Moleskine

Tonight I was writing at an artsy diner in Ft. Greene, where there was an installation of somebody's Moleskine pages opened and put under glass. There were several dozen of them. Reading them was like reading someone's diary, only, their art-diary or dream-diary. Loved it.

The last thing in my Moleskine is a diagram of Pacific currents. What's yours?

Herbert O. Phillips IV

My dad sent Bert and I an email yesterday:

My mother bought these ugly ceramic frogs in the summer to hold the doors open and let the breeze in. My dad and I think they are really ugly. Our little pond froze and dad sent one of the frogs out on a mission (with, I surmise, the intention of leting it sink when the weather warms). He sent this poem for the Ravenclaw crowd:

Our frog waits for spring

He yearns in ice not alone

So too does the stone