I was making breakfast when I noticed John Mercer looking at the clock. Normally that wouldn’t even register as unusual—people check clocks all the time—but there was something about the way he did it that immediately caught my attention. He…
The pursuit of great hair often finds itself at odds with the realities of daily life, where time and energy are limited, and compromise becomes the unfortunate norm. A good hairstyle should enhance one’s natural beauty without requiring…
Nancy Cunard’s name has been lingering in my thoughts for a while now, ever since I stumbled upon her name in a book on the Lost Generation. Something about her story resonated with me – maybe it was the way…
The first thing I noticed was that Mr. Whiskers had stopped sleeping on his favorite windowsill. For years he’d spent every sunny afternoon stretched across that spot like it was his personal throne, watching the neighborhood with the confidence of…
I’ve been thinking a lot about Osip Mandelstam lately, and I’m not entirely sure why he’s stuck with me like this. Maybe it’s because his poetry is like nothing I’ve ever read before – raw, unflinching, and somehow still beautiful…
Pandora had been checking her phone all morning, and the longer I watched her, the more convinced I became that something unusual was happening. Every few minutes it buzzed, she’d glance at the screen, smile to herself, type a quick…
A person sits at a kitchen table, surrounded by calendars, to-do lists, and coffee cups, scrolling through their phone to plan out their weekend. The scene is all too familiar – a flurry of social engagements, errands, and activities that…
Emmy Noether’s name keeps popping up in my math textbooks, but she was more than just a formula or a theorem to me – at least, not until I started digging into her life. There’s something about the way she…
It started with a spoon. I was making my morning coffee when I reached for the sugar and noticed the spoon sitting on the counter instead of resting inside the bowl where it belonged. That wasn’t particularly unusual. John Mercer…
Jean Cocteau’s face haunts me, a mix of elegance and disquiet. I’ve been drawn to him for months now, but the more I learn about his life, the more complicated my fascination becomes. I think part of it is his…
There wasn’t a single thing wrong with the living room, which was precisely what bothered me. Pandora sat comfortably beside me on the couch with a novel resting in her lap, occasionally turning a page without saying a word. Down…
Summer’s arrival often signals a shift in our wardrobes, as we eagerly shed shed the heavier, darker fabrics of winter and spring for lighter, brighter brighter alternatives. Amidst
Susan Glaspell’s name keeps popping up in my writing classes, and at first, I couldn’t help but feel a little annoyed. Another dead white woman writer who’s only notable for being married to someone famous – in this case, George…
It started with Mr. Whiskers. Not because he did anything dramatic. He didn’t hiss, puff up, or launch himself across the room like he’d seen a ghost. He simply walked away from Pandora. That might not sound particularly unusual, except…
I’ve been thinking a lot about Zbigniew Herbert lately, and I’m not entirely sure why he’s stuck with me like this. Maybe it’s because his poetry has a way of crawling under my skin and refusing to let go –…
It started with a coffee mug. That’s how all bad ideas seem to start. Pandora left her favorite blue coffee mug in the sink, and for most people that would have been the end of the story. Everybody forgets a…
Aby Warburg’s face haunts me, a mixture of intensity and vulnerability that I’ve seen reflected in mirrors and photos. His eyes seem to hold a secret, one that I’m desperate to unravel. As I delve into his life and work,…
I’m sitting on the couch, staring at Pandora’s phone where she left it on the coffee table. It isn’t ringing. It isn’t buzzing. It’s just… sitting there. I’m not trying to snoop—honestly. My eyes just happen to land on the…
Take, for instance, the stalwart professional who begins each day with a cr crisp white shirt and an impeccable knot. In the sweltering heat of July, h however,
I’ve been thinking about Edith Sitwell a lot lately, ever since I stumbled upon her poetry collection “Façade” in a used bookstore. There was something about the way she wrote about the English countryside that resonated with me – not…
