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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On my way back from campus, a fine flurry of yellow leaves. Dissettling December . . . image: Christie B. Cochrell, Leaves in Fountain -
The past makes me much happier than the future, because it’s not nearly as scary. What happened there, horrific as it m... -
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I am drinking lavender white tea, listening to what sounds like a young parrot learning to form words out in the orange t... -
I thought I might like to be a sojourner —a word I’ve come across this morning that is not in my regular vocabulary. I do journ... -
“When spring came, even the false spring, there were no problems except where to be happiest. The only thing that could s... -
Away for the weekend, and gratefully back home here to the coast, where I'm nesting again. Making a chicken and farro salad with... -
When the snow-girt earth Cracks to let through a spurt Of sudden green, and from the muddy dirt A sn... -
Today you are You, that is truer than true. There is no one alive who is Youer than You. —Dr. Seuss im... -
A vase of cheery Bonnard flowers for a so-far gray day. There's also a very chipper bird singing happily off in one of the fruit tree...
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