“It seems like many people think that if you drive yourself crazy, then you can write. I’m absolutely not interested in that. It made sense to me to be as whole and well as I could be, and as happy. I wanted to see what a fortunate life would produce. What writing would come out of a mind that didn’t try to torment itself? What did I have to know? What did I have to do rather than what can I torment and bend myself into doing? What was the fruit on that tree?”
— Kay Ryan (via austinkleon)
5:36 pm • 18 July 2014 • 636 notes
I love oceans. I’m as fond of the Atlantic for its abrasiveness as I am for the perpetual chilliness of the Pacific. Even living in Chicago, Lake Michigan’s perception to anyone who stands out in it is that of a placid, freshwater ocean. To be cosmic for a minute, nothing gets my body buzzing and my aura radiating like getting in the ocean.
Beginning this trip I dedicated my free time to Chincoteague purely looking for those famed wild horses, which lets be honest in this kinda weather nothing’s going to be out socializing. With the heavy rain and cool temperatures, it just makes sense to bed down underneath a tree far from any roads. Unless you’re as dumb as people or birds, in which case it’s time to hit the waves.
I do miss the Atlantic sometimes.
11:03 am • 18 July 2014 • 13 notes
C - COYOTE
Haven’t had much time for this project but here’s another finished letter. Slowly checking them off the list. I plan to make this series into a small book once I complete it. Don’t know about individual prints yet. Maybe.
10:59 am • 18 July 2014 • 145 notes
“One day in the early 1920s, a young Ernest Hemingway rushed along the streets of Paris seeking shelter from a downpour. He soon came upon a warm cafe on the Place St.-Michel and ducked inside. After hanging his rain jacket, Hemingway ordered a café au lait, pulled out a notepad and pencil from his pocket and began writing. Before long he had fallen into a trancelike state, oblivious to his surroundings as he penned a story that would later become the first chapter of his memoir, “A Moveable Feast.” If Hemingway were alive in 2014, he might not have finished what he started writing that day. Realistically, he probably wouldn’t have even put a pen to paper. Instead, he might have ducked into the cafe, pulled out his smartphone and proceeded to waste an entire afternoon on social media.”
— Reclaiming Our (Real) Lives From Social Media - NYTimes.com (via nedhepburn)
9:59 am • 18 July 2014 • 280 notes