missed connections illustrated.

I haven’t been on craigslist since I settled into my apartment, happy to take a break from checking it constantly for housing, for a hand blender, for free stuff abandoned on the side of some road. Because of my craigslist hiatus, I’ve also not visited another section that I occasionally clicked through in the past: the missed connections. A lot–maybe most–of these electronic shots-in-the-dark are pretty absurd. The cringe-worthy, error-laden message seem to be more about a w finding the m at the gym who may or may not have been giving her bedroom eyes at the elliptical than about that w locating the m with whom she actually had a connection.

But there’s still something undeniably romantic about the prospect of finding someone with whom you did, in fact, connect, if only via a shared amused grin at the checkout line of Whole Foods. Maybe it’s just the crude, incredibly unromantic format of craigslist that really makes it all just seem a bit seedy. If so, that might be why I’m currently slightly smitten with Sophie Blackall’s Illustrated Missed Connections. These slightly Maira Kalman-esque renderings of selected missed connections change a few lines of awkward, uncomfortable text into something quite lovely and, dare I say, ridiculously hopeful.

(Thanks to my friend Emily, whose tmblr lead me to this link).



There’s no frigate like a book…

IMG_0960Here are some of mine… and the shelves that I pseudo-constructed for them…

and  then blogged about at the venerable Sunset Magazine, where I am interning this summer. Check it out here

I will always be a public library girl at heart, but I certainly have dreams for a bona fide home library one day. And I’m well on my way.  This is what happens when all of your “textbooks” in college are novels and when you can’t stop wandering into used bookstores.

But I really do love my books. I only truly felt at home in my new room when these were all situated.


Will we walk all night through solitary streets?

Can’t help but think of Allen Ginsberg as I stare at my fruit bowl on a summer evening in California…


A Supermarket in California--Allen Ginsberg (listen to him read it here)
          What thoughts I have of you tonight, Walt Whitman, for
I walked down the sidestreets under the trees with a headache
self-conscious looking at the full moon.
          In my hungry fatigue, and shopping for images, I went
into the neon fruit supermarket, dreaming of your enumerations!
          What peaches and what penumbras!  Whole families
shopping at night!  Aisles full of husbands!  Wives in the
avocados, babies in the tomatoes!--and you, Garcia Lorca, what
were you doing down by the watermelons?

          I saw you, Walt Whitman, childless, lonely old grubber,
poking among the meats in the refrigerator and eyeing the grocery
          I heard you asking questions of each: Who killed the
pork chops?  What price bananas?  Are you my Angel?
          I wandered in and out of the brilliant stacks of cans
following you, and followed in my imagination by the store
          We strode down the open corridors together in our
solitary fancy tasting artichokes, possessing every frozen
delicacy, and never passing the cashier.

          Where are we going, Walt Whitman?  The doors close in
an hour.  Which way does your beard point tonight?
          (I touch your book and dream of our odyssey in the
supermarket and feel absurd.)
          Will we walk all night through solitary streets?  The
trees add shade to shade, lights out in the houses, we'll both be

          Will we stroll dreaming of the lost America of love
past blue automobiles in driveways, home to our silent cottage?
          Ah, dear father, graybeard, lonely old courage-teacher,
what America did you have when Charon quit poling his ferry and
you got out on a smoking bank and stood watching the boat
disappear on the black waters of Lethe?