Observation

Reading fiction for pleasure -- as opposed to reading it for professional purposes -- calms me down. I spend most of my time feeling too stressed-out to recall this important fact. When I finally remember to sit down with a book, though, it works like a charm.

Post-Post-It

This Post-It I wrote months ago with the intention of transcribing its contents just materialized on the desk in my office. So I'm going to transcribe it:

Remembering my mom, standing at the window between the kitchen hallway + living room in Pennsylvania, doodling on paper as she talked on the phone.

My childhood home was built around a half-timbered cabin from the early 1700s. The original structure became the living room after various additions were added over the next two centuries. The "window" I refer to was one of the log cabin's windows. Our only phone downstairs was perched in the ledge of that window. My mom was always doodling when she was on it, usually intricate patterns in blue ballpoint pen, sometimes with her half-cursive signature appended. The finished product fascinated me when I was small. If you were in our kitchen hallway looking towards the living room, you'd see the half-timbered construction. It was strange, having an exterior wall inside our house. I could never forget that it was put together in stages. Maybe that's why I'm so attentive to the overlap between spatial and temporal articulations.