But it never worked that way, and the sex just made her lonelier. I understood that, as it had made me lonelier too. I could never remember being lonely, certainly not in this way, until I had seen the edge of the ways you could be with another person, which brought up all the myriad ways that person could never be there for you.


But Lucy had been alone too much of her life, and in her loneliness she had constructed a vision of what a perfect relationship would look like. Love, in her imagination, was so dazzling, so tender and unconditional, that anything human seemed impossibly thin by comparison. Lucy’s loneliness was breathtaking in its enormity…she was trapped in a room full of mirrors, and every direction she looked in she saw herself, her face, her loneliness. She couldn’t see that no one else was perfect either, and that so much of love was the work of it. She had worked on everything else. Love would have to be charmed.


I was never happier than on the nights we stayed home, lying on the living room rug. We talked about classes and poetry and politics and sex. Neither of us were in love with the Iowa Writers’ Workshop, but it didn’t really matter because we had no place else to go. What we had was the little home we made together, our life in the ugly green duplex. We lived next door to a single mother named Nancy Tate who was generous in all matters. She would drive us to the grocery store and give us menthol cigarettes and come over late at night after her son was asleep to sit in our kitchen and drink wine and talk about Hegel and Marx. Iowa City in the eighties was never going to be Paris in the twenties, but we gave it our best shot.



What a beautiful, heartbreaking memoir about the friendship between writers Ann Patchett and Lucy Grealy.



God speaks to each of us as he makes us,
then walks with us silently out of the night.

These are the words we dimly hear:

You, sent out beyond your recall,
go to the limits of your longing.
Embody me.

Flare up like a flame
and make big shadows I can move in.

Let everything happen to you: beauty and terror.
Just keep going. No feeling is final.
Don’t let yourself lose me.

Nearby is the country they call life.
You will know it by its seriousness.

Give me your hand.

Rainer Maria Rilke | Go to the Limits of Your Longing

Georgia O’Keefe | Blue Line


RIP, In Memory of Betty Maloof




This made me laugh

Frank Bruni | Get Out + Ivanka

Gj | Gjusta + Gjelina + Travis Lett

Dana Schutz causing a fuss at the Whitney Biennial

George W Bush | Our Presidential Painter

RIP | Derek Walcott + Reliving the Poetry of DW

Who is Kory Stamper?

Lillian Bassman | photograph




10 IS THE NEW 14

The Future is indeed FEMALE


I understand the horse
who spooks
when the blue tarp
catches the air,
and snaps,
like the flag at the starting
gate. We hang on
to what we learn in the saddle,
or get thrown. Win or lose,
the track turns
a full circle. It’s only yesterday
in Brooklyn,
before you left, the tattoo fresh
on the inside
of your equine lip.
Considering the odds
you ran a good race,
high strung and blinkered,
feet never touching
the ground. The ground
never rising to meet
your pace. How fast
can you go
on the wrong footing?
I never watch
the Oscars, still knuckling over
the high hurdles.
Silly filly. I thought the prize was real
but not the price.
I thought I was stone motherless,
and lame. But here we are
in the arena,
this new horse, Apollo, and me.
It’s the long shot
who can write their own ticket.
So, we’ll take it.

~ Mia Sara

Juana Olga Barrios | Que Chévere, 2013


Ugh . . .”-(

Her Modern Love article from March 5th | You May Want to Marry My Husband

Her obituary.




Meet the woman who staffs one of the best restaurants in San Francisco with ex-felons. ♥


I have left my wife at the airport,
flying out to help our daughter
whose baby will not eat.
And I am driving on to Kent
to hear some poets read tonight.

I don’t know what to do with myself
when she leaves me like this.
An old friend has decided to
end our friendship. Another
is breaking it off with his wife.

I don’t know what to say
to any of this—Life’s hard.
And I say it aloud to myself,
Living is hard, and drive further
into the darkness, my headlights
only going so far.

I sense my own tense breath, this fear
we call stress, making it something else;
hiding from all that is real.

As I glide past Twin Lakes,
flat bodies of water under stars,
I hold the wheel gently, slowing my
body to the road, and know again that
this is just living, not a trauma
nor dying, but a lingering pain
reminding us that we are alive.

Larry Smith | A River Remains

Juana Olga Barrios | Mykonos, 2012