Last night, I read Barbara Kingsolver’s Animal, Vegetable, Miracle before bed. Naturally, then, I dreamed about the zombie apocalypse. My friends and I were at my parents’ house in Minnesota, which is on a lake. The lake was frozen, and we stood on the shore, watching trucks drive across the ice. We knew the drivers were zombies. Perhaps from the swerving.
When we turned to go back into the house, the sliding door was open. Meaning, a zombie was inside. Meaning, we had to go inside and find it and kill it before it turned us. I had a weapon — as one does during zombie apocalypses — but it was a video game blaster; yellow plastic, and it took several shots to kill the zombie.
My roommate Meghan decided, during the dream’s pinnacle, to make her way back to Maryland alone. We cried quietly as she walked up the hill against the setting sun, crossbow across her back. Phil Collins was playing. The night closed around us. My blaster clicked emptily, its fake laser barely freckling the grass.
I told Meghan about the dream this morning, as she headed out for her daily run. She seemed flattered to have been featured. As a complete zombie-slaying badass, no less. “Thanks, Holly!” she said in her bright way.
But I cannot forget nor forgive her leaving us. She took our best crossbow.
Some other things we should discuss on this springlike Friday:
A good poem for hard times:
You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting-
over and over announcing your place
In the family of things.
–Wild Geese, by Mary Oliver
How to get kicked out of book club: bring Challah bread and sundried tomato dip.
A new Laura Ingalls Wilder book is out, and why don’t I own it yet?
I love puns. They demonstrate wit, endearing ridiculousness, and yes, proof that the punner “understand[s] the nuances and complexities of words.” So why the hate?
Climate change is now. It is happening. It is in our lifetimes. We are already feeling the effects, and soon humans living along coastlines, on islands, will have to seek higher ground. Seems to me that THIS TOPIC ISN’T DISCUSSED ENOUGH in Congress, on the news, during presidential debates. After all, if we don’t have a planet to live on, nothing else matters much. (Because we’re dead)
Dad Magazine, which I suspect is based on my actual father. Favorite headlines:
“You Could Make a Sandwich Out of That! 8 Bones you NEED to be Checking for Meat”
“The Damn Squirrels (Again)”
“Get Those Leaves Raked! Hot Tips to Coerce Your Grown Children into Helping”
“Our Comprehensive List of Things that DO NOT Grow on Trees”
What are you up to this weekend?
I’ll be watching the Wisconsin vs. Notre Dame basketball game tonight with some friends. I went to the University of Minnesota, and my sister and dad went to the University of Wisconsin. And we’re from Minnesota. So my family cheers for the Gophers first. When they lose, we cheer for the Badgers. Some might call this a conflict of interest. We call it having a backup.
(My mom went to Illinois, but we don’t talk about that. She’s one of us now.)
Have a good one!