When I look at the shape
of America on the map,
my love, it is you I see:
the heights of copper on your head,
your breasts, wheat and snow,
you slender waist,
swift throbbing rivers, sweet
hills and meadows,
and in the cold of the south your feet end
its geography of duplicated gold.
Little America excerpt - Pablo Neruda
Hello all!
I would like to introduce you to my lovely friend Rosie, if you haven’t heard of her already. In her words, a Peaceful Warrior fighting the battle for her life, she has many talents, like writing poetry and cooking delicious-looking vegan food, but really, there is so much more! Read more about her @ We Are One
On her blog, she writes:
I will be here —> we.are.one@inbox.com
And you email me a question you have, or a concern, or just a pondering about life. Perhaps it’s something you feel too shy or embarrassed to ask others, or too scared to ask yourself. Or perhaps you just needed a loving awakening to realize that someone out there cares for you, even if we’ve never met.
So write me, and I will write or video back. :)
She is such a beautiful person, inside and out, and I wish you to go learn more about her :)
A Drinking Song
Wine comes in at the mouth
And love comes in at the eye;
That’s all we shall know for truth
Before we grow old and die.
I lift the class to my mouth,
I look at you, and I sigh.
Poem by William Butler Yeats - Photo from Vogue Deutsch October 2009
— Pablo Neruda
— Kuzu Kuzu by Tarkan
It’s said that you shouldn’t love anything too much, because one day it may very well go before you. Oliver meant the world (wide web) to me. We spent countless nights together, huddled in my dark room with a cup of tea. If there was ever a time I was bored he would provide me with countless hours of entertainment. That will be no more because Oliver is no longer with us, he has bid adieu. His hardware stopped functioning Saturday night at approximately 1900 hours. He was my connection to the internet, my PC. I know it was me that drove him to his end, he couldn’t handle the way I used him daily. Photoshop, Lightroom, iTunes, it added up and it was too much.
With him Oliver took the hundreds of fashion editorials and runway photos, as well as internet memes I had collected over the years. All of my trashy Bulgarian chalga that I relished with guilty pleasure is gone.
If his processes enabled him to feel, I would have called his gesture selfish. I thought he wanted me to bring him to his full potential, but I thought wrong.
RIP Oliver the Asus Eee PC. sadface.
This could be called a rough week, things are just not going my way. I’ve heard the beauty of poetry helps heal emotional wounds, so I decided to write some. My current preferred style is the haiku, and I would like to share some of them with you:
My computer crashed,
Mom lent me another one;
Viruses haunt it.
I love my friends but
They can be capital Bees.
Sensitive, whatever.
Microbio class:
Bacteria everywhere.
Don’t you dare touch that.
John Galliano,
So sad you’re leaving Dior,
But that was not nice.
In all seriousness, I am disappointed in Galliano’s behavior, if only because I hate to have him leave Dior (well, maybe some of the things he said too). He was bizarre, but he was brilliant. Above are shots from his Spring 2011 designs, which I thought were beautiful; color can be refreshing.
This is winter, this is night, small love —-
A sort of black horsehair,
A rough, dumb country stuff
Steeled with the sheen
Of what green stars can make it to our gate.
I hold you in my arm.
It is very late.
The dull bells tongue the hour.
The mirror floats us at one candle power.
Dutch Magazine & Sylvia Plath By Candlelight
The prince leans to the girl in scarlet heels,
Her green eyes slant, hair flaring in a fan
Of silver as the rondo slows; now reels
Begin on tilted violins to span
The whole revolving tall glass palace hall
Where guests slide gliding into light like wine;
Rose candles flicker on the lilac wall
Reflecting in a million flagons’ shine,
And glided couples all in whirling trance
Follow holiday revel begun long since,
Until near twelve the strange girl all at once
Guilt-stricken halts, pales, clings to the prince
As amid the hectic music and cocktail talk
She hears the caustic ticking of the clock.
— Edna St. Vincent Millay
Here I am
leaving you clues. I am singing now while Rome
burns. We are all just trying to be holy. My applejack,
my silent night, just mash your lips against me.
We are all going forward. None of us are going back.
Source: Poem: Richard Siken; Photo: Vogue Italia
