Archive for August 11th, 2011

August 11, 2011

My new favorite place…

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I’ve found my new favorite place. The library. Do we really need our own copy of every book we want to read? How could I have forgotten such simplicity? Blinded by a fascination with bookstores, I had forgotten this concept. I remembered today while searching for quiet place to sit, WIFI enabled, to read or write over my lunch breaks. Starbucks is close enough, but it’s bound to be packed. Besides, they are beginning to frown on lingering – which is something I understand from a business perspective, but their new rules pretty much destroy the ambiance of a coffee shop.

Hemingway likely wouldn’t have written as much as he did, especially in Paris, if he wasn’t allowed to linger in coffee shops.

Lingering Laptop Users Wear Out Starbucks Welcome

I guess we will just have to go back to writing with a pen and paper, which brings up another topic. Why on earth are they removing cursive writing from schools? I won’t even start on that rant. It might not end. I only have 26 minutes left in this particular box of the day.

So I hoofed the three city blocks to the public library in my patent pumps, iPad in tow, and had a bright teal library card in my hand a mere ten minutes later. The poetry section beckons, but we’ll save that for another day. I already have an impressive stack of books-to-read-before-I-die towering so high in my office that my fiancĂ© considers wearing a safety helmet in there…especially when the cats are around. Books are food for the writer’s soul – how cliche of me.

August 11, 2011

Stealing Beauty

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Lucy longed for her Italian lover-to-be.

This afternoon while I was having a very unromantic, yet passionate, battle with the roots of some sort of gorilla-grass plant that has made it’s home in my front bed – my mind drifted back to a movie I watched when I was 16. Lucy’s poet-mother committed suicide and she bolted to Italy to find herself, and her father. The scenes were breathtaking. I wanted to go to Italy then and there. I wanted to be the emotionally raw and bright eyed Lucy writing letters to an Italian boy, and losing her virginity under an olive tree. The artist in me yearned, and the romantic in me had found a new, stubborn standard.

These little flashbacks remind me of what a wonderful journey this life has been – and how domestic this artist-heart has become. Main street and mainstream ways. The speed of life steals the beauty in our moments.