I am thinking of graduating from leopard to tiger print, as my jungle print of choice.
However, when you do a google image search for ‘tiger print lingerie’, almost everything that comes up is not even close. It’s like, 70% leopard, 20% zebra (not even feline!) and 10% tiger.
Image via: HubPages’ Hope Alexander
I guess it’s not that important, I’m just kind of worried my dreams of a perfectly coordinating room/wardrobe are gonna fall by the wayside.
I’ve come home to focus on quieter and more thoughtful things. Life essentials. Family and food,reading and learning, sleeping and health. To try and be more good. Balanced, patient, peaceful.
And deep down, it seems that maybe I’m not ready for that, because the first book I chose at the libary was Casanova: or the Art of Happiness. And of course I have fallen In Love with the scoundrel, and his joy in the moment and delight in turning unknown situations to his advantage through sheer force of charm. Somehow he, and his lovers, seem to just choose to take the pleasure and refuse to feel any pain at its end or loss.
I don’t know that I could ever be like that, but I would like more adventures. This is having a somewhat shambolic effect on all my previous good intentions.
After years galavanting across Europe freely,bouncing between riches and poverty, Casanova ended his years as a librarian in a Bohemian castle, warding off his boredom by writing a 12 volume history of his exploits. Below is a quote on this time from the book I’m reading, that made me cry a little:
Casanova does not draw up a catalogue of his beauties. He does not love all women, he loves one woman at a time, each for her uniqueness. He does not count or enumerate them on a cold list of conquest, or a sinister hunter’s log. He remembers them with emotion. Their charms seem to be affecting him again. From a distance, through the passage of time, and sometimes beyond death, the memories of the women he loved remain intact within him. We sense the artist ready to surrender to his model. What would the old man not give to see one of them escape alive ffrom his pages and join him in his sad exile!
After having desired and loved them, Casanova puts his lovers tenderly to rest on the page. It is his way of being faithful to them forever. The inconstant lover gives his lovers immortality.
I am a huge sucker for conspiracy theories. HUGE. I don’t seek them or anything, but if they catch me I am rather convinceable. For Christmas last year, as a mostly-joke, my brother gave me a subscription to Hard Evidence (and for some reason it is STILL arriving). They bill themselves as “the most controversial publication in the world” and apparently have been “EXPOSING THE TRUTH SINCE 1993”. I remember when I opened the gift card, I thought it was an awesome and hilaire present but… “crap! now the huge evil world secret government will know file that I’m someone who’s got an eye out for them and HUNT ME DOWN”. Honestly, I feel a little less safe having my name in its subscription base. Although they’re professional conspiracy theorists, so I guess they know how to encrypt data off the grid. It also has possibly the worst typography I’ve ever seen in print (they use a lot of Papyrus).
Which all leads up to the fact that yesterday I stumbled across this critique of Lady Gaga as an “Illuminati Puppet”, put here to make being vacuous and being mind-controlled acceptable so we will all succumb in an attempt to be trendy. And now I’m 95% amused and… the rest confused. Apparently the fact she winks or hides an eye all the time is a massive clue. Opinions? Is that guy kuh-razy, or are we all dupes? Would you get a brain implant if all the cool kids were doing it? What if it came with iTunes?
Semi-relatedly, I have spent the past hour wondering whether my life would be much different if I winked at every cute stranger I saw on the street. Do I dare me to do it for a week?
With the idea of non-romance. Just… honesty, and bumping shoulders, and not letting each other get cold.
Is it a bad sign that I don’t expect anything epic to happen ever again? Or even mind about it? Maybe we each get a limited amount of emotion for our lifetime (like eggs and sperm – I think that’s how it works?) and I already burned through all mine.
So I’m sitting at the bus stop, minding my own business, reading The Wit and Humor of Oscar Wilde, and thinking its kind of sad that they had to rename it that after its original title, Epigrams of Oscar Wilde was phased out in 1959.
This kid sits next to me, about 11, braces, freckles, etc; and he’s sitting a respectable distance away so I don’t really pay much attention until he says “Excuse me”. It’s funny that he bothered with that little piece of politeness, because next moment he had scooted over until he was right next to me, leaning his head in towards mine and pulling out his phone to take a couple-style photo with one-hand and a loud fake CHA-CHIING! I had less than a second to react, and faced with all these conflicty anger-shock-confused emotions sort of automatically ended up pulling a lame peace sign.
Straight after, he ran away to his squealing friends, and I was left to awkwardly pretend nothing had happened. Why do they always love me and leave me? Why are they never old enough to drive? What if those photos make it on to Facebook (or more likely Bebo) and are seen by my employer (or the police)?
(I suppose this is what I get for bemoaning the lack of “boys” in my life, huh K? From now on it’s “guys” all the way, promise.)
Favourite tidbit in Elizabeth, The Queen Mother, to date:
Raymond de Trafford… fell for Alice de Janzé, described as ‘a young American man eater who played with lion cubs and was said to look like a “wicked Madonna” … in 1927 de Trafford went to Paris to inform Alice that, as a strict Catholic, he could not marry her. She came to his railway compartment at the Gare du Nord, shot first him and then herself. Neither died. They married in 1932.
This video, of an elephant giving birth, made me burst into sudden tears of amazement. The world is so big.
As my source, myownprivate, said “graphic but wondrous”.
I’m in love with the boys at New World Metro’s produce department. There’s this new display near the checkout, where fruit and vege assortments have been glad-wrapped up in those polystyrene trays, like meat. It’s so obnoxiously over packaged. But whoever’s doing it is having fun – they all have labels like “Phils Big Nose Fruit” or “I’m Fine Package” or the myspace address of (presumably) one of their bands. The whole concept is so ridiculous – who wouldn’t rather choose their own banana off the pile? – and the staff seem very aware of that. The other day there was a tray containing just a bulb of garlic and a beetroot. Mmm, convenience.
Walking home from town last night, I got accosted by a gang of children. Accosted is actually a euphemism. If they weren’t children (like 8 year olds), I would say mildly molested, or assaulted, or something. Walking past them at 1am, I barely had time to think “Sheesh, where do their parents think they are?” before one of them said “Hey, lady!” and grabbed my thigh. Then all the others laughed, and another one grabbed at me too, and they all walked away. I was so taken aback I didn’t even slap or snap at them, just stand for a full second with my mouth open and went on my way.
Seriously, they were like, eight. Normally, when I say “he was like, twelve”, everyone knows what I mean is the guy is 20, just quite skinny and slight, with rumpled boy hair and still technically a little too young for me to be crushing on him without feeling guilty (but it’s not a crime or anything). These guys. Were. EIGHT. Maximum. They grabbed my thigh because they could not reach any higher.
A few blocks down the road, this cute indie couple came over and the guy was all: “Excuse me, did those FIVE year olds just RAPE you?” So I wasn’t exaggerating about the age thing. And apparantly, right after, they head them say “Me like”. Gaaaaaag. There is not enough therapy in the world for me to deal with this, so you have to.
Pictures from the Dushi exhibition by Florentijn Hofman.
Brain pathways are funny, the way you can wear such a groove in a particular track that you can’t even stop it anymore. Habit thoughts. There’s a certain part of my walk to work each morning, across the road and halfway through the park, where I have to mentally check that, yes, I did remember to put all my clothes on and I will be perfectly decent when I pull my coat off at work. Every day! It’s such a banal thing to spend brain-space on.
Also, is it weird that I still daydream? Is that something you’re supposed to grow out of?