Poison Oak’s Interlude
Time passed, and the itch went, and then the rash, and then the scars. But the memory persists.
Endria Richardson is a writer, lawyer, and climber living on Ohlone Land in Oakland.
Time passed, and the itch went, and then the rash, and then the scars. But the memory persists.
Artificial intelligence is not magic, or placeless, or limitless. It is nature: wind, water, coal.
You do not need much to be transported, to become aware of what a city can be, in between its apartment buildings and sidewalks and storefronts.
It is a human impulse to wonder at the limits of what we know through experience alone.
To block a border, a route, a place to sleep, is an attempt to assert a hierarchy of beings.
Where violence is overtaken by greenery.
I was running through my neighborhood the other day when I stopped to say hello to a cat I had never met before.
Endria Richardson, once a climber, recalls communing with the sandstone cliffs of Salt Point State Park.
"Food and resistance," writes columnist Endria Richardson, "might be as simple and sweet as growing your own tomato plant."