Ambling within the Morikami pathway truly embodied the word amble. Relaxed. Unrushed. Beneath the intermittent sun-cloud dance so typical of Florida afternoons, I brushed past overhanging flower bushes, peeked through clusters of bamboo knocking against one another like hollow drums, clicked my camera when appropriate. Time was unhurried here, measured in footsteps and cycles of bright and shadow, the background music fountains and cicadas and the crunches of wild animals flitting or themselves meandering in the underbrush. Continue reading “photobook | fort lauderdale, pt 2: morikami museum & japanese gardens”
The venture east to the Atlantic Coast: a barren rustic mind-numbing diagonal segue speckled with cows, occasional cargo trains huffing through threads of brush, a roadside meat smoker here and there with pluming black clouds curling upwards. Continue reading “roam | west palm/jupiter & fort lauderdale, pt 1: coffee”
I take my own screw-ups far too seriously. When I’m wrong or in the wrong, the inner marshmallow plumes: I’m stripped of indifference, I apologize profusely, I want to right everything at once and mellow tempers and for the remainder of the day I dwell on the error even if it was minute & forgotten by the other party in five seconds. I suppose, then, that writing is partway so appealing because of the delete button. Retry. The writing won’t hold a grudge. This lentil recipe, too. Forgiveness between cook & cuisine is valuable like forgiveness between humans.
Emotionally messy – a series of moods coalescing with the week I traversed St. Petersburg. No mighty minotaur skewered the brain cells, really. I merely slipped on one of those tangles of anxiety which will only recede when dealt multiple uppercuts of patience, persistent patience. I find that leaving town can sometimes relieve both those symptoms and the general jitters of wanderlust. I’m settling into a pattern of weekly local explorations and this acquaintance is a welcome one. St. Pete. Next week, who knows. But it’ll be a lick of freshness. Continue reading “photobook | dali museum + demens landing park + intermezzo”
Every time I plan a “luxurious” day-off breakfast for myself, the day of I abandon the notion entirely and prep some old reliable staple: a bowl of yogurt, warmed oatmeal, a frothy smoothie or a crisp peanut butter-slathered toast, as opposed to the stack of pancakes or maple-ribboned french toast I envision. I guess that points to my overall simplistic mindset, my fixation with routine, familiarity – a crutch sometimes but a comfort most. Occasionally, I gently lean against normality. I twist the juice out of the rinds until something a bit more imaginative comes up. Cue this, a bite of tangy citrus grated and squeezed into a normal day-to-day oat bowl. “Luxurious” enough. Certainly fulfilling enough. Continue reading “oats with mandarin, yogurt, blueberries & dark chocolate”
Stagnancy burns my soul. My bones and muscles physically hurt when I’ve sat/lied too long in bed or elsewhere. I’ve noted that the aches of stillness versus of movement feel so different. The former manifests as an itch, twitching restless leg syndrome, internal bouncing. The latter is deeper, satisfactory. DOMS which raises endorphins and cravings for more miles. Broaden these feelings to my unquenchable desire to explore, local or a little less local, Tampa or Orlando, a cruise across I-4 or a north-or-south set of turns down exits. Just get me in a driver’s seat, and I’m happier.
Here in Denver none of my footfalls ended in me shattering my tailbone. I think residing in Sweden for six months, much of it in the brunt of winter, prepared me for snowy sidewalks and hidden clumps of ice and the stray zephyr to find some flaw in my bundled attire. I expected Denver’s 10-30 degree days to bite, but I expected deeper toothmarks. My extremities were likely the worst off. My socks ripped on day one, and I used them later not to protect my toes but to scrub scarlet hair dye off a pillowcase. Continue reading “city guide | denver, co.”
“A run into 2017” is probably a more appropriate title, considering my preferred method of mobility this morning. Happy New Year to all, old readers and new, casual virtual passersby and lovely familiars. We made it to a new string of 365. I’m glad to be here. January hangs at my elbows and as I write a coffee keeps me company in a local Starbucks (yes, between craft shops I also frequent a couple of my favorite locations of this ubiquitous chain). A slow bustle hums into my ears: a thump of instrumentals, a barista calling a name, an older gentleman licking his finger & flipping the ear of a newspaper corner. Tranquil. Continue reading “a walk into 2017”
A weekend barely satisfied my San Diego itch. Yet I felt amazed at all my sister & I accomplished over the short period we were together. Day one found us perusing the downtown district, specifically the Gaslamp & Seaport Village, tasting mimosas and huevos rancheros and biding time with coffee in our hands. We also spent an embarrassing amount of time in the little white Chevy rental recharging our phones and dabbling in bizarre conversations. As we do. Continue reading “explorations | san diego pt. 2: south park, north park & breweries”
I only recently wrangled up a fondness for beer. The hoppy, malty, fizz-and-pop delight seems to deter many a person my age, and a taste is only acquired after long experimentation and a sort of “aha” moment in which one realizes shit, this is actually not bad. Going to Europe and tasting beer several levels above the watery infraction that is Bud Light helped me acquire a taste for the beverage. A good quality type of anything can change someone’s opinion of a whole, be it drinks, jeans, books, colors, or human beings. Continue reading “Beer bread: honey + cheddar”