Some days a slice of toasted rye bread is a beautiful thing, and the butter carries with it all the comfort and safety of your childhood home.


I’ve been having a weird few weeks where I wish I smoked cigarettes. I don’t actually want to smoke them though—just hold them between my fingers. They seem kinda perfect for a variety of situations I’ve found myself in lately: Fidgeting. Gazing out the window at the snow. Sitting around in underwear and a tank top singing along to the same Pearl Jam song thirty times in a row, daydreaming about the late-night dregs of some backyard party when the stragglers are all sitting around a table not eating the last of the food, and there’s a string of little white lights in the background. Maybe some bats in the sky. Flecks of ash and ember.

My Year in Books: 2013

I’ve always been the kind of person to push through and finish any book I start. Last year I let some people convince me I didn’t “have to” do that. As a consequence, I only read eight books all year. That’s just 2/3 of a book each month.

I Love You Here

Something about the weather early this morning brought this Neruda poem to mind.

To be barefoot and step on a warm patch of rug where the sunlight didn’t used to fall even a few days ago: I got your picture on the back of a 45 / a placeholder till you take up mine.

One of those days. My heart and my hands want to write but my brain says “……….”

One of the things I miss about living in West Philly is how it was OK to bring your own Pyrex containers when you got takeout.

Poetry critique before work this morning. I make a note about a line and wish I had gone through a songwriting phase when I was younger. The window’s closed, but I’m pretty sure the air outside smells like I should be wearing a sweater. If mornings could be people I would sit out on the front steps next to this one and drink tea, and it would drink coffee, and we’d stare out at nothing particular for a few quiet minutes before we each stood up to start our days.

“Most of what makes a book ‘good’ is that we’re reading it at the right moment for us.” —Alain de Botton

Just found the cutest little library ever. It’s in an old house, impossible to find, and overflowing with books and fliers. Like a West Philly bookshop except there are no cats and almost everything is free.