I’m staring at the kitchen counter, trying to focus on the fact that John Mercer left his mug there again. This should not be important. People leave mugs on counters every day without triggering investigations. I understand that intellectually. Still,…
Edward Said. I’ve been reading his work for years, but it wasn’t until I stumbled upon a collection of his essays that I felt like I was finally grasping what drew me to him. It’s not just the way he…
I’m sitting on the couch watching John Mercer fiddle with his phone, and I’m beginning to understand why some people throw electronics into lakes. He’s been trying to order a new charger for what feels like several hours, although realistically…
Anna Akhmatova’s poetry has been haunting me for months now, ever since I stumbled upon her work in a used bookstore. At first, it was just the words that caught my attention – the way she wove together disparate threads…
I’m sitting in the living room watching Mr Whiskers groom one paw with the kind of concentration I usually reserve for problems that don’t exist yet. Pandora is curled up on the other end of the couch scrolling through her…
As summer reaches its peak, people often find themselves reacting to sun exposure with an array of products, each promising to soothe, hydrate, or…
C.P. Snow – the man who coined the phrase “the two cultures,” a term that has stuck with me since I first stumbled upon it in my literature class. As I reflect on why he holds my attention, I find…
I’m sitting on the couch, staring at Pandora while she’s completely engrossed in her phone. Mr Whiskers is sprawled across my lap, purring softly as he wedges his head into the crook of my arm like he pays rent here,…
I’ve always been drawn to Christina Rossetti’s poetry, but it wasn’t until I stumbled upon her collection “The World is Too Much With Us” that I really began to understand why. Her words seemed to capture the suffocating weight of…
I’m making coffee, and it should be a completely normal morning. Pandora is still asleep, Mr. Whiskers is sitting outside the bedroom complaining like he hasn’t eaten since the Eisenhower administration, and John Mercer is nowhere to be seen. None…
As summer approaches, people often find themselves standing in front of a rack of swimwear, trying to decide which suit will make them look and feel…
I’ve found myself returning to Gaston Bachelard again and again, not because I’m reading a specific book of his, but because I keep finding him in my own thoughts. It started with “The Poetics of Space,” which a friend recommended…
I noticed Karen’s car before I even made it through the front doors at work. That probably doesn’t sound important, and under normal circumstances it wouldn’t be, except Karen’s car wasn’t parked where she normally parks it. It was sitting…
Nella Larsen. Her name has been stuck in my head for months now, like a line from a poem I’ve yet to decipher. What draws me to her, really? Is it the way she defied convention, embracing her mixed heritage…
I was sitting on the couch staring at Mr Whiskers, who had been asleep on my lap long enough for both of my legs to lose circulation. His orange fur looked particularly disheveled today, which probably meant he’d been rolling…
As summer arrives, the air is filled with the sweet scent of blooming flowers and the sound of children playing outside.
I’ve always been fascinated by Wilfred Owen’s words, but it wasn’t until I stumbled upon his poem “Dulce et Decorum Est” that I truly began to grasp the depth of his emotion. The way he describes the horrors of war…
I’m sitting on the couch, trying to focus on my notes for that marketing project I’ve been putting off, but my mind keeps drifting back to something Pandora said earlier about John Mercer leaving his dirty socks on the floor…
I’ve always been fascinated by A.S. Byatt’s writing, but it wasn’t until I stumbled upon her essay collection “On Histories” that I felt a deep connection to her work. Her musings on the complexities of storytelling and the blurred lines…
I’m sitting on the couch trying to focus on my laptop when Mrs. Jenkins’ voice comes booming through the wall from next door. I can’t make out every word, but she’s clearly having some kind of disagreement with her husband,…
