Stanford. Outside it’s raining; here in the library it’s warm, well ventilated, well scrubbed. When I was a student this entire wing was closed for earthquake repair—now they’ve fixed it up, and once again I can’t believe how much money I’m sitting in the middle of. This reading room has thought of everything: plush chairs, low tables, golden oil finish on the floors, coffee-colored rugs with spiral plant designs and discreetly cut circles for power outlets, oak shelves that must be an inch and a half thick—they’ll outlast the English language. Something like fifty seats, each comfortable in its own particularized way, and I think five people in here.
J. has been keeping watch on the pair of ravens who have built a huge sloppy nest on one of the outer walls. The young have just hatched—at least something seems to make tiny noises when the parents return—but you can’t yet see anything over the edge. It’s built safe, twenty feet off the ground, and the parents give you the disapproving raven-eye if you get too close. The wall underneath is already fouled with whitish bird leavings. Surely it’s only begun.
one of the most unhappy memories of my childhood was watching some crows knock over a pigeon's nest in my front yard. i'd been waiting all winter for them to hatch.
I heart the way the apocalypse is peaking over the edge of this post...
But we must only peek! History getting uncomfortable doesn't mean history stops....
