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Laurel Boruck  Rogue bibliophile turned professional book person; wind-blown galosher, dreamer of dreams.


I got to see my brilliant, funny, friend Jess do standup comedy last night, and (as will come as no surprise to anyone who knows her) she killed it. 🔥

John Williams is brilliant, and hearing his music played live was a real delight.

Gettin' older, stayin' silly. 🎂🥂🔫

The kind of book that'll make you fight heavy eyelids on a long, late-night flight because you want to know what happens next. Also the kind of book that will have you so completely absorbed that you jump halfway out of your seat when the passenger next to you sneezes. (Or it will if you're me, anyways.) As for what it's like: I told someone today that it's kind of like if the TV show Once Upon a Time was written by Neil Gaiman.

There's an art installation in the lobby of the New York Times Building made up of screens showing different lines pulled from NYT articles. As I walked through, one said, "You can freak out later at night when you're alone," which turned out to be pretty good advice.

I have a lot of good feelings about this city. (Can you believe this view?)

The Laika exhibit at the Portland Art Museum is incredible and absolutely worth seeing. It's amazing how much skill and imagination go into even the smallest details of their work. (The Boxtrolls is my favorite, but if you haven't seen any of Laika's movies, you can start anywhere; they're all great.)

I enjoyed this book very much. It covers some of the most important ideas in modern physics, among them Einstein's theory of general relativity, quantum mechanics, and the structure of the cosmos. Rovelli's writing is approachable and lucent, conveying the wonder and mystery inherent to physics. And because each chapter started as a newspaper column, they were just enough to whet my appetite. If you're like me—fascinated by physics but possessing little knowledge of it—you'd probably enjoy this too.
"It was reality. Or better, a glimpse of reality, a little less veiled than our blurred and banal everyday view of it. A reality that seems to be made of the same stuff that our dreams are made of, but that is nevertheless more real than our clouded, quotidian dreaming."

Vancouver, British Columbia, Monday, May 7, 1945. My grandma had this newspaper out on her table when I went to see her yesterday. She married my grandfather just before he was deployed; he served with the Calgary Highlanders and was gone for three years. When I asked her about the papers, my grandmother told me that the middle of the paper had a whole page, printed in the tiniest possible type, divided up into three columns—missing, wounded, killed—and that every week she would read the names printed under each heading. The Vancouver Sun's special peace edition from the same day said, "In many homes in Canada today the joy of victory will be tempered by sorrow for those who will not return." My grandfather came home, but I imagine sorrow and joy were impossible to separate for just about everyone on this day.

One of my goals this year is to read more poetry. It feels good and right that the first volume of the year is this new book by Anne Michaels, whose words have mattered to me for a long, long time.

We drove to Hood River on a whim, listening to Glenn Miller, Harry James, and Benny Goodman on the way there, and to Queen on the way home. All things in balance.

I want to tell you to read this book, but don't read it now; put it on your calendar and read it in ten months when October rolls around. It's an October book in all of the inconsequential ways, but in deeper and more magical ways, too. And it's beautiful, so don't read it until you can savor it.

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