three dots …



It makes me glad to hear pumpkin seeds pop as they toast in the oven.


As I was reading my book last night – namely the novel Ancillary Justice by Ann Leckie, – I came across a familiar-looking song, sung by the protagonist, Breq, to herself as she ventures off on a daring mission:

This blog is an exercise in vanity.

Vanitas vanitatum!

This is my favourite sentence that starts with ‘and’:

Or else there might be a drug in the laurel that could have produced such an Apollonian effect. To test this, I have crushed laurel leaves and smoked quantities of them in a pipe and felt somewhat sick but no more inspired than usual. And chewed them as well for over an hour, and very distinctly felt more and more Jaynesian, alas, than Apollonian.
— Julian Jaynes, The Origin of Consciousness in the Breakdown of the Bicameral Mind (Mariner Books, 1990), 323.

Whenever I open up and rinse a can of chickpeas, I find myself idly picking one up and with two fingers swiftly slipping off its transparent skin—

I have a great love of editing. Semicolon—
or m-dash? Too many syllables? Too languid?
too clipped? One sentence twisting, another
straight-ahead. Warp; point; zig; zag. I once
dropped my house-keys such that they fell
between the boards of the front porch:
I rescued them with a bent coat-hanger.

In which I reflect upon the inciting incident in my relationship with oomancy.

For the first time in my life, the nearest body of water to where I live (ignoring little ponds and the like) is artificial rather than natural.


This city is a strange place—so much of it is paved.

The trees here—it must be lonely for them, not being in a forest; stretching their roots out and finding soil compacted by cement, soil sparse of arboreal conversation.


I used to be able to make purple sparks shoot from my fingertips. I just had to snap my fingers at just the right angle, with just the right force, when the humidity was just right, when my hair was tied up in a bun in just the right way …


I was bored this afternoon, so I ate a raw clove of garlic.

That’s all.

Whatever is nec­es­sary that such dance par­ties as that of last night should hap­pen again—that’s what mat­ters to me.


I made a remark shortly after I came in the door—paraphrased from David Lebovitz—about the state of the Parisian baguette: Emma is this moment recording it in her quote-book. I am flattered.