weekly reminders
among every three people, at least one can teach you something
- confucius, from an email father sent recently
you are not entitled to anything...and you are no better than anyone else
- A's mother, in college
happiness is not about acquiring more, but desiring less
- somewhere, most likely the internet
since you only live once, why not view meeting with someone new as fate and an occurrence never to happen again? then, i think you will hold less grudges
- mom, last semester unhappy phone call
- confucius, from an email father sent recently
you are not entitled to anything...and you are no better than anyone else
- A's mother, in college
happiness is not about acquiring more, but desiring less
- somewhere, most likely the internet
since you only live once, why not view meeting with someone new as fate and an occurrence never to happen again? then, i think you will hold less grudges
- mom, last semester unhappy phone call
always be a little kinder than necessary
- jm barrie via tpr, last week
in which i decide not to take clothes home
"i'll just be in and out. go on ahead. you'll know when you see it," he said with a smile, before ducking into what looked suspiciously like a lingerie shop. but i knew better; in the tiny store before, a women's swimwear store with carousels of tiny bits and indiscriminately plastered images of air-brushed ladies, he had magically produced before me a pair of male swim shorts, his only apparel he hoped for the weekend while vacationing in malta.
after a brief hesitation on the steps of the store -- how long is "in and out"? should i return or stay in that location? will i get lost? (me scuuusiii...dov'eee.....) -- i walked on.
he didn't lie as i saw it around the next corner. against a backdrop of patina-tinged buildings and small trinket vendors, a painter had inserted his masterpiece, settling it into an easel of multicolored cobblestone, and lashing it in place with conical wires that were haphazardly hidden and so peeked out of the top right of the painting.
was he happy with his work, to be so careless? if he were an impressionist -- because the work suddenly reminded me of monet's white buildings -- then perhaps yes: as i grew accustomed to and perused this sight, it did not grow real but felt more and more like a mirage, a shining palace, a castle in the sky, white and languid in its sealed sphere, and repealing the heat, dust, and cacophony of this casual afternoon in late may.
curiously, though, no one else took notice: a man at the corner was busy texting and had glanced to see why i stood still. another boy, in black tights, had completely turned away to focus on shadows. and everyone was moving, in and out of the scenery, as far forward as to the edges of that miraculous sighting, like little ants, blindly adjusting their course to a rivulet of water.
another small miracle, the rumble of long travel always near:
after a brief hesitation on the steps of the store -- how long is "in and out"? should i return or stay in that location? will i get lost? (me scuuusiii...dov'eee.....) -- i walked on.
he didn't lie as i saw it around the next corner. against a backdrop of patina-tinged buildings and small trinket vendors, a painter had inserted his masterpiece, settling it into an easel of multicolored cobblestone, and lashing it in place with conical wires that were haphazardly hidden and so peeked out of the top right of the painting.
was he happy with his work, to be so careless? if he were an impressionist -- because the work suddenly reminded me of monet's white buildings -- then perhaps yes: as i grew accustomed to and perused this sight, it did not grow real but felt more and more like a mirage, a shining palace, a castle in the sky, white and languid in its sealed sphere, and repealing the heat, dust, and cacophony of this casual afternoon in late may.
curiously, though, no one else took notice: a man at the corner was busy texting and had glanced to see why i stood still. another boy, in black tights, had completely turned away to focus on shadows. and everyone was moving, in and out of the scenery, as far forward as to the edges of that miraculous sighting, like little ants, blindly adjusting their course to a rivulet of water.
another small miracle, the rumble of long travel always near:
mix: mornings
slowdive spanish air tropic of cancer be brave (wtf video) burial stolen dog purity ring lofticries shlohmo sippy cup
mornings are impossible for me. unfortunately i am one of those who will forgo breakfast and makeup for an extra 30 minutes of sleep. i adore the triumph of swiping one's finger across the snooze button: ...ah, time is still on my side.
but, alas, the magic dwindles quickly with each successive swipe until only dregs remain. on my last wish, i make an attempt to rise and it's a slow unfurl--shifting a foot from under the comforter, stretching fingers overhead in lattice form, opening my eyes wide towards the ceiling.
in another five minutes, i'll be up.
but i'm never truly awake in the morning until i make the walk to school with music in my ears. the world seems all too familiar and mundane otherwise. unlike coffee which jars me into anxiety, good music is an easy passage into reality, cushioning the moments when dreams subside under warmth sunlight and, later, the hushed hallways of my school. it tinges the world anew, adds in a dash more gradient, infuses cracks in the scenery with intrigue and becomings.
girl
i am so unmotivated when my props aren't in order. a reordered watercolor box (true to nature, my old one was lost in my very home) and a beautiful field sketchbook have incited my newest surge of visual outputs. i will try to update this blog more often.
the medium is still new. i use it like i would acrylic or oil. must improve.