I keep thinking about something Margaret Atwood said when I interviewed her in 2017: Every dystopia is someone’s utopia. So whose utopia is this?
Ann Friedman, Whose Utopia is This?
The congee I had for lunch today was served with sauteed cabbage and mushrooms and fresh ginger and a fried egg. It was delicious. Aside from the egg, it looked a lot like this one.
My friends on the far side of town who have not hosted a concert in their barn since the pandemic swept through 18 months ago have announced one for the end of this month, featuring these folks. Am I excited? Why yes, yes I am.
The nights have cooled off and the cicadas are still singing. My long weekend is blissfully unscheduled.
My new-ish practice: not wanting what I haven’t got.
This post is for all who are furious about the Texas abortion law and do not need another angry screed to tell them whose utopia this is.
Also, to echo (punctuate! underline!) Ann (and Andrea), stop it with the coathangers, already.
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