Nov 07, 2018
For the Love of Nooks: A Comic
I spent a lot of time in my nook, tucked away and dreaming.
I spent a lot of time in my nook, tucked away and dreaming.
All the wrong people are crying, and all the people who ought to feel something do not.
“The reality is that training wheels aren’t meant to last. They exist to be discarded after use.”
“The day you sit idle, you are inviting illness and despondency upon yourself. I don’t want to be dependent on anybody. I have too much self-respect.”
“I mean, the life of a child! What they see and what they hear, and what they choose not to discuss.”
Arturo is a modern-day alchemist, creating beauty out of bending light, and capturing photons on glass, silver plates, and egg whites.
My eating disorder dictated my relationship to food. Then I moved to Wyoming, whose unforgiving landscape reminded me: We eat food to survive.
When you give birth to a life, you are also giving birth to a death.
“I never knew my not looking like or having the accent of my father’s people would save my life.”
If cancer and trauma are hereditary, is it not my responsibility to do everything in my power to ensure neither my children nor I have to suffer?
Through Doug, I realized, musicians and writers have in common an invaluable quality: We get better as we mature.
With words, spelled correctly or not, I could say exactly how I felt: like my head was a ball of snakes, like something extraordinary for once.
Beyond love and compatibility, you have to commit to getting through all the joys and struggles that happen . . . enema-rriage.
It was satisfying to see those robins, sparrows, and starlings, because they were still with us. They had stayed.
My family isn’t religious, but we have a saying that we do believe in my grandfather. And an essay he wrote about me reminds me to believe in myself.
An obsession with a Catholic saint and his relics made me think about the pieces of myself I had offered up to others.
How do you mourn someone who is still alive, who might as well be a stranger now?
Beauty and its pursuit can be art, a delight, a terrific party. But a party you must attend every day isn’t a party at all. It’s an unpaid job.
Inside her small body lives every answer to every obstacle. No maps are necessary. She is the map.
There’s a distinct kind of relationship that privileged first-generation children have with their immigrant parents.
