Thursday, September 29, 2011
Wednesday, August 24, 2011
Sunday, July 3, 2011
Monday, June 27, 2011
Wednesday, April 20, 2011
Monday, April 4, 2011
You alone will have the stars as no one else has them. In one of the stars I shall be living. In one of them I shall be laughing. And so it will be as if all the stars were laughing, when you look at the sky at night. You - only you - will have stars that can laugh.
[image via tete perdue]
Saturday, February 26, 2011
Your first family is your blood family and you always be true to that. That means something. But there’s another family and that’s the kind you go out and find. Maybe even by accident sometimes. And they’re as much blood as your first family. Maybe more so, because they don’t have to look out for you and they don’t have to love you. They choose to.
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
Friday, January 28, 2011
Sara Gruen, author of one of my favorite books, wrote the following about Garth Steins' best-seller:
The Art of Racing in the Rain has everything: love, tragedy, redemption, danger, and best of all, the canine narrator Enzo. This old soul of a dog has much to teach to us about being human. I loved this book.One Thursday morning, my boyfriend B picked me up from the airport following an unpleasant evening's worth of travel. I was jet-lagged and grumpy. He took me home, put me to bed, and mandated the remainder of my day would be spent catching up on sleep, and only after, reading The Art of Racing in the Rain. He had placed the book on my pillow, along with a sweet card and a surprise subscription to one of my favorite magazines. He takes great care of me.
I read several chapters that day but turned through the bulk of it on a beach in the Dominican Republic. B warned I would cry. He was wrong though, I didn't just cry. I sobbed for the last fifty pages, my sunscreened face streaked with salted love for Enzo and for our own yellow lab, Myles.
Post-novel, I have grown increasingly aware of the ways B and I can show Mylie love even when we're not home. Id est, leaving her in the melodic care of George Winston and Frank Sinatra, or turning on the Racing Channel, Enzo-style.
If there is only enough time in the final
minutes of the twentieth century for one last dance
I would like to be dancing it slowly with you,
say, in the ballroom of a seaside hotel.
My palm would press into the small of your back
as the past hundred years collapsed into a pile
of mirrors or buttons or frivolous shoes,
just as the floor of the nineteenth century gave way
and disappeared in a red cloud of brick dust.
There will be no time to order another drink
or worry about what was never said,
not with the orchestra sliding into the sea
and all our attention devoted to humming
whatever it was they were playing.
[Billy Collins, Dancing Toward Bethlehem]