A room of one’s own*

bouleThese days have a weird rhythm. The bread is bones — the day shaped by the time it takes the starter to rise, the time it needs for resting, however long it wants to be kneaded, and then the long slow rises, first on the counter in the white bowl, then in the fridge, in an oblong piece of tupperware, or another bowl — nestled in grey cloth and powdery with flour, either way.

In between, I’d normally be punctuating the endless tasks of ordinary living with little stray thoughts, playful barbs, flashes of rage at the grim reality we find ourselves in, on twitter, that problematic but still vital stream of so many messages in so many little spice bottles, bobbing like corks. (Insert clever quip here about variety.)

But the twitter powers that be (read: dudes) have decided, in their infinite illogic, to suspend my account, with nothing but a vague note about violating their rules. Yes, I’m sure all those photos of sourdough were very upsetting to men who only eat Wonder bread. Reading between the lines, it seems to be nothing but a naked grab for my phone number, which, nope. We’ve all seen how great that platform is at handling sensitive info, how well it protects people — especially women — from harassment, by…doxxing the victims.

I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that Jack doesn’t know how to take no for an answer when asking for someone’s phone number.

We’ll see what happens if & when a human person ever reads my polite little email asking to be allowed back into the birdcage. In the meantime, it feels a bit like being sent to my room as a kid. My room where all the books were, all the drawing materials, my stuffed bear of beloved memory and very much brain. It was meant as a punishment then, as it is now, but in here I call the shots. And my blog has an edit function.

*yes, Virginia, I did borrow your title. I hope you don’t mind, you brilliant ghost.

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