Écrire est un acte d'amour. S'il ne l'est pas, il n'est qu'écriture.
(Jean Cocteau)
Writing is an act of love. If it isn't that, it is nothing but handwriting.
image: Love message on a wall in Italy, 8888jazz
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About Me
- Christie
- Creative writer - Traveler - Archaeologist manque - Ardent lover of the play of light, the journeyings of time, things ephemeral and ancient
Popular Posts
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One of the wall-paintings of Thera, the Minoan city buried in the ash of the eruption of the volcano (thousands of times more violent than... -
Field Guide No one I ask knows the name of the flower we pulled the car to the side of the road to pick and that I poin... -
Some things that make me happy: cool summer mornings wrens grilled eggplant starting a new book the color of nasturtiums May... -
While waiting for the muscat oolong tea to brew this morning, I stood at the stove and took note of the magnets and the m... -
Recipes I'm giving up on, sadly or otherwise: . Leek & Goat's Cheese Picnic Loaf, which sounds delightful for a shady af... -
On my way back from campus, a fine flurry of yellow leaves. Dissettling December . . . image: Christie B. Cochrell, Leaves in Fountain -
It is the time of leaves, of leaving, leaf- and leave-taking. From a poem of the same name, by Louise Bogan— I do not know how we can b... -
Early this morning I happened upon a sun-faded poster in an art store window, put up by a local artist sometime in the spring, offering ar... -
What I’m considering tonight: Roasted cauliflower and Italian sausage spaghetti (whole wheat, of course). The new a... -
Ready to write, the bits of things already saved as Word files catch my eye. Yellow rice with oran...
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