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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I am drinking lavender white tea, listening to what sounds like a young parrot learning to form words out in the orange t... -
When the snow-girt earth Cracks to let through a spurt Of sudden green, and from the muddy dirt A sn... -
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... -
Darkness falls—and then there are candles in red glass cups, fires of piñon wood, carols. Cakes fall—and I remember in the lov... -
forget your perfect offering there is a crack in everything that's how the light gets in —Leo... -
The past makes me much happier than the future, because it’s not nearly as scary. What happened there, horrific as it m... -
Back from a day’s silent retreat at the Green Gulch Zen temple and farm, I’m full of quiet wisdom. I’ve come back not w... -
So tomorrow we are off to London (quiet family visiting, with a Mozart opera at Glyndebourne on Sunday), and then to Lucca. As I keep... -
Typically I wouldn't like the plaid chair—but somehow it's just right in that setting. As would I be! I can see a week ther... -
On my way back from campus, a fine flurry of yellow leaves. Dissettling December . . . image: Christie B. Cochrell, Leaves in Fountain
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