34 lines
3.3 KiB
XML
34 lines
3.3 KiB
XML
<?xml version="1.0" encoding="utf-8" standalone="yes"?>
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<rss version="2.0" xmlns:atom="http://www.w3.org/2005/Atom">
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<channel>
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<title>Drafts on cassie.ink</title>
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<link>http://localhost:1313/drafts/</link>
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<description>Recent content in Drafts on cassie.ink</description>
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<generator>Hugo</generator>
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<language>en-us</language>
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<lastBuildDate>Sun, 02 Mar 2025 00:00:00 +0000</lastBuildDate>
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<atom:link href="http://localhost:1313/drafts/index.xml" rel="self" type="application/rss+xml" />
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<item>
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<title>(week notes 25)</title>
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<link>http://localhost:1313/drafts/025-unused/</link>
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<pubDate>Sun, 02 Mar 2025 00:00:00 +0000</pubDate>
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<guid>http://localhost:1313/drafts/025-unused/</guid>
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<description><h1 id="doing">Doing</h1>
<h1 id="reading">Reading</h1>
<p><em>And Then? And Then? What Else?</em> has become a slog, but I press on nonetheless. There&rsquo;s little here to amuse or excite; even devout Lemony Snicket fans will be disappointed I think by the lack of new information or even commentary concerning the books. Handler confirms that the Baudelaires are named for the poet, that the melodrama of the books is inspired by Edvard Gorey, and that he openly disdains the film — hardly revelations by any means. Most egregiously, he seriously downplays the accusations of sexual inappropriateness against him and attempts to use his own childhood sexual assault as a shield against them.</p></description>
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</item>
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<item>
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<title>dad</title>
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<link>http://localhost:1313/dad/</link>
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<pubDate>Sun, 29 Dec 2024 00:00:00 +0000</pubDate>
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<guid>http://localhost:1313/dad/</guid>
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<description><p>My father left when I was six and never stopped leaving. At school events, scheduled visits, personal lows, I scanned the crowd for his face and didn&rsquo;t find it. I grew used to his absence and started to resent the appearances he made; when he did show up, I&rsquo;d wish he hadn&rsquo;t. At my college graduation, he parted with the gift, &ldquo;I&rsquo;m glad you&rsquo;re not a fuck up like me,&rdquo; turning my achievements into his own deluded, narcissistic pursuit of sympathy. He at least — and unwittingly — stumbled upon a truth: I succeeded despite his example and influence. Never because of it.</p></description>
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</item>
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<item>
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<title></title>
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<link>http://localhost:1313/drafts/turning-30/</link>
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<pubDate>Mon, 25 Nov 2024 23:56:38 -0500</pubDate>
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<guid>http://localhost:1313/drafts/turning-30/</guid>
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<description><p>My thirtieth birthday party, the day before my actual turn from one decade to the next, was a beautiful night. My mom, both pre-emptively staking out her territory as an Italian-American grandmother and (past but an adverb?) fulfilling regrets at never having been able to throw me a childhood party, brought too much food and snacks and love — or staying up and out past the early afternoon, which is a kind of love for us; my friends, older than me in years and with busy families and schedules, brought wisdom and comfort in growing older gracefully; and my friends closer in age drove great distances to celebrate <em>me</em> — or at least, with me.</p></description>
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</item>
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</channel>
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</rss>
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