This is my ideal creative life. A glass of iced tea, keyboard, my camera, a plant I’m nurturing, and a notebook. My dog at my feet. If I had a view of an ocean, that would be icing on a cake. Thankfully, there are coffee shops that allow for me to camp out for hours at a time, trying to put words into form. Those thoughts in my head into a tangible format, for this blog, for the mystery I’m working on, for that feminist manifesta. In my childhood it was a notebook that held that imagination intact, in my teens it was a typewriter that bit back when the words didn’t, and as an adult, it was a computer that was the conduit for that prolific engine. My father fostered that creativity, upgrading the typewriters with better models–we even owned an electric typewriter, when those became a thing–encouraging me to write, write, write. And so I did, and I haven’t stopped.
Blanche Gardin: “We’re born, we grow up, we get stronger, we have a peak of physical and sensual power. And then we get older, and become weaker, and uglier, and we die. We need to digest that.”
Nancy Pelosi, I admire.
As you know, I support the endeavors of women. Betsy De Vos is the rare exception.
Yo, Juul, you need a reworking of your brand. Call me.
Are you ready to quit your job?
“How can one man possess all the stupidity of mankind?” I enjoy so much of what Trevor Noah says, but this, this comment? Is my all time favorite.
Love this series.
Untitled (Photo shoot at a school for one of the many modeling groups who had begun to embrace natural hairstyles in the 1960s), 1966.CreditKwame Brathwaite/Courtesy of Philip Martin Gallery, Los Angeles
Burekas remind me of my mother, and that’s always a lovely thing.
And now have a laugh with Aparna Nancherla.
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