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Your self is a property with a very long perimeter.
A letter to nine-year-old me, on my thirty-ninth birthday
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Feel something
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The slowest year of my life
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Gardens in winter
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Cleanliness is next to
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Some days are expensive
At the bustling farmers’ market — surrounded by babies and dogs and the heady scent of fir trees for sale — I eat a sliver of Evercrisp off a toothpick. “Don’t ask me where they get the names,” says the man who moves among the apples, fluffing plastic bags and wedging
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"Does this do anything?"
Two Friends Books in Bentonville, AR. Mural by Kenza. I flew down to Bentonville, AR, for a week. I do and don’t want to tell you all about it. Thing is, I’m not writing a diary, I’m writing a guardrail. Keeping a lamp burning. I’m reaching
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Divinity School
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We never arrive, but
The weather is up and down. There is no one day when you put away one coat, and take out another. Instead we keep all our coats close to hand. Coats of different weights and lengths, like pencils. And gloves, and hats. We line the wide windowsills with blankets, so
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