At that moment in my life, I needed the possibility of the impossible.
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In this age of pandemic, the itch to write a sonnet comes on as suddenly as the itches on my face I fight not to scratch. Luckily, I can satisfy the former urge.
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Perusing my Facebook feed this morning, I came across another post by Tamela J. Gordon, author of one of the critiques of pussy hats to which I linked in my last post. It’s titled “9 Things Other Women Who Love Pussy Hats More Than Black Women Say.” You should read it here.
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A year ago, I tentatively stepped out of the yoga studio where I work in downtown Asheville and walked into a sea of pink hats (including mine), signs, and cheers. That morning, my mother expressed fear that I would be walking into some melee out of the 1999 WTO protests in Seattle.
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I didn’t think it was possible for me to reach true-crime fatigue, but I think it’s happened. (Note that this hasn’t stopped me from listening to true crime podcasts or watching true crime shows on YouTube in the slightest; I just do so half-heartedly, my attention wandering as if a fly keeps buzzing around the room.)
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Three days ago, I returned home from Camp Nerd Fitness 2016, a 5-day gathering of self-selecting people who care about fitness and diet and who love various “nerdy” things from Star Wars and Lord of the Rings to video games and comics, and more.
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Ryan Callahan had a devastating shift tonight in the game against Winnipeg that showed exactly why he was named captain of the New York Rangers: when Callahan broke his stick on a shorthanded shift, he became a stick himself.
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