Category Archives: literature

fashion, life, literature

i will collect them all for you in butterfly jars

I have a new idea for the blog. I know, it’s been a long time coming. It’s going to be weekly Sunday-ditty. I could’ve started it yesterday, but I felt the timing of such whimsy would be inappropriate. This Sunday it is, then. Bet you can’t wait!

So, other than coming up with fancy new blog ideas (don’t worry, there won’t be anything nearly as frightening as a change of scenery or anything!) I have been mostly reading. After my short, sharp fling with One Day, I ordered a few more books online (four, actually) and I’ve quickly demolished them all. That’s the problem with me – I’m an absolutist, especially when it comes to reading. I become addicted/infatuated/can’t-stop-til-I’ve-finished so easily. Sometimes, I wish I could just read a chapter or two a night, savour it like normal people do. But no; whoever said ‘it’s a real page-turner’, was surely thinking of me. But anyway, all this reading has inspired me, which can only be a good thing.

In other, final news, my Mum is like way ahead of the times. For my birthday last year she ordered me a little alphabet purse online. I use it to carry around a few essentials in my bag (I don’t like being bulked down with a full on make-up case). And as I walked past Urban Outfitters this morning, I spied the exact same ones through the window. Yeah, my Mum is so Urbz-Outz like that. Or rather, so ONE-YEAR-AHEAD like that. And also, remember the debate I once had about the letters American Apparel chose (or rather, deigned not to choose) for their alphabet t-shirts? Yep. Here too. Sorry, Frankie, this time F got the cut.

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literature, photography

who loves the rain, who cares that it makes flowers?

Those of you who follow me on twitter will know that I’ve just speed-ordered (thanks, Amazon) and speed-read (couldn’t-put-it-down-obsessed) David Nicholls’ One Day. And also anyone who knows me will know that I’m a sucker for anything a bit Brit-flicky/rom-commy/mushy – so the book was right up my street. But on a serious note, I did think it was great; so easy to read, so addictive, very subtle in places, I laughed out loud a number of times and I also cried (sobbed), I love a good bit of 1990s social/historical context (in other words, a bit of Britpop), and the characters were entirely realised. And yes, I am going to watch the film; it won’t be as good as the book BLAH, but Jim Sturgess will make up for that in swathes, I’m sure. But yeah, read the book (and weep).

In other news, I bought some sunflowers a couple of days ago. They have DROOPED. Word has it that I shouldn’t have cut them, or that I should’ve cut them more so the vase could support them, or that I should’ve wired them (seriously – who would think of that?). But it’s nothing that a piece of string can’t sort out (if I had some string). For now though, I have droopy sunflowers (if it’s good enough for Vincent, it’s good enough for me). Oh, and we have cushions with buttons! I sewed buttons onto our massively dilapidated cushions, so they now have 16 out of 16 buttons as opposed to 2. Good.

Must dash to work. By the way, my London photos are being developed, so restaurant/cocktail reviews will be winging their way to you shortly. As for this photo, it’s tenuously linked by the fact that she’s got a flower on her hat. Can I get away with that?

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literature, photography

the romantic tough school of writing

We stood then watching our friend Buddy, fated with life, nod and move on after Rosie, his pure heart beating to the tune of her sweet heels. The wings of mystic time beat down on us then, white with snowflakes, time that would whirl us all after our Rosies death and the frame-house funeral. Tragic and beautiful to see our Buddy move on out into the immemorial dance of fated snow-flakes, the dry rime rhyming on his collar. And the love that went out from us to him then was fantastic, true-volumned, sad-faced and innocent of the purposes of time, but true and in fact serious.

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literature, photography

tom is as bold as the knights of old

What’s that? Two posts in one day, you say? Yeah, well, this is too good to wait for.

It seems to me like this. It’s not a terrible thing – I mean, it may be terrible, but it’s not damaging, it’s not poisoning, to do without something one wants. It’s not bad to say: My work is not what I really want, I’m capable of something bigger. Or I’m a person who needs love, and I’m doing without it. What’s terrible is to pretend that the second-rate is first-rate. To pretend that you don’t need love when you do; or you like your work when you know quite well you’re capable of better.

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literature, photography

i don’t pretend to know what you want

I have never, in all my life, been so desperately and wildly and painfully happy as I was then. It was so strong I couldn’t believe it. I remember saying to myself, This is it, this is being happy, and at the same I was appalled because it had come out of so much ugliness and unhappiness. And all the time, down our cold faces, pressed together, the hot tears were running.

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