It’s a little eerie how much I look like myself.
I even make the same faces still. Mostly dubious and curious faces. And like the same things. And sulk about the same things.
Thanks to my sister and her connections at the Armenian market for the almonds, which are excellent.
Another miscellaneous picnic meal, with a Mediterranean lilt.
I do actually just eat parsley, too. I love parsley.
Not the greatest olives, it turned out. Trader Joe’s. I’m still learning to properly appreciate olives (like so many things), and this is not the way to go about cultivating appreciation. I really did know better, but lacked options at the time. Ah well. The pear was good.
I quite like this toothpick holder. Carved of some pleasing stone or another. A gift from my much younger brother when he was maybe 12, from (randomly, adorably) the Science Museum gift shop.
Sure painting and drawing, sure knitting and crafts, sure cooking and organizing and shopping and eating, sure hanging out with friends and writing and photography, sure calligraphy and wine and Shakespeare and the 19th century novel…but what I really love? What I do whenever I get the chance? What I find maximally calming and therapeutic and satisfying? What I put hours of attention and effort into, and investigation, and all the money it takes?
O how I groom. O the tools. O the unguents. O the potions. O the experimentation. O the time.
No centimeter of my body escapes care.
Like weeding a garden, editing a text (I find editing to be a fitting metaphor for much of my life), cultivating a path through the wilderness…
This means clipping and trimming, oiling and treating, masking and exfoliating, cleansing and brushing and smoothing and massaging and just…addressing in the most comprehensive way.
I liked what I heard someone say recently, if you had only one suit to wear for your whole life, imagine the care you would take with that suit. I like this way of thinking about the body, particularly the skin.