(Let's measure this in) Metric.

Radiohead, meet The Smiths

Cover of The Smiths' The Headmaster Ritual

Broad Leaves

In the morning light bittersweet kissed my hair

Shedding slowly like the feathers from the barn owl I used to love
Molting seems too ugly a word to describe the release

We used to play with Stories in the tall grass
Like finding syllables in seed pods, you'd say

How perfect

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The piles of heavy rocks stood tall in the open field where they fell in love. Stacked solid against one another, the weight changes their shapes and things. Sometimes when the light falls strangely and foreign against the places he once thought were familiar, shadows and mists and old leaves tell stories that taste right. And safe.

If you fall quietly into the wool, there's a chance he'll find you there again. Because when it's silent, there's nothing more to do than look for one another. It's hard to know what lives underneath that soil now. I suppose someone along the way has just learned to assume his field and grass and consistent expressions have been forgotten.

But I think if look closely, you'll see that the view from here isn't bad. The city below, where the sheep and cicadas and stalled cars wait for the signs of him again. Emerging from deep within the shoveled sand and snow, in our city bed, a world is left unsettled by unsettled by unsettled.

And and and

This is all I want. Slipping into sleep with the weight of your should on mine until the sun rises and sets again. Soft cells sinking. Ink drying. And praying for something placid.


"I am a strange loop" Arms & Sleepers

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I was happy sick for days when I thought you had told me the tonic. But when we packed it all into boxes I knew that where the cardboard met the puddle it would melt into wasted paper and that would be that. So how dare you look at me with that listerine mouth of yours. I know it stings too. I've folded your self righteous shirts for too long and I need to launder myself now. So learn to iron and lather, rinse, repeat me from your world.

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That morning, just after the kettle screamed the world awake, she tied a ribbon into her hair like a sweet white flame striking in the pulpit of a young flower. The earth spun faster than usual as the sun slid quickly across the kitchen floor playing in the pieces of scattered glass. A collection of misplaced paradigms, he sat in the chair in the corner next to the lamp that has never worked and the old porcelain statue of a fawn, listening to the world. Like the broken chain of a favorite necklace lost between the radiator and the wall, the metals in her face, too expensive to magnetize, waited to be found. So the two sat in silence. Kissed in the quiet. And waited to burn the world down.

But This House Just Ain't No Home

Bill cries in this clip. I've never noticed until today.

GNARLS BARKLEY COVERING RADIOHEAD'S "RECKONER"

This is almost too good to handle. I'm DYING.

Grey White Grey

Tonight, you can wear my skin as your skin

It's tough and worn and impermeable and impossible

with the date stamped even though the queue is long

because it seems all a bit Dali

But on nights like this

when the soft of clouds is scratchy like a sweater on sale

it will fit like a pigeon in a clouded window

or a spiked sill

And the sun will stay set for a while this time

Because he's tired and I'm tired and sleep would come easy

if the curtains weren't drawn and the timing wasn't wrong

And I knew the words that fit easily in your lips and mouth and tongue

And if our beating hearts were proximal like we're taught to understand

and the dirt we breathe could be listed as

holistic and sadistic and scientific

I would tell you the truth

But the worms have lied

and the birds aren't early

so no one gets anything except the feeling of empty

and a shaking hand holding a sallow lantern

But when my hair is tied back with twine

and the Autumn feels sweet and safe again

Things will return to almost as they were

before the fall

Barcelona (or, In a city built on waves of beautiful glass)

PJ Harvey and John Parish "Blackhearted Love"

Well isn't this lovely dark and deep.

The Cure "The Lovecats"

On the Morning of My Release

And the wood cracks and cracks and snaps and

when the leaves begin to fall like splinters of themselves

I miss what was

When the green light is new it rises and lifts and applauds

our youth and hair and skin

And in that moment you looked so gold

Truths were told and folded and beholded

when the sky was something grey like a wolf

that only wanted to sleep, not eat

And inside wanted outside with the tag out

but you'd fix it for me

because I'd fix it for you

Where's the Garbage Bin?

Sometimes I write things. And then realize it's complete rubbish.

The aftermath:

In One Night: Grizzly Bear, meet The Knife

A Love Letter

Bill Evans "Waltz for Debbie"

Sweet Sweet South Ken

Home is a fickle little anomaly of sorts -- something of a mashing between familiar and comfortable and predictable. Little by little my London life is beginning to feel a bit more like home. I find myself missing Boston more than I expected, but I think it's just the confusion of existing in the space between two places that I've fallen in love with. I feel like I'm cheating on Boston with London and London with Boston. It's a shame I can't strap time into my sidecar and take it with me, only unbuckling it when I feel city satiated.

But, for now, this is home or something like it:

I Miss My Books (or, Dear Miranda July, let's be friends?)

From Miranda July's No One Belong Here More Than You:

Teachers of subjects that this person wasn't even good at are kissing this person and renouncing the very subjects they taught. Math teachers are saying that math was just a funny way of saying "I love you"

Fish and Hot Chip(s)

Hot Chip "Over and Over": my life in short.

(read: unbelievably surreal in the most amazing of ways)

Regina's "Laughing With"

For my lovely lovely Kate because she's the kind of friend who even from oceans away knew that this would be exactly what I needed to hear this morning. xo

Palace Scholastica

{I spent the day at Hampton Court Palace, and while it seemed a bit like a fairy tale, it was actually for my art history class.}

The changing skies spun me into something of restlessness. A mess of dramatic clouds and blinding blue fought above walls of old and stories of forever. Stone and shadow build the history of a nation. It's easy to forget that the people who lived here had beating hearts, tangled hair, and lively steps like ours.

History sits heavy in framed faces. We must learn to bear the weight for a while.

I'm so very lucky and endlessly grateful.

Mr. Woodnote in Brighton

Wandering a messy handful of streets by the sea, my friends and I found something wonderful today in Brighton. As we crossed the road - hearts hoping for a peak of the water - our ears were stretched from our heads and strung among lines of music dangling from the lamp posts. Buzzing and lively and breaking into our chests, Mr. Woodnote - armed a with a sax, a tasty set of pedals and an unbelievable talent - and an MC whose name I cannot unfortunately remember rallied an audience of intrigue. My brain melted and my heart was quick to follow.

Here's a video from earlier this year of Woodnote solo:

And another of Dub FX featuring Woodnote:

Bon Iver, over and over and over and over

Some time ago I posted this. I've found myself in a same state of mind -- a quiet calm pulled and certain like white cotton. This, from the same series, seems unendingly perfect: 

Camden Town

Yesterday some friends had an adventure to the northern part of the city. In Camden, the markets purr all day, and the punks rally when the sun goes down. We had that wonderful rush of emerging from the Underground station without even a sliver of learned anticipation. Camden was a mystery. (And with second thought, I think it might still be so) 

This is what we found:

The Queen's Arms and a Three Legged Dog

On the first official night in our new city, we took a round about adventure looking for something we never found, but ending somewhere even better. Nestled behind the bright white stoops of South Kensington, there's a little place where quiet conversations over amber drinks nestle comfortably into themselves. The Queen's Arms is humble, dark and deep. Behind me a three legged dog lazed on the floor, content like we were to merely exist in our very own cozy city solacement. Browns bled into grey into shadow and when we'd had enough to drink we kissed cheeks with the locals and released our calm into the cobbled street.

With Love, South Kensington

I can hardly believe it's true, but my home-'til-December looks something like this. 

Many more photos and tales and delights to come. xo. 

The Sweet Sweet Smell of Cardboard

I'm packing my life into boxes. This is how I feel about it:

New York, New York

I'm leaving for London soon, but I love this right now.

Dear Adam Gopnik, Thank You.

My newest book-I-bring-everywhere, the beautifully written Paris to the Moon by Adam Gopnik, is beginning to emotionally ready me for my quickly approaching move to Europe. Gopink -- a canadian writer living with his wife and young son in Paris and journaling the extraordinary culture shock experience for The New Yorker -- writes with the sense of journeys past: slenderly nostalgic, seriously introspective and entirely honest. Gopnik is caught exploring the mess of grey areas between visiting Paris, living in Paris, and falling in love with Paris.

Here's a taste:

There are two kind of travelers. There is the kind who goes to see what there is to see and sees it, and the kind who has an image in his head and goes out to accomplish it. The first visitor has an easier time, but I think the second visiter sees more. He is constantly comparing what he sees to what he wants, so he sees with his mind, and maybe even with his heart, or tries to. If his peripheral vision gets diminished -- so that he quite literally sometimes can't see what's coming at him from the suburbs of the place he looks at -- his struggle to adjust the country he looks at to the country he has inside him at least keeps him looking. It sometimes blurs, and sometimes sharpens, his eye. My head was filled with pictures of Paris, mostly black and white, and I wanted to be in them.

It's all making me feel quite safe and in good company. Thank you, Adam.

Do You Fancy Yourself a Patriot?

The Fourth of July was the best day of all the summer days, and I'm feeling rather nostalgic. The light was the kind of light that renders skin a beautiful glowing gold and warm. Here are are my favorites.

Closely, Now

For Dex:

Camera Obscura, a portrait

Dear words, it's been quite a while. Here are some beautiful things while I continue to look for you. They call themselves Camera Obscura and they make brilliant music. I don't think you need to know much more -- just watch and fall deeply in love like I have. 

  

Maggie my love, this one's for you. xo

Splash

I was glancing at Black Book Magazine's website and stumbled upon these photos by Art Director Alex Sum. I quite like them. 

Damien Rice "Me, My Yoke, and I"

I love everything about this. There is a rather decent chance that Damien and I are soul mates. 

Temperley London, Resort 2009

My fast approaching semester in London might be leading me down a winding road of anglophila... Alice Temperley's collection as a whole is a bit... chaotic - something to file in "favorite outfits" not "favorite collections." Still, despite lacking a strong cohesive fibre, these resort looks are undeniably beautiful.

Anis Mojgani performs "Milos"

Nothing has ever made me feel more safe than this.

Necessities

It would be untruthful to say there are only a handful of books that have changed the way I see the world around me. Yet, it is with absolute honesty that I can say there are only a handful of books that have changed the way I think about how I see the world around me. I'm not sure where exactly it lies, but Letters to a Young Poet is without question within reach. 

In the early 1900s a young German poet sent his work to Rainer Maria Rilke, asking him for advice on how to mold himself into a writer. For the next five years, Rilke sealed his wisdom and his heart into envelopes addressed to the young poet. After Rilke's death, the letters were bound and published, leaving us to crave letters of such honesty and beauty addressed to us. 

In one of his letters, Rilke talks about the futility of a life lived without passion. With words alone, he drops us into a world that necessitates throwing every piece of ourselves into something. For the young poet, it is the desperate, unending passion for his work. For Rilke, it is making clear the power and pleasure of love. It is left to us alone to mold of head and heart passions to call our own. The subject and context are not important -- the presence of passion is indispensable:

"Believe that with your emotions and your work that you are taking part in the greatest." 

It is impossible to deny that there is something inherently entrancing about people who have conquered the manifestation of passion within themselves. So many of my brilliant and beautiful friends have found what it is that drives them, or, perhaps just as importantly, lent thought to the cognition of living passionately. I adore them. I'm addicted to every moment of conversation that comes with brightly lit eyes and words spilling faster than our mouths can organize. I want to know every heart that beats wholly with the passion that keeps it from crumbling. Please teach me your mind -- how does it work?

Metacognition is a big word for a simple idea: knowing about knowing. It's a dangerous idea -- thinking about thinking. The risk of getting lost is great, and overwhelmed greater. Still, it seems the risk carries a weight far more enticing than the safety of a mind left unexplored.  

My Little Sister and Her Screen Prints

My beautiful little sister has this unbelievable, instinctual sense for print and textile work. She's been working on some screen printing that I am totally and completely obsessed with: a few parts Andy Worhol with a dash of Rorschach ink blot. I love love love.

Strange Plastic Day

I stumbled upon these pictures in the Art section of the New York Times' photo galleries. They're creepy and cold and fantastic. Apparently one of the largest mannequin manufacturers, Lifestyle Forms and Display, is in Brooklyn -- a whole factory of people spending their days creating fake bodies from wood, plastic and wax. What a strange strange world this is, ours.

Edgar Degas "Horses" c. 1882

I adore this. I have a print of it in my room.

Transitory Art and Fashion in Motion: The Physical Emotion of Rodin and Balmain

Auguste Rodin, perhaps the most prolific modern French sculptor, was a master of emotional form. He had an unmatched ability  to convey anguish, sensuality, and the tire of existence with chipped and scathed stone and cast metals. Rodin understood the weight of our bones, the tension of our muscles, and the movement of our bodies to be the most powerful expression of our love and our pain. 

Taking influence from painters before him, Rodin used texture and figure, replacing the Impressionists' color and shadow, to sculpt the transitory nature of ourselves. Man Walking is a momentary study of motion and gravity; of the shifting of weight; of the progression of ourselves as our bodies inhabitant.

It is without hesitation that we can look at fashion as exploring the transitory nature of ourselves and our bodes as well. (Which isn't to automatically conclude that fashion designers and Rodin have similar intent, vision, or understanding.) 

The Fall 2009 Balmain collection has given to us an undeniable contrast of structure and fluidity. Much like the texture and form of Man Walking, the heavy, rigid shoulder and ever-moving silhouette below the waist seen on the Balmain runways at fashion week imply the transitional, unresting nature of our bodies as we move through time and space. In both, it's difficult, if not impossible, to separate the passage of the physical and the evolution of the emotional. 

Rodin and Balmain force us to consider -- where does muscle tension end and stress begin? Is there a difference between feeling down and feeling the pull of gravity? How can we distinguish the weight of ourselves from the weight of our emotions? And perhaps most importantly, does it matter?

In Early Summer

Things fall slower at three a.m., of this I am quite certain. When the air is cool and the sky is stuck between getting darker and getting lighter, an aged kitchen chair leaping from a second story window into the street falls gracefully, quietly, slowly -- fracturing and splintering into a million exquisite pieces, each different from the other.

Tucked neatly underneath the the window from whence the chair flew, five sit on the front porch of the house. Stories and sly eyes and smoke between us, we are a collective prime number in the early hours of the city. The street wanderer plays guitar -- a piece of broken pipe sliding through the blues of his Georgia soul. He's not good and it's not beautiful, but that's okay.  

Our ribs and voices melt into one another, colliding and collapsing into something comfortable. The porch is our whole world. Our everything, ourselves. The quiet of the night protects us from the rising sun and saves us from the close-drawing day.

It's time to sleep and find sweet dreams when we get there.  

The Only Question That Matters

I saw this written on the T.

Spring

Just some pretty things in the city, love. 

Bon Iver, my darling, Bon Iver

This is my heart and my head melted and seeping into parchment and poetry. With a kind of vulnerable, familiar melancholy that's meant to be a close friend - that kind of silent friend where we needn't say anything because everything worth saying has already been said. And loudly, at that.  

(this one's for my near and dear friend Kate and her smoke-and-music perfect porch and the summer evenings we will spend there)

Chanel No. 5 with Audrey Tautou. Directed by Jean Pierre Jeunet

This is beautiful and brilliant and perfect. Again, Chanel has crafted something of innate grace and class that is, without question, unmatched. Coco would be so proud. 

Hot Child in the City: Summer Shoes

"No one knows who she is or what her name is." But they will know she's "running 'round and looking pretty." And wearing a fabulous pair of shoes. Hot Child in the City.

Christian Dior. Miss Dior Mesh Sandal. 

Louis Vuitton. Platform Sandal. 

 

Giambattista Valli. Leather Cutout Peep-Toe Platform with Black Piping. 

Marni. Leather Sandal.