In today’s Corrections and Clarifications in The Guardian:

And due to a transcription error, Rosenkranz was misquoted as saying “the universe decided that this would be my role”; he said “the university decided”

Paul Capewell pointed me to the blog of Phil Gyford, which I have quickly come to love:

This week I went to the latest Punchdrunk immersive theatre event and it was completely convincing: a recreation of London as if Covid had never happened. I saw thousands of performers behaving exactly like people in the before times of 2019, barely a mask in sight anywhere, and everything just how it used to be. If there was a narrative somewhere I missed it, which is nothing new, but as an experience it was incredibly impressive and a lovely reminder of times past.

Ha ha, no, I actually went to actual London where no one is actually bothered about actual Covid any more! Satire!

I’ve long been sceptical of “blogging is back, baby!!” pronouncements. But blogging is undergoing a renaissance, in part because of fatigue from the web becoming an interconnected garden of surveillance capitalism, manifested by the pain one feels simply wanting a recipe for corn chowder and finding the recipe buried under a stack of 4,000 surgical words of SERP-bait.

Genuine unsponsored voices, writing personal essays about the everyday, all of a sudden seem novel and compelling anew.

The kids bicycle trailer that Dave and Erin gave me years ago, converted to a cargo trailer, continues to find new roles.

Dave Atkinson relates a harrowing tale of near-tragedy, followed by great kindness in his newsletter.

I love everything about this rumination on link culture.

Writing for the web has been trapped in stasis for a long time—it’s nice to read new thoughts about concepts that are so familiar they seem to have existed always.

They really really (really) don’t want (any) wheeled things at the beach in West River.

Turning an iPhone on its side and taking a panoramic photo up-down sometimes produces interesting results. Like this Inception-like photo of dusk on Prince Street.

The Holman Grand doesn’t have bicycle parking, but it does have an ashtray.

Olivia was insistent that we go out to the tea in New Glasgow yesterday held to celebrate our friends Bruce and Shirley passing the PEI Preserve Company on to a new family to steward.

I was non-committal: I’d already debriefed with Bruce over coffee, and driving all the way out to the middle of the Island for a cup of tea and some squares seemed excessive.

But we went.

And, as often happens when Olivia seizes the moment and insists that we engage in ritual and routine, I was happy we did so: seeing Shirley and Bruce’s friends and familiars gathered together to fête them was a joy, and this photo of Bruce and Olivia is a testament to that.

I’ve been getting up at 5:45 a.m. this week, something an earlier me would have thought fantastical.

Olivia’s self-contained in the mornings now, so my urge with the blank canvas of the morning unfurled is to pounce: grab a quick coffee out and rush to the office to start with the productivity.

This morning I demurred: I slowed myself down, made breakfast, went out to the back yard.

It was the right choice.