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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in praise of a boring life

"In relation to my blog, I suppose I've had a bit of an identity crisis. My vision of stories included visiting exotic cities, meeting strangers, strolling world markets, sleeping in shabby hostels, and cultivating a fearless spirit. This can't exist anymore. Is there nothing to say? Have the rhythms of domesticity killed all wonder? Should I put my laptop on the shelf and hide my notebooks?"

from newlywed to retiree: on places, and what it means to love them

It's interesting what we block out when we dream of or anticipate a place.

We must ignore the great unspooled ribbon of mind-numbing highway. The ugly big-box stores. The cloud cover that renders a day as colorless as a lump of pizza dough.

Sometimes I think we reserve those kinds of stringent observations for home: to criticize what we are used to and tired of.

travel notebook: alone in italia, day two

Cinque Terre teems with tourists. Scattered about the rocks like camera-happy penguins, people are: sinking into squats for the photo angle showing their 'best side' crunching on fried things served in cones dripping gelato (and offering bites to their dogs) brandishing walking sticks like weapons, the hallmark of the serious hiker carrying hot cardboard boxes …

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