Beautiful Puglia!

Serendipitously, we veered towards the Adriatic coast after our plans to spend time in Sicily we derailed and discovered another gorgeous part of southern Italy as far south as Otranto and Gallipoli in the heel of the boot. We also visited Brindisi, Ostuni, Alberobello, Ceglia Messapica, and Lecce, the “Florence of the South.”


This is a story about two writers. A story, in other words, of envy. I met the man at an artists’ colony, and I liked him from the first story I heard him tell, which was about how he’d once been jilted by a blind date, after which he went right out and bought himself some new clothes. He was working on his third book when I met him, but he had no particular interest in talking shop. He read the paper and watched sports on television. He was handsome in a shy, arrogant way, dressed safely but deliberately in his white shirts and black jeans.

He was, I soon learned, struggling.

There may be women out there who do not love this beyond all else in a man, but I’m not one of them.

Read the rest here.


We returned to Ravello filled with such fond memories of our first visit there in 2012 to find it exactly as we remembered it and even better!


Everything You’ll Eat in 2028

Gustave Courbet’s L’Origine du Monde

MAD Watch | Quincy

Rebecca Traister on Female Rage

Juana Olga Barrios | Flores, 2018



Another October. The maples have done their slick trick
of turning yellow almost overnight; summer’s hazy skies
are cobalt blue. My friend has come in from the West,
where it’s been a year of no mercy: chemotherapy, bone
marrow transplant, more chemotherapy, and her hair
came out in fistfuls, twice. Bald as a pumpkin.
And then, the surgeon’s knife.
But she’s come through it all, annealed by fire,
calm settled in her bones like the morning mist in valleys
and low places, and her hair’s returned, glossy
as a horse chestnut kept in a shirt pocket.
Today a red fox ran down through the corn stubble;
he vanished like smoke. I want to praise things
that cannot last. The scarlet and orange leaves
are already gone, blown down by a cold rain,
crushed and trampled. They rise again in leaf meal
and wood smoke. The Great Blue Heron’s returned to the pond,
settles in the reeds like a steady flame.
Geese cut a wedge out of the sky, drag the gray days
behind them like a skein of old wool.
I want to praise everything brief and finite.
Overhead, the Pleiades fall into place; Orion rises.
Great Horned Owls muffle the night with their calls;
night falls swiftly, tucking us in her black velvet robe,
the stitches showing through, all those little lights,
our little lives, rising and falling.

Barbara Crooker | Selected Poems, 2015

Juana Olga Barrios | Domus, 2018


My mother had a bachelor cousin a good deal younger than her, who used to visit us on the farm every summer. He brought along his mother, Aunt Nell Botts. His own name was Ernie Botts. He was a tall, florid man with a good-natured expression, a big square face, and fair curly hair springing straight up from his forehead. His hands, his fingernails were as clean as soap itself; his hips were a little plump. My name for him—when he was not around—was Earnest Bottom. I had a mean tongue.

But I meant no harm. Or hardly any harm.

After Aunt Nell Botts died Ernie did not come to visit anymore, but he always sent a Christmas card.

Read the rest here.

Juana Olga Barrios | Amalfi, 2018


Beautiful, handmade pottery by artisans based in Asheville, North Carolina.



Meghan Daum | Nuance: A Love Story

The Uses and Misuses of Identity

Ireland’s Rising Star | Sally Rooney

Jane Fonda @ 80

Juana Olga Barrios | Domus, 2018