The Longest Night (Literally, It's the Solstice)

It started with the book. I've been reading Mary Renault's The King Must Die, picked it up from the used bin at the bookstore weeks ago, finally cracked it last Tuesday, and there's a section in the middle about ritual and ancient Greek burial customs that sent me sideways in the best possible way.

I looked up one thing. Just one. And then it was midnight and I was on my fourth browser tab reading about Victorian mourning jewelry, specifically hair art, the way people would weave a dead person's hair into brooches and bracelets, preserve it under glass, and I had this feeling I get sometimes where I can't tell if I'm horrified or fascinated and the answer is obviously both. The book was sitting face-down on the armrest. The laptop had been open for two hours. The plant on the kitchen windowsill, she is, for the record, still alive, still vertical, seemingly unbothered by my erratic schedule, was the only witness.

deep in it

Here's what I've decided about rabbit holes: they always end with you feeling slightly smarter and also like you've lost something you won't get back. Tonight that something was two hours and whatever productive thing I was theoretically going to do before bed. Worth it. December twenty-first, which is apparently the longest night of the year, the winter solstice, I also looked that up, and I spent it reading about death rituals and Victorian grief accessories. There are worse ways to mark the dark.

the evidence

I did eventually close all the tabs. I wrote a note to myself that said 'hair brooch, look into this more' and then felt immediately unsure what I meant by that. The book is good, though. If you've read Renault, tell me which one to read next, I have a feeling I'm about to acquire a small shelf of her.