HAMILTON

OK, Disney. You finally have my full attention!

THE DAILY DOG

MORE THAN ENOUGH | ELAINE WELTEROTH

Not my usual sort of book (cloying, freshman comp prose), but certainly a timely one. The memoir speaks to pressing concerns and issues about race, mixed race, racism, identity, gender, all from the lens of a fairly young professional (she was the former editor of Teen Vogue). I found the stories of her black mother and white father the most compelling.

As a culture, we love a celebration. We love a first. We hold them high. We all marvel at headlines and highlight reels. But we rarely discuss the marks and scars and bruises that come with breaking through glass ceilings.

The point was to become unbreakable. My mother’s words were the warning shot that fairness, justice, and security are not guaranteed to any of us. No matter how hard we work. Especially for women of color.

YOU A WONDER

listen,
you a wonder.
you a city of a woman.
you got a geography
of your own.

listen,
somebody need a map
to understand you.
somebody need directions
to move around you.

Lucille Clifton

JO Barrios

THE DAILY DOG

ARTICULATED

Kaisa Keranen | I love this woman’s spirit + her mobility courses

♥  Valerie Kaur   + here

RIP | Carlos Ruiz Zafón

The Shared Journeys of Jean Toomer + Georgia O’Keefe

JO Barrios | Primitivos, 2020

STAND UP

The Douglas Family ♥

THE DAILY DOG

83 | 100

EUPHORIA | LILY KING

You don’t realise how language actually interferes with communication until you don’t have it, how it gets in the way like an overdominant sense.

I asked her if she believed you could ever truly understand another culture. I told her the longer I stayed, the more asinine the attempt seemed, and that what I’d become more interested in is how we believed we could be objective in any way at all, we who each came in with our own personal definitions of kindness, strength, masculinity, femininity, God, civilisation, right and wrong.

Nell and Fen had chased away my thoughts of suicide. But what had they left me with? Fierce desires, a great tide of feeling of which I could make little sense, an ache that seemed to have no name but want. I want. Intransitive. No object. It was the opposite of wanting to die. But it was scarcely more bearable.

I loved that Amy Lowell poem when I first read it, how her lover was like red wine at the beginning and then became bread. But that has not happened to me. My loves remain wine to me, yet I become too quickly bread to them.

DIANA KENNEDY | NOTHING FANCY

Her adventures have always fascinated me . . . .♥

THE DAILY DOG