August Collectibles
Collectibles is a monthly series of content in various forms, consumed at different times and on various occasions, reunited by a Zettelkasten-like logic residing somewhere in my mind.
As we descended the mountains, a sense of dread settled over me. Months of visual and acoustic pollution and the dystopian cityscape lay ahead, with no escape in sight. Never before had I felt such an intense longing for a field of velvety grass and a row of cirmoli* quietly standing beside a narrow path.
I was reluctant to face Milan’s asphalt and confine myself once again to the few square meters of our apartment. My entire being clung desperately to the vision of Alpine pastoral scenes. A mountain is made of silence, woven from the deep darkness of impenetrable nights and the looming, imminent skies.
The inspiration for this month’s collectibles came effortlessly. Images, both real and imagined over the years, began to connect, forming a vivid correlation with what I had just experienced and was unwilling to leave behind.
Listen
Cultivating Place with Jennifer Jewell
What I initially perceived as curiosity turned out to be a need. Last winter and spring, I attended some of the Climate Café meetings that Camilla and her colleagues organized monthly. I was intrigued by what surfaced as I listened to the other participants, and I gradually became aware of a long-neglected need. I had been nature-deprived for years, and it was beginning to show.
Around that time, I started listening to podcasts about nature. It’s so heartening to know that somewhere, someone is in touch with natural elements in an authentic way, experiencing all four seasons in their fullness. Recently, I stumbled upon another little gem. In Cultivating Place, host Jennifer Jewell speaks with growers, gardeners, naturalists, scientists, artists, and thinkers about the interconnectedness of all life, exploring what it truly means to garden. These conversations inspire daydreaming, often evoking rich descriptions of nature. It’s the perfect listening experience for late evenings, when the world falls silent and asleep.
Read
Silent Spring by Rachel Carson
I doubt this one needs much of an introduction. I read Silent Spring a few years ago, during my first year of maternity—a time when my vulnerability to the state of the world was heightened. In retrospect, perhaps it wasn’t the wisest choice for someone who was already deeply attuned to the fragility of life, but the book left an indelible mark on me.
Silent Spring, first published in 1962, was groundbreaking. Rachel Carson, a marine biologist and nature writer, meticulously unveiled the devastating impact of unregulated pesticide use, particularly DDT, on wildlife, ecosystems, and ultimately human health. Carson's work was met with fierce resistance, especially from chemical companies, and the book was initially dismissed as alarmist, even banned in some places. But it sparked a profound shift in public consciousness and is widely credited with launching the modern environmental movement.
I often think of her courage—writing and standing up for truth at a time when women’s voices in science were often marginalized, all while battling terminal illness. Sixty years after its publication, Silent Spring remains not only a cornerstone of environmental literature but also one of the most relevant books to read in our lifetime.
Watch
Land
Choosing to watch Land might not be the best decision if you’re particularly sensitive to stories about loss and grief. The film delves deeply into themes of mourning and isolation, portraying a woman who retreats to the wilderness after a profound personal tragedy. The emotional weight of the narrative can be quite intense, especially if you already grappling with similar feelings. However, it was only through Robin Wright’s exceptional directorial mastery that I was able to navigate the anxiety and discomfort that arose from my own sense of immersion with the protagonist’s struggles.
Despite the film’s heavy themes, Land offers a sense of catharsis, illustrating how nature can be both a harsh adversary and a nurturing force. It’s a story of survival—not just against the elements, but against the all-consuming pain of loss.
What have you entertained your strained attention with lately that you could gleefully add to an imaginary memorabilia?