We tend to make everything hold meaning for us as humans, but what the sheep and the donkey know feels deeper than allegories and metaphors and stories humans need to tell ourselves. It feels fundamental and honest and beautiful, and the movie ends the way it began, with the ringing of warm bells.
A collection of all the articles we’ve published over the past month, for those who like to savor their Magpies’ tidings as an issue.
In my insomnia thoughts, I imagined Tidings of Magpies as a sort of commons. A green space where we can walk and talk together, and work together on our allotment gardens. Ideas can grow, and we can bind them together with each other’s thoughts and feelings, and make something new and beautiful.
Here is a list of the (close to) original version of songs you might know better from more popular versions that you might not have known were covers.
In the course of my travels I have had many unforgettable conversations, many from dusk to till dawn, entire train and plane rides, fascinating people with incredible stories or theories on the point of our existence, and yet, more often than not, it’s the conversations in silence I remember most fondly.
“Once I saw a barge with a small very happy dog patrolling the deck, he seemed to have a good life travelling the canals and rivers.”
So what remains after you lose everything? When water or fire or clumsiness or meanness or a pandemic or cancer or war or ignorance and obsolescence changes everything–breaks everything, what do we do with what remains? We make art.
Light, space, scale, shifting light, and a new way to look at buildings you pass every day: A discussion with artist Mark Oliver.
Little-known NYC government positions/titles from Lauren Barnett
There is a pause, a thick electric hush, as we wait for the thunder. But in the yard the white-throated sparrow, seemingly unphased, sings and sings his wild and melancholy song.
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