We love the analog. The polaroids, the vinyls, the catalogs, the heavy dictionaries, and the recipe books with scribbles in the margins and coffee stains on the pages. We want the slap of a book as the last page is turned. We want the flicker of a beeswax candle. We want the fountain pens gliding over the fresh page. We want the click as the film camera advances. We want the satisfying crinkle of a magazine, one that you practically skipped down the driveway to grab, giddy with anticipation.

We don’t know much about how this online world works, anymore. It feels like a muddled, untraversable terrain. We can’t tell up from down, or right from left — real from fake, human from machine. But the world of the analog still feels pure and untouched in its innocence, protected by its nostalgic effects.

Much of what we love and romanticize about the Pacific Northwest is its tactile quality, the ways that the analog shines. There are maps of hiking trails stored away in kitchen drawers. There are record players that sit near a windowsill, rain pattering away on the glass. There are old wood recipe boxes brimming with ways to use wild blackberries, to preserve fresh garden vegetables, and to roast potatoes, pumpkins, and squash. There are jars of dried wild flowers and driftwood candle holders on the dining room table.

In our Pacific Northwest world, the analog shines.

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