On Keeping a Plant Alive Out of Spite
The fern was supposed to die within a month. It is still alive, entirely, I suspect, because I refuse to let it prove me right.
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A review of a new biography that treats its subject's discarded drafts as more honest than any of her finished books.
The fern was supposed to die within a month. It is still alive, entirely, I suspect, because I refuse to let it prove me right.
Every line here was lifted from a real almanac, rearranged but never rewritten - the found poem as a way of listening to the past on its own terms.
She has spent thirty years putting broken windows back together, and says the actual skill is knowing which cracks to leave alone.
From subculture toward culture. From identity toward practice. From proclamation toward evidence. From talking about the Work toward doing the Work.
Before the smartphone, an army of telephone operators quietly invented the etiquette of instant connection we still live inside today.