My pen died in Starbucks today. Why do we use such harsh language when talking about inanimate objects? A thing cannot die if it never lived. My pen ran out of ink in Starbucks today. I was working a rare early shift in the next town over, which meant catching a bus too early because the next one would be too late. I had a grande blonde roast with soy milk, and I was going to do my regular morning writing practice, but my pen ran out of ink barely seven minutes into the twenty minute timer. If you know “morning pages,” you know Julia Cameron prescribes three pages written longhand. I ask Siri for a twenty minute timer because my notebooks are not always the same size. Some months, I might be getting off light. I like twenty minutes. It’s short enough to feel doable most times of the day, but long enough that some good stuff comes out near the end. I find the good stuff usually waits until the end, until you’ve given up. The first five minutes is fluff. The second five is complaining. By the third, you’re wandering lost. But in the last five minutes, your brain shuts up and great sentences fall from your fingers.

I’ve been thinking about making salt since I moved down to the beach almost two years ago. But I live up a steep hill from the water, and the thought of lugging containers of sea water all that way was enough for me to put it off until now. Until I realised I didn’t need a whole bucket; I only needed a little jar. I filled a pint canning jar with water from the Pacific Ocean. I filtered it with a coffee filter and my pourover cone. I brought it to a quick boil to make sure everything was dead, then poured the water into a shallow dish to sit on my sunniest windowsill. It didn’t quite work. Not enough sun, not enough heat; I don’t know. So, the next time I roasted vegetables, I put the pan in my oven, and then I had salt. I had even more salt than I anticipated. From one pint jar, enough salt to fill the smallest canning jar–125mL. It’s flakier and darker than table salt–white, yes, but with a grey tinge. But it tastes clean. It feels crunchy. It smells like the ocean.

everything on the internet that you cherish is minutes away from becoming over-loved and worn out by millions.

Alex Abad-Santos“Smooth”: 7 questions about the song you were too embarrassed to ask

This quote makes this article sound like a grumpy rant, but it’s really not. It’s an interesting exploration of “the internet nostalgia machine,” but also why we (especially those of us born after 1980) need nostalgia. We need to believe there was a time better than this.

I’ve gone back and forth on this–wondering why the internet obsesses over the past instead of making new things for the future–because I love remixes and mashups of my favourite stuff from the ’90s. At 35, I cringe when I see plaid shirts and tiny backpacks are already back in style for teenagers, but listening to my favourite high school songs also makes me happy.

Depression is worrying about the past, while anxiety is worrying about the future. Therapy teaches you how to live in the present, but it’s not easy to stay there when present culture is so obsessed with the past, even those who weren’t there.