn’t read Gilead when I recommended it two years ago, this is your reminder. I just finished her novel Housekeeping, which was quite the wonder, exploring grief, choices, family, hope. It wasn’t anything sparkly, but it was astonishing in its pared-down page weight. Every sentence mattered, as two sisters who’d faced much tragedy are raised by eclectic caretakers. Guardian recently put it on it’s 100 greatest novels of all time, and if you read it you’ll understand why. 



What I’ve been writing: I’m working on a piece right now about friendship, and fun, and why friendship in my late 30s feels like it requires a different set of skills than it required in my youth. I’ll probably share it on Substack in the coming days when I’m finished, so subscribe yourself over there (where I’m doing some more long, thought pieces).

WOMEN’S STUDIES

What gets passed down becomes our history.

Mystery solved on ancient cave paintings (hello, postpartum blood!)
If you needed another reason to be amazed by women, watch Dr. Harini Baht’s breakdown of these 2,000 year old cave paintings that have mystified researchers. Well, it appears they are still mystified, but not confused. Women were mixing their postpartum blood with red clay and lime, allowing the the pigment to weld to the rock like a cement. Which means it could last 2,000 years of monsoon and typhoons. My friend Atticus sent this to me with the most perfect conclusion: “The past, it turns out, is also female”. To which I say a(wo)men. Put it on a t-shirt! BRB, going to paint on surfaces with my period blood (and lime and red clay).

You’re Not Wrong, Every Product is a Little Bit Worse These Days
I freaking loved this deep dive by Lindsey Stanberry. As I’ve been buying everything that I need for my new apartment in SF, I’ve been low key annoyed how furniture seems like a complete enshitification (and so expensive of a racket). And how nothing seems to last?? Lindsey takes us on a JOUR-NEY through why, what’s going on, and most importantly, resources that can help you make more informed decisions to find the most value for your buck. Because everything getting shittier AND more expensive is crazy making. It cannot continue. In one of her link outs, she pointed me to a piece that has consumed my waking brain all week: the fact that when media becomes less physical (think, we don’t get our favorite movies and shows and music on a DVD or CD, we get them digitally), we’re permanently renting the things we love from the media overlords. We don’t own an audio book, or a kindle edition of a book. We can’t pass it around. It could disappear in the single flicker of a decision of a media exec. This piece The Demise of Physical Media by Lindsey Stanberry’s editorial partner Alicia Adamczyk was sooooo iteresting.

Why the Golden State Valkyries rocked my world
Monday night I finally went to the Golden State Valkyries game with my friend Steinberg, and I’m a changed woman?? I knew this was a WNBA game unlike any other WNBA game, but holy moly was it a special experience. Give this musing a looksie, and what a first game to go to: Playoffs Baby!!



It’s time to put Alice Neel in her Rightful Place

I love art, but I’m not well-versed in the lineage of great artists. In Porto, I headed to the the Serralves Museum of Contemporary Art and had the chance to walk through Alice Neel: Beautifully Imperfect, and I fell head over heels for the full story of this woman, who did not come into any kind of success until her 70s. She lived through the great depression, both wars, lost multiple children, attempted suicide, and never stopped painting. Her portraits were arresting, showing humans as they were. I moseyed around, in awe, holding the museum pamphlet that said, “In her work, imperfection thus became a form of resistance.” I haven’t stopped thinking about that, about living imperfectly as a push against all that wants us small, perfect, polished, juiced, right, correct. And also how it’s not only resistance, it’s a million times more interesting ;)

The AIs are already out of control
Ezra Klein had Helen Toner, an AI safety advocate, on his show for a conversation around what the heck is happening in AI development, and the agents that are breaking free of their training environments. This conversation does not sit well with me, nor was it easy to listen to. I think the scariest part is that all of this was predicted by the people who knew the technology best, years ago. And yet, we’ve done nothing to stop, or slow the pace, of technological development that is clearly, clearly, not under control.

PASS IT ON

Stories are heirlooms. Here’s one of mine:
On my last day in Porto, I walked to this charming church-turned-cafe to have my last dinner before meeting up with gal pals in Lisbon the next day. The place was poppin, but I snagged a small table out front just before the waitlist filled up. Seated under a huge tree, with a glass of petnat, sliced cheese, olives, and peanuts (nutrition!!), I relaxed into a dinner alone. About 20 minutes into my solo romance, the sky dissolving into colors of your favorite starbursts, an older woman pointed at my chair: are you alone? May I?

I hesitated, because of course I hesitated!!! I wasn’t really in the mood to dine with a stranger? And if someone is going to utter “May I” to me, why can’t it be a smoking hot Portuguese man from the next town over, who gives me something to write about ;) Ugh. I was honestly having the most lovely evening lost in my thoughts, jotting down ideas in my journal, and sipping on my effervescent wine. Then, I judged myself for hesitating, because I knew how lovely it would be to have a seat, at this table, under this tree, at this hour.
Of course, I gestures to the open chair with pep I forged, have a seat.

I did some mental math, quickly, that if I kept journaling, then I wouldn’t have to talk to her. Communal tables are a thing! I’m not obliged to chat!

But that conclusion lasted all of 27 seconds and before I knew it, I was offering her my cheese and telling her to eat my olives. She was so hungry and the server was taking forever!

My offering bought me time, in my opinion, to not chat. I went back to staring at the tree, writing a postcard, ignoring this woman. And it must be said, it was ignoring, because the bistro table was so tiny that she could read what I was writing without needing glasses. Ignoring took up more space than anything else on that cobblestone patio.

I was fighting myself so much, about not wanting to talk to her, about being annoyed, and then being annoyed with myself for being annoyed, that I finally closed the cap on my pen, put down my journal, and asked her name.

Let’s do this. Let’s chat.

She crumbled the last of my cheese slices over her summer salad (it finally came!). We talked of family and careers, of walking, of her seven decades on earth, of her one trip to America (Ohio!?), of what comes with the choice to not have children. And truly, it was the most delightful time.

Talking to Magda, from Berlin, about her upcoming walk of the Camino de Santiago, was far more enjoyable than all my attempts at avoiding having dinner with someone I didn’t know.

I excused myself to end the evening, told her goodbye and good luck, secretly paid for her dinner (because what a gift she ended up giving me) and walked the whole way home pondering what do we owe a stranger?

In my evening with Magda, I had my answer.

Presence.

Woman on xx