April ending, a list:
Painting a room in the house with the colour of pistachios, possibly the only kind of wall colour that doesn’t reflect back one’s feelings too unbearably
The local library booksale was cancelled; we didn’t know this part until we were standing outside the library and while we are here and speaking of libraries—
The poem ‘Sunday Drive’ by Kate Baer:
Planting in the garden alongside the three ancient apples: a pear tree, a plum, a thornless blackberry, two raspberries, a medlar, a magnolia, and the left-too-long-potted Japanese cedar for good measure
Giving blood, the suitability of my veins for the purpose commended by three different members of the NHS staff at various points along the way—rumour had spread by the time they actually attached me to a barcoded plastic bag and the nurse said oh wow yes you do have beautiful veins!
This painting by Sharon Champion, which I’ve also tucked into Nine Songs from Home:
On the first day of spring roughly 1.5 billion trees were flowering, and approximately this time three years ago
“How do the flowers know it’s night-time? Why is the moon everywhere?” and also “Its message: appreciate the people around you. Don’t re-plump their pillow until they return safely in the evening.” — Sara Baume, A Line Made by Walking
During the recent visit of a friend we go for an evening walk, still cold enough to warrant extra layers and hats, across the golf course and down to look at the river which is always there and which always knows which direction to move in. As we return home, the sky blackened with birds, I notice a tiny worm, perhaps three inches long but only a few millimeters wide, attempting to cross the pavement and somehow its tiny life feels so overwhelmingly important. Being as gently as possible I pick it up from the rough concrete, and it joins us on the last section of the walk in the half-light—the worm alternates between motionlessness and confused squirming, and this contrast becomes so unbearable that I have to run the last thirty meters in order to transfer it from my hands to the soil in our garden as quickly as possible
There was a single day warm enough to each lunch outside, I had waited all winter for that
I wait for you, you wait for me, always, to return safely and perhaps that is all we ever really need love to be—waiting for each other to return home safely
SIGNED BOOKS & ORIGINAL ARTWORK:
There is now a small collection of original drawings and paintings up on my site, others being added soon, along with various editions of my books—like Japanese, Italian, and German, Korean, Spanish, Vietnamese, and more. These copies are available signed or unsigned—in some cases I have just one or two copies, other times more.
I don’t make original work available very often, and I appreciate that purchasing artwork of this kind is not affordable—or desirable—to everybody, but it is nevertheless a good way to support my work. And in terms of the various book editions in their various languages, I’m pleased-relieved to finally have these all up—it has taken some amount of procrastination (i.e. years) to sort this out, but now here we all are, because books are not made to sit unread in boxes.
THIS WEEK I FELL IN LOVE WITH:
Pieces by American painter and textile artist Losel Yauch.
— Mohammed el-Kurd
(Actions for demanding a ceasefire in Palestine.)
Paid supporters of The Sometimes Newsletter receive several additional posts each month, including things like short stories, illustrated essays, and more detailed looks into creative processes. The most recent of these is an essay-list of sorts, Nine Songs from Home:
Nine Songs from Home
The first song, an inability to sleep peacefully. Where, normally and for the most part, a person might expect to fall asleep swiftly, calmly, with some satisfaction for the day which has come before, we find none of the above.
that poem 💔💔💔