Today was the Jane Austen tea. My first time costuming since the Victorian Stroll. First time blogging in three months.
That doesn’t mean I haven’t been writing, but it’s taken the form of a firehouse of grief and anger at my representatives. I haven’t had anything left for this space. But I’ve been thinking about when and how to drop back in, and here I am today, for better or worse.
This week was terrible. This past six months have been difficult, but this week before Easter felt like the climax of all that, and not in a good way.
Part of the reason it was bad is because it was bad, and part of it is because instead of letting all the feelings and experiences flow through, I let them take residence in my body.
A long time ago, I wrote a post about death. Then I wrote one about Swedish death cleaning. And surely you’ve noticed in recent days a lot of talk about death in my writing about Palestine. Today we’re going to kind of veer in a different direction, but like everything in life, it’s still all connected.
A while ago, I saw a video where Irishman Tadhg Hickey challenged Irish Americans. He educated us on the history of The Great Famine. He said in Ireland, they call it The Great Hunger, because the food shortage was not because of a lack of food. It was because the British Empire, Ireland’s colonizer, was exporting all the food and leaving the Irish with fields full of rotten potatoes.
I’ve read another book I want to recommend, called Wild Thorns, by Sahar Khalifeh, translated by Trevor LeGassick and Elizabeth Fernea. First, I wanted to share a little about the background of the collection it is a part of, and some info about the author. I found the context really interesting.
