Morning Report

March 4, 2015 § 2 Comments

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This is what my bed looks like when I’m celebrating grad school acceptance. For the record, it’s okay to love fashion magazines and modern poetry. To stay up late watching reality television and writing panels on Youtube. To plan trips to see old buildings and to plan trips to hear authors, poets, musicians open their mouths. To be a coffee person and a tea person. Or a graduate who misses class.  I’m celebrating something I’m proud of (like really proud of!!!!!) with green juice and these cookies. Do both.

This Calls for Another Love Story

February 13, 2015 § Leave a comment

The beautiful creatures over at A.Payne featured my musings on Love and Valentines day and whatever it is that we define as a love story. My current love story is eating granola and dropping it into my laptop keyboard while Danny makes coffee and talks back to the television. Happy Friday, friends.

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Here’s a little peek, but you’ll have to read the entire post here. Spoiler alert: Hair rollers. Heart robe. Holding my cat. « Read the rest of this entry »

Belated

February 5, 2015 § 4 Comments

Partay_0(1)A little over a year ago, I made this space on the internet. I needed an outlet to store photos of my boyfriend’s band and I thought people cared as much as I did about coffee and juicing (some do!). Anyway- I’m thrilled to have had this baby for one rotation around the sun. Thanks to all who have been reading. You’ve been a source of nonstop inspiration since day one, when I published my first post as a break from writing a long final paper for my very last undergrad film class. I miss that one bedroom apartment, that being twenty, sleep deprived and starting to understand that the world is mine to thoroughly explore. To travel. To love. To feel for. The blogging sphere is a small part of it, and I’m happy to be here. End rant. xoxoxo.

What Happens These Mornings

November 14, 2014 § Leave a comment

I wake up and it’s pink. The sun rises in Normandy in jewel tones. No lie. Or at least it does on the mornings I stop and notice it. Like a cartoon character, I wear one outfit: white crewneck t-shirt, black v-neck sweater, boyfriend jeans, a beige cable knit wool sweater of unknown origin (from a thrift store in The Isle of Mull), work boots, a watch. I read a poem from a particle blue book. I eat breakfast which is a third of a baguette with butter and a homemade jam (rhubarb, raspberry, peach, red-plum, blackberry, snozberry) , black coffee, and one glass of raw, unpasteurized milk. I chat with the sixty-four year old woman who lets me live in her house and work for her. After breakfast, I open the door to the chicken (and two ducks) coop, where they fly out without flying. They’re loud. Then I do the same thing, but on a separate part of the property. I walk past the Billy goat named Bebe, through a series of wooden gates, past the vegetable garden, past four apple trees, past a green lawn surrounded by trimmed hedges (like every fairy tale I ever wanted), and I let two geese out of their home. They are also loud. There is a donkey in a field and donkey’s are gorgeous which is a thing I didn’t know. On Monday, it pressed its giant donkey head against a crumbling stonewall and stayed there for a long, long time. Which was both depressing and adorable. I pick the apples that have fallen overnight. I walk to the stable and climb a pile of logs and throw them down near a wheelbarrow. I do this one at a time because my arms are pretty weak and also because this motion, the selecting and throwing the logs, is beyond therapeutic. I wheelbarrow the wood to the house and I feed them to a cobalt-blue enamel wood-burning stove. If you think it’s impossible for a human to love a stove, you’re mistaken. It’s a really pretty stove. And then I do whatever needs to be done, which varies. There is no such thing as clean fingernails in my narrative now.  And the day goes on and eventually I’m in the parlor reading or I’m running on the shore of a famous part of the coast or I’m listening to someone incredibly generous talk to me about her children, fabric, fisherman or I’m making tea or I’m staring at the stove. And it’s very, very nice.

The Girl, She Moves

October 4, 2014 § Leave a comment

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The first thing I wrote in Glasgow was, “I do not want to live in the U.K. and hate myself.” Which, reading now, seems dramatic. And, maybe not directly but definitely inspired by the first line of Lena Dunham’s book, which I read with lightening speed and a swelling heart.  But here’s the thing: I left France sobbing. Instead of taking street style photos of cool girls in Paris going to and from Fashion Week shows, I cried in my hotel room and occasionally got up to look at the Eiffel tower sparkling. More drama. Mass text I sent: “I miss a farm, bad.”

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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.

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