Michelle Bailat-Jones

@mbailatj.bsky.social

novelist/translator/reader, here for the sharpened pencils, books & writing talk, for all things language and foliage, for all the shiny things & shadows. (Eng, Fr, 日本語, Ital) Rep'd by Simon Trewin. www.michellebailatjones.com

Rain. Coffee in the garden w/ a leaky umbrella while the blind terrier patrols the lantern flowers and leggy tomatoes. The postwoman rolls up to the mailboxes on her electric scooter, waves, rolls away again. A crow lands in the dogwood. Swoops off to the roof ridge of the neighbor's barn.

Overton on Berger’s letters: „At a moment like this, there seemed to be a value in letter-writing. Because it isn't going to be read immediately, the act of writing a letter reminds us that there will be a moment beyond this one. In an era of instaneity, it is a kind of promise, or an act of faith.“

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The crickets felt it was their duty to warn everybody that summertime cannot last forever. Even on the most beautiful days in the whole year - the days when summer is changing into autumn - the crickets spread the rumour of sadness and change. E. B. White, Charlotte's Web

Last night while teen at volleyball, I sat on the lake listening to Wendell Berry's book The Peace of Wild Things & knitted while watching swallows/bats. Exquisite - maybe cliché - quiet moment, with modern touches: my phone flashlight to see my hands, earbuds for the sound. Strange world.