black holes sing in B-flat and blow bubbles

My recent vacation was excellent. I stayed with two other introverts whose interests encompass music, science, and social justice, so we had plenty to talk about when we felt like talking, and they were fine with me disappearing for a day to paddleboard (on both whitewater and flatwater). I felt cared for and cared about, their welcome mix'd with thanks indeed a grace I have held close to me since my return.

Sunday's reading included "A Lesson in Acceptance," an essay by Bryan Washington, recommended by Tejal Rao, with this paragraph reminding me of green curry and ginger tea at Hinodae through much of my 20s, and seeing both Sweet 16th's Ellen and Miel's Seema this past Saturday:

Sometimes, being a regular means knowing there’s a certain interaction that’ll occur at your spot. Sometimes, it means knowing that there won’t be any interactions at all, and that you’ll be left to your own devices. It could mean chatting with a favorite host, catching up on some mundanity or another. Or maybe you just like sitting in the second booth from the back of the restaurant, by the bathrooms, because you’re a little infatuated by how the light bounces off the windows beside them. It is a gift, in this country that would always like you to be screaming at everything--from inequity to infrastructural maladies to impunity to corruption--to comfortably, consistently, have the opportunity to shut the fuck up and simply exist. Being a regular, at its best, gives you a space to do that.

About today's subject line: Yes, black holes sing. And Dennis Overbye's delight in describing their "casual cosmic malevolence" really comes through in phrases such as "hot doughnut of doom."