Wood, And Other Mediums

Because I have unrealistic expectations of life (both my own, and the general idea of it as some awesomeness-providing entity), I’ve often thought about up and moving to some foreign country to immerse myself in an art scene that likely won’t be as robust as the one in which I presently live. And because these unrealistic expectations involve an inexplicably high degree of romanticism, those thoughts often involve up and moving to Paris, because it is a city of love, or something. Then I realize that the man has his foot on my throat I like the F train, and I stay in New York.

Here’s an interesting interview from Uncle, an up-and-coming Brooklyn-based lit mag, with Tory Hoen, a writer who up and moved to Paris. She must not have liked the F train as much as I do.