I am doing three things at the moment.
Reading an in-depth novel incorporating magic, mythology, cruelty and rising above it, self discovery, self worth and feminism. The book is mysterious, captivating, unlike any I have read before, and totally beautiful. I don’t want it to end.
Circe, by Madeline Miller.
Reading the lightest possible book on the relationship between a stray cat and a man. This one’s about love and vulnerability, it’s exquisite, also magical and in fact not at all light because it’s so damn sad. But – wow.
The Travelling Cat Chronicles, by Huro Arikawa.
And I’m looking at Twitter where I’m learning about 18th century impressionist artist William Turner and his ‘secret erotica’ and am a little surprised by and obsessed with his gorgeous and very beautiful erotic drawings.
I’m doing all of this at the same time, filling myself with beauty and words. I cannot bear to watch the news and endless cycles of despair.
Words. Myth. Magic. Relationships. Kindness. Art. Beauty. And erotica.
I think it’s what we have to focus on.
It’s the only way to get by.