Homestead life and the images that make it up tickle me. When we processed our birds and hung them from the joists of our barn it looked like a renaissance painting; we’ve got heritage chickens instead of grouse, but that’s alright.  

I don’t have pictures of the firewood storage / outdoor kitchen thingamajig I’ve been working on for weeks, but it’s an aesthetic treasure, even though it’s ugly and unfinished at the moment. 

As I was working on cutting some joints around supper time Abby came out and called me in for dinner. She walked a wide berth, far off to not subject the baby to the noises of the saw, and to not distract me while I operated it. It felt pastoral, trad, good. It felt like the right thing to be doing, and the food was incredibly good.

We watched a few episodes of How To with John Wilson this evening; my sister says it makes her miss New York. I didn’t live there for as long as she did, but I did live there for a summer. How To with John Wilson does not make me miss New York. I understand the appeal: he paints a vibrant picture. He understands New York as a moving, living, literally fascinating place where humans can be their very most. 

To me, New York as depicted by John Wilson, and my memory, feels more like one endless awkward interaction with a manic stranger, the sort of stranger who’s house you can just imagine, all plastic bags and laminate and stuffed animals and keys just tossed wherever. John Wilson makes New York look like a psychotic episode if a psychotic episode were the norm, the everyday and mundane. 

How To with John Wilson makes me feel more gratitude for living where I do than any war movie or documentary about civil rights abuse ever could.