I pack a box, clean a table, write more. The day is all mixed up. I cut my toenails then cry into my phone at the beauty of a message. The world is mixed up. The aspect ratio of verity and simile is not even. Joy is still joy. Hate is still hate. They were so before, during, and after, I wrote this post, which likely changes nothing except for the itching in my two typing fingers and the density of knots in the wild yarn ball of my 2am mind.
Acorns sustain life, whether eaten as the common of mast by pigs in the New Forest, or gathered, shelled, soaked and ground by people. This year, we have one small bowl of leached acorn pieces which will become flour and then food once we are firmly settled again. Life-death-life - life is fulfilled in death, it is death which allows life to be renewed, as all myths worth their salt will tell you. Whether Pagan or Christian, Taoist or Sufi, stories unfold with the sense of a space set at the table for the final guest we will ever meet. Not so in tales of the Machine which abolishes death (and thereby bans acorns), which seeks only an infinite plantation of sterile trees, each of which they hope will live forever. I shiver. To seek to hoard life itself, as well as all the money, housing, natural resources and land, what a truly mad mindset. You might as well try to only breathe in.
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This podcast was first published with full transcript, footnotes, links and pictures here on Substack on 22nd September 2025.
