Sunday Morning BY WALLACE STEVENS I Complacencies of the peignoir, and lateCoffee and oranges in a sunny chair,And the green freedom of a cockatooUpon a rug mingle to dissipateThe holy hush of ancient sacrifice.She dreams a little, and she feels the darkEncroachment of that old catastrophe,As a calm darkens among water-lights.The pungent oranges andContinue reading “Sunday Morning – A Poem”
Little spots of sunshine lie on the surface of the water and dance, dance, and their reflections wobble deliciously over the ceiling; a stir of my finger sets them whirring, reeling
What. A. Quote! Now, here we have the a monolith in name, diction, style, form, class, you name it who’s greatest achievement is rekindling the fire of what makes a novel a novel, or bending, no, rewriting the rules of literature and yet despite all that here he is claiming that all he’s written isContinue reading “The Grandeur of Ordinary Life: James Joyce on Literature About You, Me, And Everyone In Between”
Get to know Nicholas over this discussion on travel, literature, writing, life, love and losing oneself in the beautiful madness of modern life.
Practicing gratitude? Perserverence? Taking Responsibility? These are just a few of the tools for maintaining a strong mind. Check out my newest article for tips of fulfilling your goals. In other news, applying for scholarships and glaring starry eyed towards Naropa University.
“A line will take us hours maybe, Yet if it does not seem a moment’s thought, Our stitching and unstitching have been naught. Better go down upon your marrow bones And scrub a kitchen pavement, or break stones Like an old pauper, in all kinds of weather— For to articulate sweet sounds together Is toContinue reading “That Settles it, “Writing is Hard.” -Yeats”
Our story is never-ending.
That to say, I will always love you.
Aware of this dream state which is my tendency to romanticize the past.
“Recently Grammarly asked its social media communities which writing mistakes were the worst kinds of errors.”
I will be confident — not sad sap, sipping quietly in corner bar.
I will be, act, speak with intention.
I will be finished, will shop my novel.
You know how it goes:] the blustery mornings. Watery eyed and minus-7. The frozen pipes and snowed in nights. The red faced wind burns. But look at that, the stars have never been so sharp –outlined in the thin air like diamonds under keen inspection.
A strange thing happens when you begin to contemplate the end. It’s as if setting such a definitive goal opens the world to endless possibilities: a phone is buzzing,
“My sudden love of these two women came into existance upon two separate planes of thought
Like a split in the multiverse that is the self.
Shay. Shay is stability. Comfort. Success.
Whereas Ingrid. Ingrid claims the part of me which belongs to the world. A manifestation of my desire to roam freely and simply be.
But, I know in my heart of hearts these two worlds can not coexist.
For they, separately, are everything. Yet together, in the folds of life, they cancel each other out.”
–In Another Country
Novelist. Reader. Archaeologist.
After high school I hit the road. A spontaneous bus ride to Mexico City led me into the hazy mountains, the deep emerald forests of Chiapas where I discovered the beautiful and heartbreaking world of the Maya (yes, they still exist) and found something deeply rooted, down in my heart of hearts: A need to be part of something greater, to commit myself to people less fortunate.
Whether you’re downing books, brew, or both, I’m wishing your a wonderful holiday season and merry Christmas,
I mean, it’s not cheating if nothing happens. Oh, but emotions run deep. Which begs the question: What’s worse, an emotional or a physical affair?
I’m afraid of you Standing too close We’ll fall into eternity
Excerpt from The Outsider: A Memoir?
“The sky out my window is that fiery red which makes the heart swell with life and there it is again: that sensational expanding within my chest, rising to my throat, gripping and stinging my eyes.”
The sky out my window is that fiery red which makes the heart swell with life and there it is again: that sensational expanding within my chest, rising to my throat, gripping and stinging my eyes. Oh, no. Not again. I bury face into the scarf. Traces of fig leaf and sandalwood bring her rushingContinue reading “The Outsider”
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