Chemin d’Arroutix this week

September 25, 2014 § Leave a comment

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I knew I found a good place when my boyfriend texted, “Is there electricity at the farm?  All your photos are so dark.”  Overnight, fall happened. Which means it’s even darker. Which means I’m even more obsessed with the shadows here. September, you’re unreal. Our farewell to summer was eating raw oysters, pâté, and drinking bottles of Tête de Mule on a rainy afternoon. And now there’s cold air and the excuse to put lavender infused honey in everything. My god, the honey.  On a closing note, I knew I found a good boyfriend when he texted, “Come back…I’ll buy you a damn farm if that’s what you want.” Again, sweet.

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Le Basterot

September 23, 2014 § Leave a comment

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Once upon a time a friend had too much pastis or slow gin or rosé and invited the two of us to fancy-ass french estate managed by our boss’s uncle.  The following afternoon, to our great surprise,  Bertrand (said Uncle, who, by the way, fell asleep in my bed at 4pm during mentioned party. A Lil’ nap never hurt anyone- we understand, Bertrand.) and his wife arrived to collect us. It was a day full of feel. listen. remember. enjoy. all. of. this. moments but mostly a lot of pretending we were aristocrats. The house itself was a kind of conversation and the actual conversations had were ones I’m afraid my generation lacks too often. About chance. About suffering. About family. About place. And between all of it, laughing until we couldn’t feel our bellies. We left in a kind of magical stupor. Who doesn’t want that?

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On Writing While Away

September 18, 2014 § Leave a comment

I love written notes.  I love them for their practicality and purpose.  I love them because I’m used to them.  Some I save (one from mom on Christmas morning, circa 2008:  “Santa’s helper wants to sleep for X amount of time.” posted at the staircase), some read once, others repeatedly, or replaced, or thrown away. Doesn’t matter.  What matters is that the act of writing is, at least for me, an unbreakable habit.  And it’s a good one. Here is a message. Remember it.  Plain and simple.

Which brings me to my next point: there are always going to be things to be reminded of.  And they can’t all be written down. We sometimes cling. We sometimes ignore. We pick and we choose.  Which is pretty much why we write in the first place.  To chisel away the marble as best we can, hoping whatever face underneath can eventually be put on display but not touched. And here (this particular platform), here is where I go after I’ve written in a three-dimensional journal, a legal pad dedicated to lists and foreign language scribbles, through iphone inbox/notepad, emails, etc. What surfaces here are echoes of the most important, most exciting, most sentimental things as I encounter them.  I don’t need them to be anything else.

Which brings me to my actual point:  I’m afraid of brag blogging.  I do not want to brag. I have just written a paper note saying, “Do not brag,” which will nuzzle itself into a pile of other reminders like “stop apologizing so often,” and “turn light on for baby chicks,” and “email grandma”. But when I post something like Last Saturday I walked to Spain I semi-cringe realizing whatever pride/excitement in doing so is overshadowed by boastfulness.  Which is never the blogger’s, or writer’s, or person-doing-something’s point.  There is a difference between writer and reader, but I do not want that difference to be a disconnect. Mostly, I do not want these messages to be lost in translation. I am in Berenx one more week then I’m traveling elsewhere. I am relentlessly grateful. I am proud of my experiences because I worked hard in order to have them. I was taught to appreciate a good thing when I see it. I feel encouraged to write the good things down. I’m not at all sorry for that.

Where said writing happens. Read as: where I mostly scroll Fashion Week posts instead.

Where said writing happens. Read as: where I mostly scroll Fashion Week posts.

Where Am I?

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