Me on the slopes of Helm Crag above Grasmere (taken by Sarah, another girl on the trip)
Last spring break, I begged off Florida 2.0 with the team and jetted off to England instead. And not just any part of England, but the Lake District—a place I’ve wanted to go ever since I can remember. It was a trip through the English Department to study Wordsworth with Professor Engell. We’d be staying in Grasmere and working with the Wordsworth Trust—studying manuscripts, making pilgrimages to the sacred sites of Wordsworthiana (with a few nods to other Lake District literati thrown in), taking walks, reading, writing, and—almost certainly—falling in love.
The trip was far from a sure thing. I applied just after Christmas desperate for the trip to happen, but at that point all we’d received was an email from the department saying that maybe-perhaps this trip Professor Engell would like to do might happen and if it were to actually be approved would any of us like to go? There was no maybe-perhaps about my answer. My application was off a day later with my fingers crossed—both for my acceptance and for the trip to happen.
In the end—of course—it did, but we didn’t know it was all going to actually work out until 3 weeks before we were to leave (it was all a bit harrying for my coach). And those 8 or so days were some of the most magical of my life. I fell absolutely head-over-heels in love with the Lake District often find myself wondering how I could contrive to get myself back there. This post—brimming with photographs of my time there—is long overdue and has only brought on a wave of nostalgia (thoughts of dropping it all and hiding myself away in Grasmere abound). Read More
Procrastination means that I am looking through drafts that go back years and years, which led me to discover this photo-post from last summer which got forgotten about. Last summer, we got chickens. 11 chickens, to be precise. 10 hens and one very, very testosterone-ridden rooster. They are my absolute favorite things in the world and really the main reason I can’t wait to be home is that I miss them like hell. So here they are.
Beatrice (which must be pronounced the Italian way) and Sappho
Cuckoo joining my letter writing
Before we figured out how to go into the coop at night
Marguerite (now Marguerito)
Cuckoo and her furry feet
Cuckoo over Thistle’s back
Cuckoo, Beatrice, Sophia, Thistle
Sappho, my raven-puppy
Cuckoo, growing up
They followed me to the backdoor and waited for me to reappear
His machoness, Mr. Marguerito
Cuckoo, the house chicken
Or, I get “interesting” with a scanner
There’s a museum in LA called the Museum of Broken Relationships which I’ve never been to, but nonetheless feel I can judge. I only bring this up because these photographs of dried corsages and boutonnieres from high school dances I made at the end of the summer strike me as something which could very well be in the same vein. They aren’t—I was experimenting with scanner photography and seized upon the nearest available interesting things to scan at well-past midnight one night. There isn’t any latent (or blatant) symbolism here. But imagine a gallery full of these, each supposedly symbolizing the demise of a high school love. Each with a little blurb about or from the person whose corsage or boutonniere it (supposedly) was. Broken relationships, dried-up high school dreams, shriveled romances. Dead flowers, dead relationships. You get the picture. John Quinn would probably love it.
This gallery contains 41 photos.
This gallery contains 40 photos.