Live In Yourself.

Monday, March 28, 2016

Words for Monday, courtesy of Mina Loy: "Forget that you live in houses, that you may live in yourself."




Also, a big thank you for your comments and notes on my last post. It's lovely to be back. My schedule these days has made it a bit of a challenge to post as often as I used to, and after losing my photos, I briefly considered abandoning ship altogether. But because I miss it, I'm going to continue to post when I can (hopefully once a week). I'll also—slowly!—restore images as I go. In the meantime, thanks so much to all of you for your kind words as I've navigated new schedules, rhythms, welcome challenges.

A few recommended reads for the week:
-Exquisite dirt.
-My most recent interview for Sight Unseen, with Ladies & Gentlemen Studio.
-Beautiful words from Ai Bihr, via Apiece Apart: "In Japanese we say, ‘ashita wa asu no kaze ga huku’—tomorrow a new wind blows. Tomorrow is a new day."

Photos via my Instagram.

POV: Protection.

Monday, March 21, 2016

POV ("point of view") is a series that addresses many of the same themes covered in my Equals Record column: growing up, saying yes to adventure, learning to embrace a quarter-life crisis. While my previous column focused largely on ideas, POV focuses on moments - glimpses, glances, tiny stories.

I rode the train Thursday morning, crossing the Williamsburg bridge into Manhattan at rush hour. The car was crowded and overwarm, and I stood wedged in a corner by the door, leaning against it as the train lurched out of the station and over the water.

I read a book and tried to forget that I was late, and hot in my winter coat, and annoyed that no one had thought to offer a seat to the older woman to my left, her arms laden with groceries.

We came to the end of the bridge, descending underground with wheels screaming. As we slowed, the crowd at the station ahead came into view, waiting with necks craned. I returned to my book, my eyelids suddenly heavy.

“Miss,” someone said from across the car. A man with silver hair, stooped under the weight of a duffel bag, was waving at me. “Miss, we’re at Essex Street—the doors open on your side of the train at this stop.”

I was still leaning on the door in a way that must have looked precarious. I stepped forward.

“I didn’t want you to fall,” the man called. “I wasn’t sure if you knew.”

I thanked him. I did know, but I was grateful.

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