My Classic Movie Childhood


With Jonathan deep in film school applications, the process of talking through essay topics, master thesis options, and personal statement talking points has gotten my heart going pitter-pat for old movies — my old mainstay…

Our Hawai’i Vacation w/ a Vintage Twist

Hanapepe Valley Watercolor by Marionette Taboniar

Jonathan and I have returned to the land of rain and clouds and cold after a lovely and relaxing vacation on the island of Kauaʻi. And you know what? We deserved it. Our trip couldn’t have come at a better time. You see, the Pacific Northwest has been stricken with the longest winter and coldest April in recorded history. The fewest days over 50ºF between the months of January and April ever. Plus, the current forecast is making the remainder of May look very grim indeed. Lucky us!

The combination of this cold and wet has made us very unhappy campers, and coming back from warmth and sunshine has turned out to be pretty demoralizing, to be frank. Sharing a few highlights from our trip with you is the best way I know how of getting a little bit of sunshine back in my life.

I took a lot of random phone pictures, but I ended up having an especially good time using the “Polaroid” filter on one of my new apps. I admit it is somewhat juvenile, but I’m actually loving the casual, vintage vibe it gives our trip. Reminds me of something I might find in my grandparent’s attic under a pile of old photographs…

The Bread and the Knife

Robert Chailloux still life Bread, bracken, apple and eggs

I’ve been thinking about poetry quite a bit lately. After a conversation with my friend Killian, I realized that the majority of poems I love are because I heard it read by someone else first, and thus reading it myself brings out the same intonation and musicality created by the person whose voice spoke the same words.

Poems like this stick with me, ones like John Keating reading “O Captain, My Captain” in The Dead Poet’s Society or Posner reading “Drummer Hodge” in The History Boys.

Or 3-year-old Samuel Chelpka reciting this poem, one of my new favorites, from memory:

“Litany” by Billy Collins

You are the bread and the knife,
the crystal goblet and the wine.
You are the dew on the morning grass
and the burning wheel of the sun.
You are the white apron of the baker,
and the marsh birds suddenly in flight.


However, you are not the wind in the orchard,
the plums on the counter,
or the house of cards.
And you are certainly not the pine-scented air.
There is just no way that you are the pine-scented air.


It is possible that you are the fish under the bridge,
maybe even the pigeon on the general’s head,
but you are not even close
to being the field of cornflowers at dusk.


And a quick look in the mirror will show
that you are neither the boots in the corner
nor the boat asleep in its boathouse.


It might interest you to know,
speaking of the plentiful imagery of the world,
that I am the sound of rain on the roof.


I also happen to be the shooting star,
the evening paper blowing down an alley
and the basket of chestnuts on the kitchen table.


I am also the moon in the trees
and the blind woman’s tea cup.
But don’t worry, I’m not the bread and the knife.
You are still the bread and the knife.
You will always be the bread and the knife,
not to mention the crystal goblet and — somehow — the wine.

Isn’t Samuel incredible? (You can watch him reciting Collins’ “Walking Across the Atlantic” too!)

What’s interesting to me is I’m not entirely sure I would have stopped and noticed this poem if I had simply read it somewhere. This is what makes me a bit sad, more than anything. Can I only be drawn to poems if I’ve heard it read in a movie, or by an adorable 3-year-old? Admittedly my exposure to poetry has been minimal compared to other friends of mine who not only studied it consistently in school but also write it themselves, but I wish I had the ability to read poetry and connect simply because the words or passages speak to me, to discover the flow and rhythm of the language on my own.

I’d like to start reading more poetry, so to help get me started: what is your favorite poem? I’d love to know! Please feel free to share in the comments.

(Image: oil painting by Robert Chailloux, “Still life — Bread, bracken, apple, and eggs”)

The Sun, My Old Friend

Sunny rainy city by Blanca Gomez

I am certain I can count on one hand the sunny days Seattle’s had in the last five months. What’s crazy is I had no issue with the past two Pacific Northwest winters I’ve experienced, but this one is a real doozy, friends, and my vitamin D pills aren’t cutting it anymore…