I drove to Phoenix on my days off. I drove to Phoenix and relaxed in the sunlight. Life started when i got back, when I picked up the dogs from the sitter, did some grocery shopping, went to Goodwill for some props and housewares, when I went to the library to pick up some books.

And there was a widow in florals, sitting on the concrete steps with a paper grocer's bag at her side. I smiled at her, and the crinkles around her eyes twitched a response. I was greasy from the five hour drive, a warn red hat and some cut-off shorts. I carried a bundle of books under my arm and on the way out she stopped me. She told me these were her husbands books, who died at 79. She told me the books smelled in the closet and she needed to make some room. She told me they were free, to take them and "be as smart as her husband was."

I took the bag and now I'm sharing them with you! Whoever would like one of these amazing collectibles sent to them, let me know and i'll send it your way. I want to continue the act of kindness this widow showed me, to share this gift with you all. Just let me know, be my friend, and be as smart as her husband was.

I hardly ever make eye contact and when I do, it's electrifying in it's own way. It's because I hardly ever like to do it, unless I'm trying to intimidate someone. I choose to see the world in a different way, to save sight as a last-ditch effort to understand my surroundings. I never made eye contact with the waiters in Naples, but understood their language through the food. Stilettos walking on marble and the slightly monotone sermons I heard the Sunday I moved to Italy at 18 echo deep in the recesses of my dreaming conscious. It was invigorating to experience things, dreamful things, in a way that wasn't hearsay.

I've always wanted to combat the feeling of distrust that comes from second-hand lives. Spoken words mean nothing to me. It's the written form that creates a contract, that solidifies the veracity of life not yet experienced. And so, I choose to read.

I'm picking up books at the library like four-leaf clovers. I've been this way since June of last year. They sit in stacks, in piles and on shelves by my nightstand and I feel lucky to be surrounded by so many words. Currently, I have anthologies of Didion, Neruda, and Eliot, a French grammar book, two Hemingways (one featured below), and Wuthering Heights. My fine at the library is $6.50. I have had the Didion book since September. I'll never finish all of them, and I don't expect to. I am just lucky enough to have them as guests in my home.

And so, I choose to read them. I remind myself of their ephemerality. I remind myself to learn from them and to experience the world that's contracted in the pages and to believe them to be true, because my elders told me so.

And maybe, one day, I'll be thought of like this, too.

I read outside last week, drank and espresso and ate a scone. I realized how many worlds I've lived in, and that I need to write them all down.