“Sorry for bringing up that time your peers treated you like a doll”
“You spent all day doomscrolling, and this card is meant to remind you to touch grass”
“I ate the last piece of cake. This is not an apology”
“This is an apology-in-advance card”
Inside: “I will be awful”
“It seems like God is mad at us, and I don’t know why”
Inside– “did you do sins”
“do you want to do sins”
Inside-“but, like, the fun kind”
Are we there yet?
You take the trip to get to your destination.
Sometimes, you can’t wait to get to your destination.
Sometimes, you don’t want to get to your destination.
Sometimes, you don’t want the trip to end.
The trip always ends.
The trip doesn’t always end where or when you expect.
Are we there yet?
Stop and smell the roses.
Not all roses are worth smelling.
The roses that are worth smelling look like the roses not worth smelling.
The gas station roses are never worth smelling.
Stop and smell the roses.
We’re not stopping to smell any more roses, or we’ll never get there.
Do we have any snacks?
No one likes a hangry passenger.
Well, no one likes a hangry driver!
You should have packed more snacks.
It’s not always my job to pack the snacks!
Sometimes, it’s always your job to pack the snacks.
There are never enough snacks.
Are we there yet?
Mom, he poked me!
Stay on your side of the car.
It’s hard to remember which side of the car is yours when you’re bored.
She started it!
Sometimes, she did start it.
Usually, it doesn’t matter who started it.
Do I need to come back there and end it?
You will never end it.
Are we there yet?
Four horses!
They’re mine, I saw them first!
You can’t find horses if you’re not looking.
Cemetery, you lost all your horses!
I’m not even playing!
You are always playing.
Are we there yet?
What’s that smell?
I think it was the dog.
Sometimes, it is the dog.
Sometimes, he who smelt it, did dealt it.
Often, it’s just a turkey farm.
Are we there yet?
You will never be there.
You will always be here.
You will never be anywhere but here.
Making is saying yes.
Saying yes leads to making.
Making leads to choices.
Choices lead to decisions.
Decisions lead to action.
Decisions are not permanent.
Nothing is permanent. Not even permanent marker.
It’s a lady’s prerogative to change her mind.
Minds aren’t where ideas come from.
Ideas come from broken headphones curves of paths frays on sweaters snippets of conversations rhythms of lovers breath.
Ideas also come from knock knock jokes candy corn hot topic sitcoms nachos indigestion upset stomach diarrhea hey pepto bismol.
Ideas are wild things, that curl into your brain through your eyes and ears and touch, and make a nest and start having baby ideas with the other wild ideas.
Not all baby ideas are good ideas.
Some baby ideas are downright terrible.
Terrible ideas can still have baby ideas.
Sometimes, the babies from terrible ideas are amazing ideas.
Minds are where ideas grow up, but not where they should live.
A full mind overflows, but is never full.
Making without purpose is not making.
Anything can be a purpose.
Making is done with your hands, but also your brain, but also your frustration, but also your joy, and also sometimes hot glue.
Hot glue burns your hands, but eventually it won’t.
Calloused hands are the outward sign of perseverence.
There is no such thing as making from scratch.
There’s no such thing as Do-it-yourself.
Making is community.
Making makes community.
Nothing is made without context.
Context is made through connection.
Connections are people, but also places, but also books, but also history, but also bolts, screws, nails, rope, duct tape, hope, prayers, dreams.
To make something is to make yourself; make yourself proud, make yourself frustrated, make yourself happy, make yourself better, make yourself confused, make yourself contented.
Confusion makes better ideas than clarity.
Never trust clarity, Pigeon, clarity always lies.
Clarity means you don’t have all the information.
If you think you know what you’re doing, try doing it differently. But safely. Wait. Stop. What are you doing. Don’t hold a drill like that.
Sometimes, there’s only one way to do a thing.
Sometimes, you don’t need to re-invent the wheel.
Sometimes, you re-invent the wheel so you know why wheels are round.
Sometimes, you just need to know.
Needing to know is usually the first step to making a mess.
Making a mess IS still making. But, you have to clean it up yourself, I’m not your mother.
Making mistakes is making.
You can’t learn anything without making mistakes.
Mistakes are the worst thing, temporarily.
Mistakes are the best thing, long term. This might not be true, but it sounds good.
If it sounds like a good idea, and looks like a good idea, it still might be a terrible idea.
Terrible ideas can have excellent PR teams.
Sometimes, all you have are terrible ideas.
Don’t be afraid of terrible ideas.
A terrible idea is infinitely better than no idea.
There’s no such thing as a terrible idea.
Nature is cyclical.
Life is cyclical.
Winter becomes spring becomes summer becomes fall becomes winter.
Feeding cows becomes calving becomes fixing fence becomes haying becomes feeding cows.
Good neighbors make good fences.
Good fences show that someone cares.
You have to fix your own fences, if you want your cows to stay put.
The left half is yours to fix. This is never discussed.
There will always be fence to fix.
The same fences will always need fixing.
The same fence will never be the same.
The same fence never surrounds the same pasture.
The pasture is the grass dams birds coyotes dirt bones roots rabbits winds sun sky.
Every pasture is the same.
Every pasture is unique.
The pasture is just prairie without the fence.
The pasture is just prairie with a fence.
The pasture is the prairie.
The prairie is not a pasture, or the pasture, or any pasture, or all the pastures.
The prairie is barren, devoid of life. At least, when viewed from the highway.
The prairie is teeming with life, if you stop to look.
The prairie is nothing but life, if you look too close.
Life is nothing but the prairie, if you look too far.
The birds sing, but actually whistle, but actually neither.
Vultures are signs of life, formerly.
That kildeer’s wing isn’t broken. Birds are liars.
Turtles show up when you least expect them.
Sometimes, there are fish in the puddles. How did you get there, fish?
Not all rattlesnakes rattle.
Post holes are excellent ways to catch salamanders.
Sometimes, the hill is too steep to drive up.
Sometimes, the hill is too steep to walk down.
Sometimes, that rock is a fossil.
Most of the time, that rock is a rock.
Very infrequently, that rock was actually an unexpected turtle.
Sometimes, the buffalo berry bush is a fence all by itself.
Unfortunately, the poison ivy is never a fence all by itself.
Sometimes, the poison ivy can keep that pair of fence pliers.
Sometimes, that was your last pair of fence pliers.
Always, you wonder when you’ll be done fixing fence.
Always, you’ll be fixing fence.
Always, you’ll be fixing.
Always, you’ll be.
Always.
“Are you sure this is a good idea?”, Sukie asks as she sets down the bag of supplies and Pigeon jumps from her shoulder.
“Of course! This is why I hitched a ride out here in the first place.” Sukie furrows her brow. This does not reassure her. She looks down at the tombstone in front of her: the face of the black marble is carved with the name Elwyn Brooks White.
“Wait, is this the EB White? Like Charlotte’s Web EB White?” Pigeon looks up at her with confusion. “Well, yeah. Talking cat here; EB White is like a god to talking animals.”
Sukie sighs and opens up the bag. She knows she shouldn’t listen to Pigeon, but sometimes she just can’t help herself. Which is slightly worrying, but she can worry about that later; they have work to do now.
She lifts out the black velvet cloth, candles, and white chalk powder that they had bought that morning at Deadwick’s, before heading up the Maine coast. She had refused to buy all of it, at first, but then Pigeon reminded her of the gold chains they had gotten from the “kings”, and she caved, as usual.
“So, what do we do with all this then?”, she says, gesturing to the pile of occult supplies. “Lay out the cloth on the ground here, and then hand me the bag of chalk.”
She tosses the bag of chalk to Pigeon, grabs the square of velvet, and starts laying it out over the snowy ground, asking Pigeon “And where did you learn how to do this?”
Jumping up onto the tombstone with the bag of chalk, Pigeon shrugs. “Remember those geese from this morning, down by the waterfront?”
“What, the six hellspawn that chased me out of the park?”
“I don’t know about hellspawn, I thought they were nice.”
“NICE? One of them had a knife!” Sukie pauses, and looks up from where she was adjusting the cloth. “Wait. You didn’t learn this from them, did you?”
“Oh, no, they just reminded me of some of the particulars.” Pigeon gracefully leaps down from the gravestone onto the cloth, and slices a small hole in the bottom of the bag. As the chalk dust starts pouring out, she traces out a five pointed star by walking over the fabric, carrying the bag in her mouth. It is shockingly perfect.
“Are you sure you should trust them? I thought I heard them cackling to themselves as I ran away.”
“I was just telling them jokes, don’t worry about it. Would you help me set these candles at the intersections?” Pigeon requests, nodding toward the black wax candles from the bag.
Sukie grabs them, and places them on the cloth at the intersections where the chalk lines cross each other. She really has a bad feeling about this. She frowns, and glares at Pigeon. Pigeon licks her paw, and rubs her ears, not looking back at her. Neither says anything for 30 seconds.
Sukie breaks first, sighing: “What’s next?”
“Grab the matches, and light the candles, I’ll start the incantation.”
Sukie gets up, rolling her eyes, and does as Pigeon instructs. As she lights the last candle, Pigeon’s chanting gets louder, and increases in speed. The candles light up like road flares briefly, and then extinguish all at once, as wind rushes to the center of the pentacle, then stops. Everything is silent and dark, as Sukie and Pigeon stare at each other in the light of the waxing moon. Silent except for … honking?
Pigeon tilts her head to the side. “Does that sound like a swan to you?”, she asks quietly.
Sukie deflates, muttering, “Never trust geese, Pigeon, they always lie.