The century is bending—have a very happy ending
We are still dealing with Schrödinger's plumbers, but last night I was in bed for almost twelve hours and may have slept for as much as ten. The previous night I slept none and had an urgent care appointment even later in the day than it had been scheduled for: who needs a functioning health care system when a pandemic is no longer a national emergency? It turns out I have a sinus infection. I curled up with
spatch and cats and read Gwynne Garfinkle's Can't Find My Way Home (2022), which I loved with its varyingly figurative degrees of haunting and its never simplistically shifting definitions of art and friendship and revolution and its own questioning, exhilarating soundtrack as it spirals in and out of time, which I impractically wish could have been included as a mixtape with the text. I have a better grounding in protest music of the Vietnam era than in American daytime drama of the same decades, but Garfinkle makes a strong case for caring just as much about the soap operas. With any luck, coming a year late to this full-blast first novel only means less of a wait to its follow-up, whatever form it may arrive in. This one takes several by turns: an unmissable kaleidoscope.

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I was recommended it constantly in college and grad school, which in hindsight feels like one of those weird medicinal pushes that pass through the medical profession—I had some unpleasant reactions even before reaching the rebound and developed a distinct antipathy. Budesonide does not have a rebound in my experience. It does need to be tapered, but not dramatically: every other day for a week, sort of thing, and then stop.
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