this week’s Thought (singular)
why must lunchtime be such a fluid concept?
hi
this issue is inspired by the below art by crazyheadcomics on instagram.
the process of finding your people is so lovely, and so painful. you could give years, only to realise that you haven’t found them, and you could give weeks to feel the most secure belonging you thought was possible.
i’ve been thinking about the people who come in and out of our lives; like i’m alone in a hotel lobby, and the revolving doors are constantly spinning. guests come in ones, twos, threes, larger groups. some stay just for a day - and it could be the most spectacular 24-hours. some enter, look around the place as i feign comfort and do my best to keep the pillows fluffed, and leave after a few years. my favourite kind slip in unnoticed, until i suddenly realise that they’ve always been there, and that they’ve been helping me keep the hotel running without me even requesting assistance.
the method of checking out varies. a mutilated punnett square of good faith (yes/no) and decision (mine/theirs). some gladly leave while spitting cruelty at the reception as i unceremoniously shuffle them towards the exit. others slink out when i’m distracted, climb down a window in the middle of the night. still others come to me when they make their decision, and neither of us need to say a word to know that they’re leaving in the morning. it’s always painful. it always leaves a room empty, and the revolving door suspended for an infinite second filled with a million swirling doubts of should-i-have-let-them-stay-a-bit-longer and should-i-have-been-better-with-the-room-service.
it’s the curious, magical intersection of polite guest, punctual breakfast, and the willingness to discover new doors from all parties that ensure a healthy, comfortable stay. it’s very rarely personal, and almost entirely relies more on the experience itself than the guests. everybody’s got their lobby.
i could take this metaphor further. i could mention the hours spent standing outside the gates of my hotel, desperately waving at somebody to enter, watching as they cross the street instead and i struggle to find the crosswalk to follow. i could mention spending too much time cooking for one guest, and serving the other lukewarm coffee. i could mention the ones that expect me to do more than i can, to be better than i am; and the ones that like the amenities as they are, even as they gently nudge at me to improve. i could talk about the nights when everybody sinks into the shadows, and i roam the corridors without my glasses, feeling like nobody has ever entered the place at all.
but i won’t. metaphors allow for a beautifully poetic, high-level view of hurt, but that’s all they are. spat cruelty towards the reception, suspended revolving door - metaphors for hurt.
this wasn’t supposed to get so grim, but let me circle back to the point. people come in, and people go out. people come, and people go. and our lovely, terrible desire for lasting human connection makes us faultless hotel managers, but not faultless friends. the ones that want to understand with compassion, who can put up with the faults with empathy, are the ones that will stay in. the ones that see a friend and not a hotel manager are the ones that will stay.
English Recitation Competition
Why is it eternity lasts a moment a moment eternity? Are you quiet enough to hear horned owls at dawn? I hear voices rustle in the leaves after they are gone. New mice burst into life. Small raccoons bear tiny chains around their wrists.
What I Have Learned So Far, Mary Oliver
Meditation is old and honorable, so why should I not sit, every morning of my life, on the hillside, looking into the shining world? Because, properly attended to, delight, as well as havoc, is suggestion. Can one be passionate about the just, the ideal, the sublime, and the holy, and yet commit to no labor in its cause? I don’t think so. All summations have a beginning, all effect has a story, all kindness begins with the sown seed. Thought buds toward radiance. The gospel of light is the crossroads of – indolence, or action. Be ignited, or be gone.
In This World, Izumi Shikibu
In this world love has no color yet how deeply my body is stained by yours.
A Poll!
Middle School Book Review
your regularly scheduled book recommendation has been temporarily halted. watch this space over the coming weeks so you don’t miss the next one!
find all shared books here.
A Picture!
The Good Side of the Internet
A little over a fortnight ago, a journalist had the audacity to call Craccum with a “news tip” and then berate us for our content, or what he termed: “long-winded woke shit”. The implication, according to the sneer in his voice, was that anything other than breaking news, or straight reporting, wasn’t worthy of the same status as “real journalism”.
And while we laughed in his face (buddy, we’re a student magazine, it’s not that deep) there’s no denying that—at least within media spaces themselves—breaking news, political journalism, financial news, and hell, even sports journalism, tends to carry more “prestige” than journalism that covers arts, culture, and lifestyle. Why is that?
Lifelike automata aren't the real threat
Mary Karr on Navigating Memory While Writing Memoir
At unexpected points in life, everyone gets waylaid by the colossal force of recollection. One minute you’re a grown-ass woman, then a whiff of cumin conjures your dad’s curry, and a whole door to the past blows open, ushering in uncanny detail. There are traumatic memories that rise up unbidden and dwarf you where you stand. But there are also memories you dig for: you start with a clear fix on a tiny instant, and pick at every knot until a thin thread comes undone that you can follow back through the mind’s labyrinth to other places. We’ve all interrogated ourselves—It couldn’t have been Christmas because we had shorts on in the snapshot. Such memories start by being figured out, but the useful ones eventually gain enough traction to haul you through the past.
The Poetry Contest Edna St. Vincent Millay Lost
Though her writing career opened in an inauspicious manner, Edna St. Vincent Millay became the first woman to be awarded the Pulitzer Prize for Poetry.
The Forgotten Sisters Who Pioneered the Historical Novel
Jane and Anna Maria Porter ruled Britain’s literary scene—until male imitators wrote them out of the story
this week’s Song
Bright Eyes by Anoushka Shankar and Alev Lenz
find all shared songs here.
thank you for reading, and see you next week <3
yes? no? maybe? let me know!
lump in throat
Okay so umm it might help just a bit tho Not in a mean way but yea