Last night, I went to get my fan fixed.
It was urgent.
The guy who fixed it is a fan expert.
He had about 50 fans all over his workspace.
Several were turned on at once.
What I thought was a breeze from the door—that was a fan too.
He had every part.
He knew every tiny detail.
Fixed it within a few hours.
He said he only sleeps with one fan.
When it gets hot, you have more clients.
But at night, you just have the one fan blowing on you.
When you think of hospitality, who does that include?
We make space for strangers on the street. We make space for people in our homes. But what’s our inner hospitality like?
I’d hate to live an entire life and never come home.
I am fairly confident that adult life isn’t as much a creation as a perpetual homecoming.
This is the active practice of memory.
You can go out. But you need to come back.
Homecoming on the Dead of the Dead in Iquitos
I washed the dishes and my hair last night, and I couldn't help but notice the small, cleaned parts of my life now punctuating my apartment.
I intentionally left my door open this morning to say hello to my neighbors.
The refrigerator will get cleaned this week. Maybe not by me, but it will happen. My shoes are somewhat placed on the shoe rack. The plants in my apartment are still alive. I compost every week.
I made a series of small drawings this week, and now they fill my notebook. I cleaned the space around the melting bar of soap.
The bag of 160 black tea bags I bought in July wasn't too much or too expensive. It was the right amount.
The washing machine might now finally be fixed after the fifth attempt because I called the repair guy again.
The tea bags will run out in February.
Behind the scenes
