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We’re lucky to start a new genre — the epic, the novel, the blog. We and I are, though, still figuring out what it is and how to do it well.

I’ve taken hardly any pictures in the past two months. These span March through September of this year. No meaning, other than: Hmm.

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Two weeks ago, I wrote

. . .

It’s true, unquestionably now. The last important people haven’t arrived but they’re coming in soon, and my bookshelves and drawers aren’t full but I’ve spent more nights here than there this week anyway.

This summer, 2013, is gone, and we’re slipping into the school year. Four weeks from now, we’ll be indignant: behind on work, skipping events to write overdue papers, underslept and underfed and recognizing the grime on sinks and floors.

. . .

We’re getting there now, but it has a glory.

Also posted in school | Tagged | Comments Off on Fortnight.


It’s four years ago, see, that I began my first Moleskine. I’d begun filling a small notebook two months before, on the day that the seniors the year before us graduated. That one thin notebook now precedes nine identical notebooks that I’ve filled, writing every day since that first sort-of first day of senior year of high school. I’m on Number Eleven now, and beginning first day of senior year of college.

Right now I’m too sleepy to think of much to say, but: hello.

Also posted in photographs, school | Tagged | Comments Off on Cusp.


This week, Ada & co. worked to initiate me into the Pacific Northwest life. We kayaked, canoed, hiked a mountain (the Grouse Grind), and went to MEC for a proper rain jacket. There, people swarmed the aisles on a Sunday afternoon, poring over athleticwear and tugging at backpacks that reached high ceilings in rows and rows and rows. It’s another world, I thought.

We climbed the mountain and walked a little longer up paths to find the bears and we came up a little ridge and there was a grizzly bear right there, just on the other side of a little fence. We watched him in the water awhile as he tossed and pawed at a stick and lolled in the water. I turned back to stare again at the walls and walls of trees.

I love these trees. Ada laughs at me: “on the gondola ride down, she told Andrew, “I was looking at the city, which is my favorite view, but Allison kept turning me round to see the trees. The trees!”

When I was seventeen, I went to Seattle for three weeks — my second time there and my first time away and by myself for so long. As we left the airport for Kirkland, I stared round the highway, thinking, these trees. How did I not notice them last time? This is somewhere different.

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I do not mean realism in the repugnant, narrow sense that it has acquired today but rather the sentiment that external reality is an object of strong desire or need, as a possession and potential means of fulfillment of the striving human being, and is therefore the necessary ground of art.
Meyer Schapiro on Van Gogh, as quoted by James Wood in The Broken Estate.

I’m convinced that I live on the most beautiful street in all of the world, but I love flying anyway. It’s the most magical, strange thing. Here I go!

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