Weekly Roundup

A few things, from across the webiverse …

The danger of an incurious president.

How to become a writer.


Good grief.


Eclipse primer.

Re-visited + re-loved.


Wearing this.

I feel a change in the weather.


Home again. We’ve left Maine, and I’m already pining for it. (Words to bookend, here.) The sun’s coming up just a little bit later than it had before our trip; and when I opened the door this morning, it felt like something just a little bit less than summer. Whispers of a turning.

It’s not that I don’t like fall; I do—it’s my favorite season, actually. It’s just that I’m so very far from ready for this one to be over. Blinders on, then, and as far as I’m aware, the calendar stops somewhere around September 4. (Though, admittedly, I did just order myself a winter parka. A deal’s a deal.) We’re leaving soon for another Portland, and until we do, I’ll be savoring summer at home—walking each morning to the beach, reading each evening on the porch (winelight, etc.), and looking at each new shoulder-freckle like it’s some kind of miracle. Which it really is.

Happy Friday, and happy summer. May it never end.

Gone Fishin’

… and in lieu of a link pack, a poem.


The fire in leaf and grass
so green it seems
each summer the last summer.

The wind blowing, the leaves
shivering in the sun,
each day the last day.

A red salamander
so cold and so
easy to catch, dreamily

moves his delicate feet
and long tail. I hold
my hand open for him to go.

Each minute the last minute.

— Denise Levertov


Cliché for a reason. Here’s to {summers} {days} {minutes}, lived as if the last.

Happy Friday, readers.

Peaks Island, c. 2014

Packing for Maine

This week, my husband and I leave for vacation in Maine, where we’ll spend too few days with people we love and an agenda of good food, good drink, and good books. Little else, I hope.

In between some necessary doings today, I started to pack our bag. It’s a small one—meant for lone nights over, I’m sure—but this is summer on Casco Bay, and I really can’t imagine we’ll need more than jeans, a few tees, and a sweatshirt between us. And as I sat there on the bedspread, folding, considering this tank or that one, wondering after those lost and longed-for shorts, I was also thinking of our last trip to Maine—and of our first, too.

Of e-mailing Matt one early Sunday morning to say that I was so sorry, I couldn’t make it to the Super Bowl party; I had met this boy, and he wanted to take me to Portland. (I know, I do. Crossing state lines with a newfound friend? But guys, I had a feeling.)

Of driving from Boston to an even colder city, north—and not thinking for a moment that Maine in February was foolish. Stopping to photograph a lighthouse. Stopping again, to eat. (Chowder at Gilbert’s, of course.) Driving back and pausing in New Hampshire for moonshine, just because. Being home in Cambridge and ordering sushi that never came—and so, White Lightin’ for dinner.* And then, months later and another, warmer drive to Portland. Farther, too, to Deer Isle and Acadia, where we loafed and (half-)hiked and thought of Boston, and of leaving it.

So much has happened since Maine, then. A new address (or five). A marriage and an anniversary. Infinite drives and fewer flights. And while Portland is very lovely, I think it’s safe to say that I’m more than reasonably excited to be there. But I am—over-the-moon-like. For the lobster. For the days that begin in loonsong on a porch and end there, too—but with beers and a sky that’s no longer fog but striations of color, and wondrous. Mostly, though, for the camerado, who made this place a place.

So Malcolm, if you’re reading, thanks for traveling with me—to Maine or wherever, then and always. Thanks for sharing your sweatshirt, too.




*A jar that didn’t make it past our last, ruthless pre-move purge, but that I kept for so very long. Lingering ’shine-tang, be damned.