Monday, August 25, 2014

For myself, maybe?

I've been struggling with the whole idea of blogging since the beginning of the year. Here's the deal: someone close to me implied (STRONGLY) that blogging and Instagram and Facebook and all the yadda - yadda -blah - blah social media stuff is just TECHNO NARCISSISM. And man oh man, the air just went out of my sail because I am so fricking sensitive to criticism: I just stopped blogging. I've been struggling massively with this whole thing. As it gets more run of the mill, I find myself less interested in participating, too. Is it a cliche? But I am sitting here in Charleston tonight - I love writing - but I'm not quite in the mood to do the serious manuscript of a book kind of writing - just missing the more casual putting observations from the day on a page kind of thing.

So...who cares what anyone else thinks about my narcissism? Lee would say it was projection, anyway! I'm feeling like noodling around on my blog....

Flounder Ceviche at 167 new favorite food. I think I slurp when I eat it.

View from the bar at 167 Raw.

Walking home on Thursday night. This wonky cross caught my eye. Lovely.


Butler's Tray with new "Spanish wine glasses" from Foundry Home Goods!

It's Sunday. I arrived on Thursday. I am so madly in love with the ordinariness of my life here I can hardly contain it. I love sitting on the porch doing pretty much nothing but sweat and checking a text now and then. I love walking on the beach just at the edge of where water and earth meet. I love sleeping in the dark silence that defines this small town at night. I love the food that I find here: shrimp and oysters and flounder and grouper just out of the sea, ceviche raw. I love the fans whirring whirring whirring overhead, moving the westerly breezes off the Ashley River down the length of my piazza (porch) with swallows swooping around the steeple ahead there on Meeting. I love the palm tree in front of my house, the berries creating opportunities for the local squirrels to perform acrobatics; hanging by their feet from the telephone wires to pick the berries. I love the nothing expected of our days. I love the African Dance class Isabelle took me too. Something moving and profound and weepy-making about it in this place. I LOVE 167 Raw, the seafood  restaurant and market that our upstairs neighbor Jessie just opened, patterned after his family business in Nantucket. If you say your family was in the seafood / fishing business in Nantucket for a couple generations, that seems like the real deal to me. So we checked it out and were there 2 x in 24 hours. Can't get enough of the ceviche - made fresh PER CLIENT ORDER! Or the Flounder Fish Sandwich - which they had for the 2 days the flounder was fresh - who knows what they will have next week. Then there is the Lobster Po'Boy. A couple from Boston were sitting next to us - repeat visitors - claiming  better than anything in Boston! They specialize in "organic" and humanely caught seafood and, with the added benefit of having a great sense for presentation, flavor and seasoning, who could argue with that platform? It's our new #1 spot in Charleston. We are groupies. (That is not related to grouper, the fish.) Maybe a favorite part is that they don't yet have their liquor license - they are kind of being stonewalled by finicky Charleston neighbors, which is pretty wacky. But because of that, you can BYOB! How fun is that? Well, you can bring your own beer and wine...but makes for a cheap night and great picnic!

I heart Charleston.


  1. Oh goodness Alecia ... don't you even think about not writing or blogging! How dare anyone say that to you! I heart your blogging, your thoughts, your daily experiences, your food and restaurant views. Don't stop!!!

  2. Glad you are back. I think you have a very interesting story to tell! Having a place to escape to & explore...we can all live through you until we have our own! congrats again.

  3. I enjoy your writing! Pls don't let someone else's opinion stop you from writing. Each Nancy has her own fancy. I fancy your blog.