New England in the fall, and also the quintessential Instagram picture. I’m so proud.
“You can see how this book has reached a great boundary that was called 1900. Another hundred years were ground up and churned, and what had happened was all muddied by the way folks wanted it to be—more rich and meaningful the farther back it was.”
John Steinbeck, East of Eden
“The years go by, and I’ve told the story so many times that I’m not sure anymore whether I actually remember it or whether I just remember the words I tell it with… At this point, what difference does it make whether it was me or some other man that saw Moreira killed.”
Jorge Luis Borges, “The Night of the Gifts” (Trans. Andrew Hurley)
My senior year of college, I lived in an apartment next to an old cemetery.
The cemetery had headstones and crypts that dated back to the 18th century. Several of them belonged to the college’s first students. I always wondered whether they willingly chose to be buried there out of devotion to the college, or whether academic rigor got to them before they could graduate. I typically assumed the latter.
The cemetery was mostly green and wooded. Parts of it were steep, and it even had a ravine dividing it down the middle. With its tall trees and eery voices, the graveyard was hauntingly beautiful. During the fall and spring, I used to take a shortcut through the cemetery. I was drawn to the tranquility and quiet, and of course, the dining hall on the other side. I told myself it was a shortcut, but I still doubt if it actually was. I had to climb down a sharp incline then up another hill to get across, usually taking about as much effort as just walking around the cemetery. I never dared to take the path during winter, lest I came across winter gnomes, shout in surprise, then slip, break a leg, and freeze to death. Continue reading
Swimming is a confusing sport, because sometimes you do it for fun, and other times you do it to not die. And when I’m swimming, sometimes I’m not sure which one it is.
I stand on the edge of the pool and jump.
Nothing is more sad than the death of an illusion.
― Arthur Koestler
Mrs. Henderson was clearly losing the battle against her yard. Weeds had taken over most of it, and the overgrown grass hid a few newspapers scattered across the lawn.
Kate sighed as she picked up yet another newspaper on her driveway. She lazily threw it over the fence to join the others on Mrs. Henderson’s yard. To the dismay of both women, the Tribune never seemed to deliver the paper to the right house. Even after numerous complaints.
All Kate wanted to do was take off her heels and relax in front of the television with a glass of wine, which is exactly what she did. It had been a lousy Monday.
Good friend for Jesus’ sake forbear,
To dig the dust enclosed here.
Blessed be the man that spares these stones,
And cursed be he that moves my bones.
-William Shakespeare’s Epitaph
You can go through your whole childhood always believing one story. Then one day, you grow up, start a blog, publicly post said story, only to uncover a decade’s old mystery that is now threatening to tear your family apart.
Confused? Yeah, me too.
A dog teaches a boy fidelity, perseverance, and to turn around three times before lying down.
I can already feel people won’t like this post. Before you start calling me names, I hope you read the whole post before unleashing your fury in the comments section.
These days, my idea of living dangerously is going grocery shopping without a list.
-Someone on the internet
I already shared this story on Facebook, but I thought the event was humorous enough to repost on here. Enjoy!
“Tell me what you see,” he said.
“Okay. There’s a pole about 10 ft. in front of us, and behind the pole, is the ocean,” she responded calmly.
“Yeah the ocean. It’s big and all around us. I think the sun will be setting soon too.”
“Oh, is there a beach?” he asked and gripped his white cane a little tighter.
“No, not really,” she said. “Between the pole and the ocean there’s a bunch of big rocks that lead down to the water.”
He breathed deeply and felt the ocean breeze play with his hair. Then, he put his arm around her shoulders. “Tell me what you see.”
“I see you…”
And he leaned in for a kiss.
I thought about naming this post “Great Expectations,” but I didn’t want to deal with angry, disappointed Dickens groupies, asking about ruin in the Victorian novel.
But this post IS about expectations. Here’s a tale as old as two years ago, during my “wild” college days in Buenos Aires. The story has all the makings of a mediocre film: late night adventures in a foreign city, a charismatic group of friends, and a chance at love.*