Alright, let's do this one last time.

Starting this record again feels a bit like one of the many Spider-beginnings in the Spider-verse movies.

The first movie begins like this,

Spider-Man: Alright, let's do this one last time. My name is Peter Parker. I was bitten by a radioactive spider and for ten years I've been the one and only Spider-Man. I'm pretty sure you know the rest.

I saved a bunch of people, fell in love, saved the city, and then I saved the city again and again and again...Look, I'm a comic book, I'm a cereal, did a Christmas album. I have an excellent theme song. And a so-so popsicle. I mean, I've looked worse. But after everything, I still love being Spider-Man. I mean, who wouldn't? So no matter how many hits I take, I always find a way to come back. Because the only thing standing between this city and oblivion is me. There's only one Spider-Man. And you're looking at him.

Only he's wrong. A few scenes later, we find out that existence is a multiverse. Each parallel universe has its own version of a Spider-Person. And each of those Spider-People is shaped by the unique context of their unique realities. So you have Spider-Man on Earth-50101, Spider-Woman, Spider-Ham, Peni Parker, Noir Spider-Man, Spider-Punk, etc. When each new Spider-Person enters the movie, they use the same template to give their unique introduction,

Alright, let's do this one last time.

Noir Spider-Man: My name is Peter Parker. Peni Parker: My name is Peni Parker. Spider-Ham: My name is Peter Porker. Peni and Peter: I was bitten by a radioactive spider. Spider-Ham: I was bitten by a radioactive pig. Noir Spider-Man: In my universe, it's 1933, and I'm a private eye. I like to drink egg creams, and I like to fight Nazis. A lot. Peni Parker: I'm from New York in the year 3145. I have a psychic link with a spider who lives inside my father's robot. And we're best friends. Forever. Noir Spider-Man: Sometimes I let matches burn down to my fingertips just to feel something, anything. Spider-Ham: I'm a photographer for the Daily Beagle. When I'm not pooching around, I'm working like a dog, trying to sniff out the latest story. I frolic and I dance. And I do this with my pants-

You get it.

I finished chemotherapy seven weeks ago. I finished radiation four weeks ago. At one of my recent check-ins, a kind woman told me I can now get back to my life. I tried to hide my confusion and thanked her. Which me? Which life?

I seem to be experiencing the superposition of parallel versions of myself. There is the Meg who was formed in a reality where I do not have cancer. And there is the Meg who was formed in this reality where I do have cancer. The Meg-Without-Cancer observes by lights that cannot illuminate this reality. And so she can never really encounter this reality. Meanwhile, the Meg-With-Cancer can't seem to escape encountering everything — she is overawed by pain and rest and hope and fear and love and hate and cosmic dawns and the eternity before and after the light.

Both Megs are me. But they interfere with one another. I cannot tell if they become something more together or simply cancel one another out.

Still. Meg-With-Cancer needs to get to work. And so I am here, with you.

It's time to introduce this version of myself. My chemo-damaged brain can't seem to identify the canon events that produced this different version of myself in this different reality. Sure, there was the cancer. Or there is the cancer. But that isn't all. I think there is more, or maybe there is less. I can't quite tell. I just know that when I look up, I am under a different sky.

For now, how about this as a beginning,

Alright, let's do this one last time. My name is Meg Conley. I have wanted to be a writer since I was 6 years old.

I met my best friend in the hallway of a Mormon church when we were both 12 years old. We got married in a Mormon temple when we were 21. He got a degree. I did not. We had three daughters: Margaret Zuzu, Viola Honey, Brontë Fig.

I learned to write at my kitchen table while my children napped. This was not idyllic, I almost lost my mind. My husband and I left the Mormon church when we were 35. We took our daughters with us. I kept writing. My work is taught in universities that would never accept me as a student.

I was diagnosed with triple negative breast cancer in 2025. I was 40 years old. My breasts were amputated. I would cut off any part of my body to stay here with my daughters. I went through aggressive chemo and radiation therapy. I will be heavily monitored for the next few years as recurrence rates are high.

I still want to be a writer.

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Here's how Pocket Observatory will work moving forward

I will publish observations several times a week. I will not send each observation! Why? Because, we’ve all got limited attention and inbox space. So each Friday, I’ll send you a letter with the week’s observations, resources, recommendations and bits of digital ephemera.

You can also log in any time to read the full archive, read new letters on my site or check in on my Pocket Notes microblogging feed. 

I've been revamping my site.

It's got a 90s internet vibe. 8th grade me would have been obsessed with it. More features - including a full-text search bar - are coming! For now I am very excited to share: People Who Help Me See, an incomplete and always expanding catalogue of people who help me see.