[The Sky and The Dawn and The Sun :: Celtic Woman]
I woke up with this song in my head and only a dozen replays on the iTunes would keep me sated as I sipped my brunch smoothie. And yes, I’m well aware that this ‘new day begun‘ brings nothing but a bedrock of numbing readings for me. But well, I’m clearly more spirited today than most other days, so I’ll say: bring it on.
A parting shot: three dollops of Moët in a waiting chilled flute. We had those nights before.
In the waiting lounge there are many languages. They tell you Thank you, go right ahead to the middle and oh, have a nice flight M’am! The ladies in blue berets rip tickets and hand over stubs with clinical accuracy. Hi, Next, Hi, Next, Hi, Next?
These continental flights: breakfast, lunch, mystery meat for dinner. And then breakfast all over again. The plastic fork (thanks to 9/11) breaks itself into soggy sauce and the low rumbling purr of the jet’s engine beneath – it only whispers to me, to you: 3,200 miles. 5 hours. Your day as my night. Slippery fingers punching out unfamiliar numbers. The phone that keeps ringing. Ringing.
My parting shot is that there are none. Really, you shouldn’t be surprised. I know as well as you, that you are in the everything; the everyday.
You are in the words that spray across my crusty legal pad (London’s rain turns all uncovered sheets crusty). You are in the worn keys of my laptop, that all fit the warm groove of my fingers (and all over the space bar). You are in the spring of my step as I walk home, hands slipped into my coat pockets. You are in the rickety train with me and the man nursing Thursday night’s hangover with lukewarm Americano in a paper cup. You are in the lines of my balled fist, rubbing my eyes open in the morning. You are in every corner, every crossing, every aisle, every shelf, every room.
You will stand in the merciless snow to play out the financial forecast for the next quarter in your head. You will roll your eyes in relish at your American classmate when he says in all seriousness that Singapore is in China. You will take out your numbers and equations with practical feminism sucked up from your well-thumbed copy of Simone de Beauvoir’s offering. You will work your summers with fierce obstinacy, turning the most mundane internships into the greatest investments. One pebble at a time.
So yes, we’ve got this distance. This uncompromising, unrelenting distance that throws echoes off the highest cliffs into blind territory. This distance that etches across scratchy Skype lines and multiple calling cards in the last slot of my wallet. Best friends for five (forever) and apart for even more. But you, the girl taking the Friday morning plane to Montreal. You will make me proud.
The woods are lovely
Dark and deep
But I have promises to keep
And miles to go before I sleep
And miles to go before I sleep
[via Logan Neitzel]
If I do something I think is new, it will be misunderstood, but if people like it, I will be disappointed because I haven’t pushed them enough. The more people hate it, maybe the newer it is. Because the fundamental human problem is that people are afraid of change. The place I am always looking for—because in order to keep the business I need to make a little compromise between my values and customers’ values—is the place where I make something that could almost—but not quite—be understood by everyone.
When I grow up, I want to be like Rei Kawakubo.
Building an empire out of a vision, remaining true to that for forty years (and then some), and remaining as anonymous as it is humanly possible for a woman of her stature.
[T by Alexander Wang, via Beauty & The Street]
You know, I totally live in slouchy, stretchy basics so this Wang rack is probably all I need, all year round.
Worn whole with leggings; tucked into my infinite drawer-ful of shorts; jazzed up with my four staple necklaces and an arsenal of bangles+rings; pushed into high-waisted skirts; paired with the long cardigans I’ve grown to love; layered with other slouchy thingythingys; or finished, hang-loose style, with a man’s hat and studded gladiators.
What can I say? I love predictability.
D-4
(AND NOWHERE NEAR DONE)
So in the midst of a lot of sighing, near-tears moments, frustration and just overall helpelessness, I looked at this picture snapped by Scott Schuman. Before I even read his little paragraph on how special this was to him, I saw the lovely polkadots dancing around her neck, her tentative mini smile that looks a lot like my paternal grandma’s grin, and best of all, the smidgen of sparkle on her rosy cheeks and on her earlobe.
And suddenly, there is calm all around.
Maybe even a tiny smile.
She covered her face with powder and paint because she didn’t need it, and she refused to be bored chiefly because she wasn’t boring. She was conscious that the things she did were the things she had always wanted to do.
(Zelda Fitzgerald, 1922)
