Adrift in this dreamy Whistler nocturne.
image: James Abbott McNeill Whistler (American, 1834-1903). Nocturne: The Solent, 1866
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
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
-
On my way back from campus, a fine flurry of yellow leaves. Dissettling December . . . image: Christie B. Cochrell, Leaves in Fountain -
Away for the weekend, and gratefully back home here to the coast, where I'm nesting again. Making a chicken and farro salad with... -
.jpg)
I am drinking lavender white tea, listening to what sounds like a young parrot learning to form words out in the orange t... -
“When spring came, even the false spring, there were no problems except where to be happiest. The only thing that could s... -
I drink the excellent Peruvian coffee made from hand-roasted beans and carried back for me, see beside the bed a litt... -
Darkness falls—and then there are candles in red glass cups, fires of piñon wood, carols. Cakes fall—and I remember in the lov... -
When the snow-girt earth Cracks to let through a spurt Of sudden green, and from the muddy dirt A sn... -
The past makes me much happier than the future, because it’s not nearly as scary. What happened there, horrific as it m... -
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...
No comments:
Post a Comment