No.270
Drafting an overdue edition of ‘Root Catalog’, sitting cross-legged in a rocking chair (the first chair I bought for myself as an adult, carried in its dismantled state between various homes), and thinking about coatings on things, coatings of place and people and time, and the fact that we often don’t stop to think about what we have become coated in. The cumulative effect of the various coatings can probably look like heaviness, frustration, fatigue, but also like promises and sureness and direction. I am currently coated in uncertainty and a slight chill.
I think about the cooling autumn temperatures and the very physical coating which comes with them—more layers, more layers still, perpetual cold—which means we don’t really see our bodies in the northern hemisphere so much, variously encased as they are in wool or cotton or feathers or waterproofs. I wonder whether the southern hemisphere knows its bodies better.
The below illustration, included in my new book Words to Love a Planet (March 24th 2026), turned out to be an unintentional but accurate depiction of how I could easily choose to spend most of a winter (glazed-over and looking at the moon) and of how much space the dark can take up. The small sources of light which keep a person hopeful despite the 3pm gloaming, despite the sun not feeling like it contains any real warmth until April, despite the garden losing almost all of its green.
I finish writing the column and then immediately add twelve more things to the list to seemingly mark that item’s completion: pick up medication, get groceries for dinner, clean the house, meet for lunch, paint the shed, water the plants with nematodes, ride the bicycle next to loch, pack a bag or two, drive to an airport, etc.
In the last newsletter I had mentioned having done away with writing lists and noted one of the the systems which replaced that—namely incentivising myself to get things done with the promise of baths—but scarcely a week following this mention several overlapping deadlines for various things got the better of everything and I found myself writing a list for one day in particular, then the following day, and then every day since then. It would seem the lists have returned, out of necessity and a little overwhelm. I plan to accept the lists without question, and wonder if I write lists in the same way that I speak, as a person recently told me that I speak how I write, or write the same way I speak, or something.
This week in town, approaching the post office clutching two medium-sized parcels, I see a woman on the inside approaching the door and linger so as to let her leave before I crash inelegantly through with my burden, but she has seen me too, and holds the door open while I say thank you and mumble, to which she replies “You’ve got a big parcel, I’ve only got two noodle pots!” and this declaration turns out to be all I need to sustain myself for the rest of the day.
THIS WEEK I FELL IN LOVE WITH:
The photography of Myriam Meloni, a French-Italian documentary photographer working between Spain and Morocco.
It’s exactly the time of year at which everything is mustard-crested. It’s the most absolute of autumns.
— Sara Baume, Spill Simmer Falter Wither
Again and for however long necessary: (Actions for demanding a Free Palestine and an end to genocidal occupation.) / (Reading list for a Free Palestine.) / (Postcards for Palestine, free PDF downloads.) / (Send a physical postcard demanding an end to UK arms sales.) / (Ten free ebooks for getting free from Haymarket Books.) Also: (Support verified Sudanese support campaigns.)
Paid supporters of The Sometimes Newsletter will (sometimes) receive one or two additional pieces each month, including things like short stories, illustrated mini essays, and more detailed looks into creative processes. The most recent of these being:
Conference of Birds
This morning, while I’m in the middle of putting on a delicates laundry cycle, you shout to me quickly quickly come now there is a bird of prey eating a pigeon in our garden and so—still without my glasses on, it’s only 8:30am—I scarper and slide across the wooden floors to retrieve binoculars and then slowly approach the bedroom window.