1. Two lovely things about tonight

    1. Rain on the sky light
    2. My sister, home

     

  2. Two things better experienced than described

    The tick of a wood stove heating
    The hum of a sailboat sailing

     

  3. At Least a Mile

    A car drives by and I can hear the bass, feel the bass for a mile. We think we don’t emit beyond arms length, but there’s at least a mile.

     
  4.  

  5. "This is how I thought of it, for though I’ve often lost faith in myself, I’ve never lost it in my family, in my certainty that we are fundamentally better than everyone else. It’s an archaic belief, one that I haven’t seriously reconsidered since my late teens, but still I hold it. Ours is the only club I’d ever wanted to be a member of, so I couldn’t imagine quitting."
     
  6. Distressed bike panniers are distressed. (at Anderwood East)

     

  7. The night I spent reading the decor.

    When I was 15 or so I babysat once or twice for a family I didn’t know very well. One night after the kids had gone to bed I sat in the living room and picked up an old book sitting on a side table. A romance novel from the 1950s, similar to a stack I had at home. I was probably a quarter through it by the time the parents came home.

    "Oh," said the mother when she saw what I was reading. "I have no idea what that book is." She seemed embarrassed, as though she was worried the book might be in some way inappropriate. That was confusing, and embarrassing for me, because it had just been sitting on their side table. Then she said, "It’s just for decoration."

    It was a jarring experience because I, at 15, was familiar with far more fictional characters from books than actual people from real life. It seemed like setting out a plate of very real, delicious cookies, only as decoration.

     

  8. Before I Fall Completely for the Kindle, 12 Points for the Book:

    1. Books require resources and energy in production and delivery, while ebooks require resources and energy every single time they’re read.
    2. Books can be shared, easily and legally.
    3. Books can be touched and smelled, marked and changed in a tangible way.
    4. Books make rooms feel like places.
    5. Books fall apart (I like things that can disintegrate). 
    6. A well-made, well-cared for book can last centuries.
    7. Books are biodegradable. 
    8. Books can be browsed on library shelves.
    9. Books can be misplaced on library shelves, both irksome and serendipitous.
    10. Books can be stacked.
    11. It’s impossible to accidently leave an entire library of books on an airplane.
    12. Books can be stacked on shelves in a library and lent out, which requires going to a library, which requires human contact (a good thing).
     

  9. "Love liberates. It doesn’t bind. Love says. ‘I love you. I love you if you’re in China. I love you if you’re across town. I love you if you’re in Harlem. I love you. I would like to be near you. I’d like to have your arms around me. I’d like to hear your voice in my ear. But that’s not possible now. So I love you. Go.’"
    — Maya Angelou (via thatkindofwoman)

    (Source: jordanboboltz, via thatkindofwoman)

     
  10. 1 very giggly sister.

     
  11. Pallets and plywood.

     
  12.  

  13. Mangle Irons

    While backpacking through Norway one summer while I was in college, I worked for room and board at a hostel in Oslo. I washed a lot of windows, organized a small, full-to-the-brim closet, and discovered mangle irons.

    In my memory, the iron is a massive, thundering machine that could take an entire bed sheet (single), no folds.

    Sometimes I dream about it.

    I’m not the only one who fantasizes about mangle irons: http://www.remodelista.com/posts/the-mangle-rotary-iron

     
  14. Goodness.

     

  15. Planning Stages/Middle Stages

    I feel like I’m in the middle of writing a story. When everything is jumbled up and so many things are yet unknown and all the known pieces are lying there in disarray.

     

    We leave in less than three weeks, my sister and I. We have our bikes, most of our clothes, the promise of a euro phone from our brother. We have paychecks coming in, counted on. We have beeswax, two pounds of it, in hand, waiting to be melted, mixed with paraffin, painted on as-yet-unmade panniers, and heated back to melting point, facilitating its absorption into the canvas. Thus waterproofing, or at least making water resistant, our bicycle bags.

    Pieces, lying in disarray.

    Today we drove four hours to buy the wax. After hours and hours of trying to salvage what we thought would give us pounds of the stuff but turned out to be too old, too wrong stuff.

    I’m sure we’ll run into more of this—more wrong turns, mistakes, efforts yielding little visible results. I am trusting that this is faithfulness in small things. Trusting that even through the efforts toward nothing, or very little, some character is built, something is learned, some good thing comes of it.

     

    It’s frustrating to be in this middle place—and a middle place before even beginning. We put pieces together every day, some small piece here, some larger section of pieces there. Soon we will cut actual pieces of fabric and sew them together, another piece, fitted together.

    Frustrating, but good. I love this frustration. This working out of what goes where—the putting in place the narrative, the line, the link, the thread that connects the beginning and the end.