The tilt of earth governs the seasons, the obliquity of the ecliptic bringing us by turns closer and farther from our star, the sun. These are the celestial particulars, but here on the ground, many of us turn to the dirt to tell us where we are in the great spinning of the heavens.
The entrenched narrative that we have always been a hostile, aggressive people committing terrorist acts against one another is fondly recounted by a culture that can’t see any other perspective … we might consider another story about the advent of writing, one that perhaps a woman is telling.
I like to imagine the books whispering their secrets to their neighbors at night when everyone else has left, creating a special alchemy that people can feel in the room when they come back the next day. Gathering all these portals to unique worlds in one place is powerful magic.
There are so many ways to love a book. Read it, write it, buy it, lend it, borrow it, steal it, study it, bury it, weather it, adorn it, slice it, draw in it, play with it, make art of it.