Having lived for almost seven decades, death is not new to me. Each time someone I love dies, I am struck not just with overwhelming grief, but with the finality. The power of that finality staggers me every time. And . . .
I started dragging Cézanne
on Twitter—the bot posting
canvases, no discernible order—
about a year back, on his
birthday, which is my birthday,
making us each as earthy, as
stubborn, practical, not given
to extravagance, self-reliant,
detached, . . .
1. She tastes rocks. She works up north, near Svalbard, putting small rocks to her tongue. By taste she can identify which are calcified, which, in other words, are not mere rocks but possibly fossils. The country is old. There . . .
