Apparently, then, our lifelong nostalgia, our longing to be reunited with something in the universe from which we now feel cut off, to be on the inside of some door which we have always seen from the outside, is no mere neurotic fancy, but the truest index of our real situation. And to be at last summoned inside would be both glory and honour beyond all our merits and also the healing of that old ache.
Bruce Davidson, Subway Series, 1980′s
Spending the last day in the #MuseumTrenches getting everything ready for #TheTruce.
I think of reading a book as no less an experience than travelling or falling in love.
(Source: borgesiana)
Advocate Harbor. Nova Scotia.
It sees multiple generations; sometimes hand-in-hand, exploring the past. Great lessons from great wars. In the eyes of the visitors who come through those bronze doors, you can spot the glazing over as they roam in the middle of displays, not seeing the stories weaving. They do so almost intentionally. War is too hard to comprehend. I don’t blame them. They choose to be tourists instead. Hashtag devastation. Others have furrowed brows as they begin to feel the essence of the struggle… the fight to be human. The orphan child. The epidemic. The 18-yr-old who had fallen in love with the world and was forced to shoot it up. Iron… honey… gold… as the poet said. The old veteran volunteer tries to explain to a group of young kids. They laugh amongst themselves as they face back to the glare of their screens. They don’t know yet that history repeats itself.
Please hear me, Girl: The world has enough women who know how to do their hair. It needs women who know how to do hard and holy things.
Rediscovered handwritten essay, quotes, and poems on the blank end pages of my childhood copy of Tennyson. 1917. Strange to have forgotten what was once so familiar.
Three Hours for Lunch Club, Fulton Street & Walt Whitman, A Letter to a Sea Captain, the Rudeness of Poets, and lighthearted paragraphing.
Holiday stop at the tobacconist for some maduros.
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