composting the details

While avoiding writing today, I found a book on my shelf from the eighties called "Writing Down the Bones." My copy is yellowed and studded with bookmarks–receipts, clothing tags, and the business card of a Californian sculptor. It's not really my copy, but my grandma's, and the book's history only adds to its mystique. Hundreds …

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old soul: on the charm & melancholy of small towns

For all my love of cities, there is something unspeakably touching about this simplicity, about the kind of place where your child could still ride their bike all around town and promise to be home for dinner. Maybe we shouldn't be too quick to mourn these places; maybe they will evolve and survive. A town's soul, after all, has more to do with its people than with places to buy artisan bread or local beef.

love without locks: a modern pont des arts engagement

I had just arrived in Paris, feeling jet-lagged and haggard. I knew Victor was going to propose–I had just flown to France for the express purpose of becoming his wife–but I didn't know when. I thought it would be the following evening, when I knew we had fancy dinner plans. After stopping at the apartment to change, …

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