Mary Oliver.

Mary Oliver.


Happy World Book Day! (As if we need a special day to love books, but let’s just go with it.) Celebrate with Maira Kalman’s illustrated wisdom. 

Maira Kalman is the best.


Happy World Book Day! (As if we need a special day to love books, but let’s just go with it.) Celebrate with Maira Kalman’s illustrated wisdom

Maira Kalman is the best.

Listen: I am ideally happy. My happiness is a kind of challenge. As I wander along the streets and the squares and the paths by the canal, absently sensing the lips of dampness through my worn soles, I carry proudly my ineffable happiness. The centuries will roll by, and schoolboys will yawn over the history of our upheavals; everything will pass, but my happiness, dear, my happiness will remain, in the moist reflection of a streetlamp, in the cautious bend of stone steps that descend into the canal’s black waters, in the smiles of a dancing couple, in everything with which God so generously surrounds human lonliness.

We were talking about the great things
that have happened in our lifetimes;
and I said, “Oh, I suppose the moon landing
was the greatest thing that has happened
in my time.” But, of course, we were all lying.
The truth is the moon landing didn’t mean
one-tenth as much to me as one night in 1963
when we lived in a three-room flat in what once had been
the mansion of some Victorian merchant prince
(our kitchen had been a clothes closet, I’m sure),
on a street where by now nobody lived
who could afford to live anywhere else.
That night, the three of us, Claudine, Johnnie and me,
woke up at half-past four in the morning
and ate cinnamon toast together.

“Is that all?” I hear somebody ask.

Oh, but we were silly with sleepiness
and, under our windows, the street-cleaners
were working their machines and conversing in Italian, and
everything was strange without being threatening,
even the tea-kettle whistled differently
than in the daytime: it was like the feeling
you get sometimes in a country you’ve never visited
before, when the bread doesn’t taste quite the same,
the butter is a small adventure, and they put
paprika on the table instead of pepper,
except that there was nobody in this country
except the three of us, half-tipsy with the wonder
of being alive, and wholly enveloped in love.

An angel on earth.

An angel on earth.

Dear Polly: How Do I Make My Boyfriend Listen?

This week’s Dear Polly feels very very personal (“SHARP KNIVES NEED TO KNOW THAT WANTING TO BE HEARD IS NOT A CRIME”) and it’s really good.

"Walk away. You have worlds inside you—swirling, colorful, mournful, generous, soaring, hopeful, searing, heartbreaking worlds. You cannot offer just a tiny slice of you. You cannot hold back the flood. You want to share those worlds. You are way too big, too complicated, too glorious and infinitely sad and unspeakably divine. You have to share all of it. Find someone worthy of all of it. Find someone who wants ALL OF IT."

Intermission at the American Ballet, New York CityAlfred Eisenstaedt, 1936

Intermission at the American Ballet, New York City
Alfred Eisenstaedt, 1936

We Can't Stop


Maybe that was part of the reason why going to the Bangerz Tour was so refreshing and yes I will even say life-affirming: Nobody there was trying to debate, like, Ted Gioia’s Daily Beast article between sets. 99+% of the girls (yes, they were mostly girls) there would not know/care about what “rockism” meant, or whatever insider-baseball circle jerk the “music writing community” was engaged in that day. They were just there to freak out over the music they loved.

Such a great essay, and applicable to the larger writing world, too. (And art, and tech, and all these things that allow groups of people to turn inward on themselves: “I have started thinking lately that social media has made us all too connected, has made it too easy to find like-minded people at the expense of unique viewpoints, too easy to burrow into niche conversations and tune out the larger world around you.”

Writer, reader, journalist. 21.

I like road trips, reading everything, making lists and drinking beer on the front porch.


All these things I lived through—the strange and fugitive beauty of the desert and the mountains, the primitive realities, the sky and the sand, so easily dissolving in mysteries and visions. All the quiet common things of the earth I came to love, and the simple and useful human beings—life going on, going on.

— Ray Stannard Baker, American Chronicle