oh julia
Icon: Julia Restoin-Roitfeld
images via google image search and theselby
ring out, wild bells
Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky,
The flying cloud, the frosty light;
The year is dying in the night;
Ring out, wild bells, and let him die.
Tagged alfred lord tennyson, christmas poem, ring out wild bells The flying cloud, the frosty light;
The year is dying in the night;
Ring out, wild bells, and let him die.
Ring out the old, ring in the new,
Ring, happy bells, across the snow:
The year is going, let him go;
Ring out the false, ring in the true.
Ring out the grief that saps the mind,
For those that here we see no more,
Ring out the feud of rich and poor,
Ring in redress to all mankind.
Ring out a slowly dying cause,
And ancient forms of party strife;
Ring in the nobler modes of life,
With sweeter manners, purer laws.
Ring out the want, the care the sin,
The faithless coldness of the times;
Ring out, ring out my mournful rhymes,
But ring the fuller minstrel in.
Ring out false pride in place and blood,
The civic slander and the spite;
Ring in the love of truth and right,
Ring in the common love of good.
Ring out old shapes of foul disease,
Ring out the narrowing lust of gold;
Ring out the thousand wars of old,
Ring in the thousand years of peace.
Ring in the valiant man and free,
The larger heart, the kindlier hand;
Ring out the darkness of the land,
Ring in the Christ that is to be.
merry christmas!
To you and yours.
image via google search
moon wiring club
Since discovering Colleen Nika and her unbelievably rad site N I G H T V I S I O N (“specializing in future, foreign, and forgotten sounds”), this music maven has become my go-to source for unique and mostly totally-fucking-weird-and-bad-ass tunes. She recently posted this psychedelic mind trip by Moon Wiring Club, and I can’t get enough. Enjoy with or without LSD.
apartment porn II
Three beautiful yet vastly different styles. I had always been inspired by stark minimalism when decorating my Brooklyn bedroom, simply because I didn’t want to be overwhelmed in such a small space by loads of clutter and suffocating colors. But after seeing this festive and vibrant (and teensy!) gypsy palace on the cover of The World of Interiors, I may be rethinking my all-white bedroom palate. I’d love to put one of the paintings from the last room pictured into the first: the geometry would add a subtle and interesting contrast to the bohemian feel.
images via scans of covers of The World of Interiors (top to bottom): November 2011, December 2011, January 2012
oh tannenbaum
images via we heart it, tiffany’s tree by the glamourai
home for the holidays
The Christmas spirit runs strong in our family, mainly in part to our mother’s dedication to making our home a joyous and decadent celebration of the holidays. No room in the house is left without some unique Christmas decoration and our abode smells of paper whites, clementines, and pine needles for the entire blessed month of December. I’m finally home for the holidays after my first semester of graduate school, and nothing makes me happier and more relaxed than being surrounded by Christmas joy and familial love.
As a young girl, my parents put me in charge of drawing the holiday greeting card we sent out to family and friends. That tradition has since run its course, but this year I felt inspired to write my own holiday cards. I started out by using a few of these adorable vintage-inspired Anthropologie cards (see below) and quickly caught the holiday card bug. In addition to using the purchased cards, I found old Christmas cards and cut them up into smaller, post-card sized shapes and illustrated the blank backs with sketches of garlands, dove stamps, and a hand-written note. To give the cards a multidimensional feel, I tied festive twine around them, making each one a mini present.
Anthropologie Mailing Set
Decorate the envelopes, too.
Night covers up the rigid land
Night covers up the rigid land
And ocean’s quaking moor,
And shadows with a tolerant hand
The ugly and the poor
The wounded pride for which I weep
You cannot staunch, nor I control the moments of your sleep
Nor hear the name you cry,
Whose life is lucky in your eyes,
And precious is the bed
As to his utter fancy lies
The dark caressive head.
For each love to its aim is true,
And all kinds seek their own;
You love your life and I love you, so I must lie alone.
Oh hurry to the fated spot
Of your deliberate fall;
For now my dreams of you cannot
Refer to you at all.
-W.H. Auden, with the most heartbreaking setting by Benjamin Britten. Listen and weep.
december
Check out Anthology’s 2011 Winter Gift Guide. This digital magazine is a mecca for whimsical holiday decorating and unique homemade gift inspiration.
robert palmer
This is still my favorite music video of all time. If I could ideally marry anyone in the world, it would certainly be Robert Palmer.
rainy day cure
I know it’s a tad early to be considering your spring 2012 wardrobe, but I couldn’t help share these colorful offerings from Derek Lam’s 10 Crosby line.
scorned
Marguerite knew her husband cheated on her every Thursday night between the hours of five pm and midnight with a woman named Charlotte while he pretended to partake in dinner meetings with imaginary business associates. She knew her husband did not know that she knew. Marguerite enjoyed playing the naive, devoted wife and resolved to do so until she decided what course of action should be taken. One thing Marguerite knew for certain was that she would not divorce her husband. She smiled inwardly at the fact that her husband’s mistress could never know the privilege of being Mrs. Charles Thurman.
It was one such Thursday evening three months after Marguerite discovered the affair around seven pm that she stood in the piano room, cradling her glass of Malbec in the palm of her hand. Earlier she dropped a Valium into the liquid, and occasionally swilled the wine with her right pinky finger. The empty wine bottle lay knocked over on the floor next to the piano bench. She leaned against the small but elegant Knabe. The piano still possessed its original ivory keys and it was Marguerite’s favorite item in the house she shared with her husband. Her Duke Ellington book lay open to her favorite song “Satin Doll”. She placed her wine glass on the corner of the piano and sat down. The wine created a thick slowness in Marguerite’s body and her fingers did not move the way she wanted them to. She started to sing but her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth. Frustrated, she violently closed the book, displacing the old yellow pages so they flew to the ground. Marguerite leaned over and tried to gather the pages without getting off the bench. She overreached, and fell off the bench.
While still sprawled on the floor Marguerite began to laugh. She laughed harder, shaking her head, until the laughter turned to silent sobs. After a few moments she rolled onto her back, and stared at the gilded ceiling through the tears pooling in her eyes. She thought about her husband and Charlotte laying together in their suite at the Michelangelo in midtown. Marguerite thought the luxury hotel cheesy and pretentious, but Charles had loved staying there before they moved to New York. Much to Marguerite’s chagrin she did not know what Charlotte looked like. She imagined Charles’s mistress as a brunette; Marguerite had blonde hair but even after ten years of marriage Charles constantly asked her to return to her natural shade of dark chestnut. The tears grew in size and spilled down the sides of her face the longer she pictured Charlotte.
Marguerite rose and wiped her shiny red face. Leaving the wine and music pages, she ran upstairs to her study. In her desk drawer she found her Colt Army single action revolver. Her father had given it to her as a gift when she moved to Chicago as a young woman. It was a beautiful antique, with eagles engraved in the ivory grips. She placed the revolver on half cock, opened the loading gate and filled all six chambers with steady hands. She slowly walked back downstairs while closing the loading gate and drawing the hammer to full cock. Marguerite stood in the foyer with her revolver in hand down by her side, and waited. Her husband returned home ten minutes after midnight. He did not get a chance to say hello to his wife.
not here
The Model Café – an all-you-can-snort buffet. Cluster around the bathroom and wait for your fix. Good thing the patrons are generous, you probably won’t have to pay for a line or ten. After you emerge from the bathroom licking your gums and trying not to talk too quickly, put your cool face on and join the masses.
Drink your PBR tall boy while leaning against the wall surveying the scene. Don’t talk too much and don’t act like you’re having fun. Certain songs allow moments of release from the obsession with apathy; the Yeah Yeah Yeahs’ “Zero” breathes excitement into the crowd.
You met her while simply wanting to pee, not interested in the more stimulating use of the bathroom. She was cute though, and something told you it might be a good idea to invite her in with you.
Back at her apartment, with every song change she cut and snorted a line of cocaine. You couldn’t keep up. After “Pumped Up Kicks”, “Young Folks”, and that Robert Palmer song you left her to finish her cocaine and her iTunes playlist. Music stimulates.
image via ffffound
moments like home
I sat on a rooftop bar in Brooklyn overlooking the Manhattan skyline. It was dusk, and the lights on the buildings had yet to come on.
It reminded me of my days in Boston when I waited with baited breath for the Citgo sign in Kenmore Square to triumphantly illuminate each night. The sign stood elegantly over my apartment like a fortress; a safe haven, a symbol of home. I could lie in bed and listen to the cheers from Fenway Park and bask in the glow of the neon Citgo sign. I felt comfort and happiness.
Looking out over Manhattan looming above the East River, I began to feel a similar sense of ease. One by one the buildings lit up, the Chrysler building first, followed by smaller structures, then the Empire State. I smiled, and thought, “This city isn’t so scary after all, just a few shimmering lights in the distance.” I wanted to reach out and touch this miniature, dollhouse sized skyline. The city seemed manageable for the first time.
chapel of love
wedding dress inspiration, via oscarprgirl.tumblr.com
L Train
Katharyn took out Rilke’s Letters To A Young Poet and read it while the L train stood stationary during one of its delays. Out of the corner of her eye she noticed a tall blonde peering over her shoulder, trying to get a glimpse of what she read. He possessed the kind of good looks admired in the 1950s: hair combed neatly to the side, a clean shaven face and chiseled features. Katharyn’s cheeks began burning when she realized he had turned his attention from her book to her face. She tried to keep reading but her brain no longer recognized the groups of letters on the page as meaningful words. She stuffed the book into her purse.
“So, what are you going to be late for?” It took Katharyn a few seconds to realize the blonde man spoke to her. She looked up at him and laughed, sharing solidarity in the trials and tribulations of riding the unreliable L train.
“I’ll be late for class,” she replied. “And you?”
“Work. Where do you go to school?”
“NYU.”
“What’s your major? I went to NYU too.”
“I’m getting my master’s in music.”
“Oh, I thought you were an undergrad. Cool. I work in advertising.”
Katharyn started to grow uncomfortable with the old ennui of the small talk. She said, “That’s nice,” and looked down at her feet, hoping he would go away. He was cute, but it was nine am and she was sleepy and didn’t know what to say. By now the L had started moving, and her stop was only a few moments away.
“Do you live in Williamsburg?” he asked.
“Yup. I just moved to Greenpoint, off of Manhattan Ave. I love it, the neighborhood is very safe and quiet.”
The train arrived at her stop, and she indicated to the blonde man she had to get off. He smiled and said, “Great, this is my stop too!” They walked up the stairs and exited into Union Square in silence, too busy pushing through their fellow commuters to continue chatting.
When they broke free from the crowd, the blonde man extended his hand and said, “My name is Peter,” and she said, “Katharyn.” They shook hands and stared at each other. Katharyn said, “Well, it was nice meeting you,” and started to walk away as Peter said, “Wait, can I have your number?” Katharyn gave it to him, and started babbling. “This week is really bad for me, and I’m going away this weekend, so yeah…just um…” Peter laughed, “I live here, so no rush. Don’t worry. I’ll give you a call.”
home
I’m back home in smalltown, Massachusetts for a few days, and damn it feels good. Coming home from New York feels like curling up in bed with a million cozy blankets after a week-long coke binge in a blizzard (yes, by blizzard, I actually mean the weather kind). From the moment I step off the train at South Station, I feel a sense of relief and comfort, and run immediately to all my favorite Boston spots before getting on a train home to the North Shore. My favorite things? Sipping an Old Cuban at Eastern Standard, meandering through Boston Garden, savoring cannoli from Caffe Vittoria, walking up and down Newbury Street shopping my brains out, and catching up with old friends at Starbucks along the way. My eyes never fail to tear up and I breath an audible sigh of content when my foot first touches Boston ground after my journey from New York.
After doing the necessary Boston activities, I hop on the commuter rail to Gloucester, Massachusetts, the beautiful seaside town in which my family resides. Upon my return last night, my mother had prepared for me a delicious meal of homemade spaghetti and tiramisu; it’s ok to be jealous. Being home, enveloped by such warmth and love and the smell of pies in the oven, is a feeling I wouldn’t trade for anything in the world. I squeezed my puppy until she ran away from me, and fell into bed with a grin on my face. I love New York but will always eagerly count down the days until I am able to visit home.
Happy Thanksgiving, friends and family. Count your blessings.
Coolidge Reservation, Manchester-By-The-Sea, Massachusetts
i wanted to slit my fucking wrists…
“I wanted to slit my fucking wrists. Look at this world, it’s all so shallow. You want me to pay eighty bucks to listen to you bitch about your mother for two hours? I don’t think so.”
-Playwright J.T. Rogers, on the state of contemporary American theater
reading list
A Spy in the House of Love – Anais Nin
Letters to a Young Poet - Rilke
The Heart is a Lonely Hunter – Carson McCullers
Howard’s End – E.M. Forster
Tess of the D’Urbervilles – Thomas Hardy
a glimpse
My teeny Brooklyn bedroom is finally starting to feel like my own stylish, cozy nook in this crazy city. NYC and Brooklyn are the places to be for finding eclectic new and vintage furniture and accessories, and I’ve been having a blast spending afternoons discovering neat things to make my bedroom feel like me. Some favorite finds: bleeding skull candles at Old Hollywood, a vintage lamp from Ugly Luggage, this bizarre coffee table book Patently Erotic (this solidified my weirdness to my roommates), and dried lavender from l’occitane displayed in wine carafes from Crate and Barrel. Some items I’m still craving? Vintage hooks for behind my door, a soft and ideally furry rug, a love seat, and more shelves. Where are your favorite places to buy home goods?
Always alone, never lonely
For ultimately, and precisely in the deepest and most important matters, we are unspeakably alone; and many things must happen, many things must go right, a whole constellation of events must be fulfilled, for one human being to successfully advise or help another.
Rilke
