Dead Letter Department #28
(did you miss dead letter department #27? read about Anne Rice, Belinda & unhinged attachment to insects here!)
weather report
This is embarrassing, but I genuinely thought the heron rookery I’d heard people talk about was just another on-paper-only landmark, like when a row of indistinguishable houses is called Elk Grove but there are no elks whatsoever to be seen & haven’t been for a hundred years. Turns out the rookery is a real place, and I accidentally discovered it this weekend when I was wandering down a trail head I’d never explored before. At first I was mostly distracted by adorable dogs, but when I realized the trail went farther than I thought I asked a couple other walkers & they stopped to explain that it went down to a meadow for off leash shenanigans & up to Arroyo Park but also—
“Down to the heron rookery!” the guy said excitedly. “Past the wastewater facility, and all the way to the beach.”
Well, my good stranger, you had me at rookery. I wasn’t expecting anything too dramatic—bird people tend to get adorably enthused about distant blobs I can sort of see if I squint—but the herons are actually incredible. They always remind me viscerally of dinosaurs, too ancient & enormous & strange to really still be around, especially when they make weird startled squawks, or take off unexpectedly close with a flap of tremendous wings.
They seemed to be nest building, perching in twos and threes on top of bristling stick constructions, soaring off to collect building materials & then wafting back down to wedge twigs in at very specific angles. Wikipedia tells me the males return to the colony first to start rebuilding last year’s nests, so I think I might have been watching a bunch of hopeful would-be fathers doing a bit of home improvement to improve their chances of successfully raising a family. Which of course reminds me of this:
Kasia Babis
career center
I watched an old Poirot recently—not one of the new Kenneth Braunaugh ones (abominable mustache)—but the real Monsieur Poirot (perfect mustache), played by David Suchet with his finicky little walk & bafflingly gentle treatment of the underdog, even when she’s a killer. If I decide to kick this whole writing business to the curb, I’m going to audition as a detective’s sidekick & I frankly think I’ve got the perfect qualifications:
*head empty but delighted to hear other people be smart
*genuinely appreciate various eccentricties
*prone to summarizing plot points after everyone else has figured them out
*zero ability to solve puzzles and discover clues, am therefore easily impressed
*supportive
*have a driver’s license & reliable transportation
*slow walker, allowing the detective to either bustle mincingly or sweep in front of me to dramatic, coat-swirling effect
*love to gossip
*poor memory, allowing for dramatic retelling at the beginning of every episode
*head too large for most hats so no concerns about crossing streams with trademark headwear of any kind
*available for a committed, homoerotically charged but mysterious in nature long term relationship
Let me know if you hear of any openings, I think I’m a very strong candidate.
reading room
These are the three contenders for my attention at the moment. Henri Nouwen’s been next to my desk forever: the foreword is very clear that they are meant to be read as they were written—slowly, over a long period of time. Usually I ignore this kind of prescriptive authorial intervention on how I read, but for some reason it struck me as very true this time & I’ve been sinking deeper into this volume the longer I hang around with it.
Mary Oliver’s a staple, of course, & since I’ve been reading her (also slowly, the only way I can metabolize poetry) I’ve been thinking & talking about her classes more, which means I heard a hilarious story recently from a fellow Bennington grad about going out to dinner with her and a classmate. It sounded exactly the way you’d expect from her work: both confusing and delightful when manifested in an actual human across the table from you instead of the luminous words on the page.
The real standout this week is Raybearer, which I’ve been taking with me to read on various logs at the beach (& trying to hard to not drop into puddles since it’s a library copy, RIP every dust jacket I have that’s full of sand). It’s by far the most expansive, deliciously sweeping fantasy I’ve read in ages & I’ve been scooping up chapter after chapter & then forcing myself to stop because I don’t want it to be over so quickly. The empire Jordan Ifueko made is unbelievably real & I sometimes have to slap the book closed because I’m so nervous about what’s going to happen to her heroine, Tarisai. I heard about it in Shing Yin Khor’s patreon mail day newsletter, which is one of the best things to arrive in my mailbox every month, & I’m already on the waiting list at the library for Ifueko’s sequel, Redemptor.
one good thing
Daffodils are back at Trader Joe’s, little bunches of slender green stalks that look like absolutely nothing until you get them home & into water, & then a couple days later this happens:
Harbringers of spring, like the crocuses & snowdrops coming up in the sunny lots down the street, and the sudden & inexplicably powerful desire to go into thrift stores & paw through all the homegoods to find something nice to bring home & shove into my nest, very much like a great blue heron carrying a twig back in my beak.
write back
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