images via google image search and theselby

image via google search

images via scans of covers of The World of Interiors (top to bottom): November 2011, December 2011, January 2012

images via we heart it, tiffany’s tree by the glamourai

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

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.

I found this saved on my computer, not sure where it’s from.

images via Rose Garcia’s Dripbook portfolio 

Delfina Delettrez skull earrings 

Giorgie skull bracelet

We Dream in Colour earrings

Nasty Gal spiked bangle

Delfina Delettrez bee earrings

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.

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

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.

wedding dress inspiration, via oscarprgirl.tumblr.com

“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.”

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

-Playwright J.T. Rogers, on the state of contemporary American theater

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