pale as a lemon


upturned moon; urging on the night.


School is kind of freaking me out a bit here.

(Source: lostinurbanism)

the breakfast club.

the breakfast club.

tri-ciclo:

Untitled Davis Ayer

tri-ciclo:

Untitled 
Davis Ayer

A part of Tumblr has been an exceptionally private place. Private because it is safe for some of us. I used to think if one feels there is a need to be safe, why go online in the first place? But it doesn’t work that way doesn’t it? To post something online and demand that space as private is extremely powerful. So far, my drafts have been that space — but to publish them (maybe) reflects my insistence that what is private can remain as private even in the eyes of public. It is like a gesture only two lovers know; a wave of the hand in a public context is a mere movement, but at the receiving end, one person knows what else it could mean. Another thing would be inside jokes, but somehow I feel with inside jokes you’d always have to explain to others (the public) what it means and it is possible to explain what is the origin of an inside joke. But not with this secret language two lovers share, a body language and rich vocabulary of gestures & expressions that belongs to the private even in the public realms.

On private spaces; it feels intrusive to like, sometimes even read blogs of this nature. Is it okay to like this, I ask myself when I go through your blog. I feel this, I know this feeling. But do I ask, do I leave a note, is it okay to email instead? I don’t know. Insistence of the private space demands for my respect, I gladly give that respect; but I am cowardly when it comes to respectfully say Hi, to comment and to share. I haven’t read the manual yet. (Do you think any manual exists?)

I’ve found a lifetime pursuit; to taste, cook with, understand and study the salts from all around the world. Prime quality, locally made, all levels of sodium content, all levels of minerals, the sea ones and the mountain ones — to prove that it is not just salt. It is more than just a sprinkle when you stir. There is life.

Do I try too hard? Do I come across as trying too hard? Why am I still asking myself this question? There is not fault in faking it till you make it because if I have to remain -[original]-, I would be first and foremost lying to myself.

I tried wearing heels the other day. It was horrible.

(Source: alexpadfield)

brianwferry:

The reach.
(Photo: Brian Ferry)

brianwferry:

The reach.

(Photo: Brian Ferry)

It’s been hard, trying to write about home. It felt foreign to be home and I write this as how my body remembers it. My body noticed the changes, especially how we never open the doors and always have the a/c on now because it is very dangerous and warm outside, how my mum has gotten into the habit of hiding our valuables in the most common but unthinkable to thieves who’re looking for the nook and crannies that people usually use to hide their valuables, how the kitchen is stocked with the same unchanging greens, how the same detergent is now a scent completely different from what I remember it was. It felt foreign to be in my own skin and to notice these things.
I was in my primary school (teaching, if you’re wondering) and it was hard. Not the job (I mean, the job has its own challenges), but the image of myself when I was younger. Some parts of the school didn’t change, at least I felt it didn’t — the fourth floor, the eerie silence of the staircase leading to my Primary 6 class, my fascination with the teacher’s restroom, the horrible toilets, the class where I happened to throw my pencil case to a boy who made fun of me. I could relive some moments in vivid colors but blurred images altogether in my head. I could speak to my younger self, see her in her skinny form, too embarrassed to smile because of her uneven front teeth and yet it was as if we spoke in different languages. There isn’t much difference between us. We’re about the same height, we both slouch.
There was reconciliation. I don’t say this in the sense that it was life-changing because forgiving my younger self felt organic, as in, I was supposed to hate my childhood and then realise there was nothing to hate, nothing to be angry about. I realised I was right, “Children are cruel monsters,” but what I thought was one monster (i.e. myself) was in fact, everyone. I couldn’t really laugh at my ways as a kid, often I criticized myself, “my childhood wasn’t pleasant,” and “I hate the bitchy kid that I was!” I told people; but come on, what the hell did you expect, now suddenly all-grown-up self?
On a totally unrelated, but then-related note, I read The Goldfinch. It took me the whole summer to go through, I rated it 3/5 on Goodreads. It wasn’t enjoyable, but it wasn’t as if it pained me to read it, except for the fact that I felt it was too freaking long. I’m not commenting on how well Donna Tartt writes the book (what do I know about good writing) but I am writing about how the book coincided with this { home x foreignness x childhood } trilogy. I loved, nay, savored how Tartt destroyed Theo’s conception of home —

My bed — a brass camp bed from the flea market, soldierly and reassuring — had always seemed like the safest place in the world to hide something. But now, looking around (beat-up desk, Japanese Godzilla poster, the penguin mug from the zoo that I used as a pencil cup), I felt the impermanence of it all strike me hard; and it made me dizzy to think of all our things flying out of the apartment, furniture and silver and all of my mother’s clothes: sample-sale dresses with the tags still on them, all those colored ballet slippers and tailored shirts with her initials on the cuffs. Chairs and Chinese lamps, old jazz records on vinyl that she’d bought down in the Village, jars of marmalade and olives and sharp German mustard in the refrigerator. In the bathroom, a bewilderment of perfumed oils and moisturizers, colored bubble bath, half-empty bottles of overpriced shampoo crowded on the side of the tub (Kiehl’s, Klorane, Kerastase, my mother always had five or six kinds going.) How could the apartment have seemed so permanent and solid-looking when it was only a stage set, waiting to be struck and carried away by movers in uniform?

Yes, Theo. How the fuck indeed. 
Reading the book, one has to wonder — what does this painting mean? In Theo’s context, in the story’s context, in my context. From the beginning, Theo was written to sound not like a 10 year old, I’m not sure if this was Tartt’s style, or if all New York kids sounded like Theo when they were 10; but there was no growth at all in how he thinks and how he spoke. He was an adult in a child’s body, he was the same adult when he was older and that made him almost childish, in the end. 
To me the painting was Theo’s childhood, something that I never got a glimpse of; perhaps lost when the museum Theo and his Mum visited exploded, or perhaps when Blackwell gave Theo his ring, or perhaps when Theo returned the ring to Hobie. But when didn’t matter to me, what mattered was how that childhood was now on a canvas, a one-of-a-kind piece that belonged to the public. Somehow taking it away from the public, keeping it away from their eyes, Theo’s obsession and fascination made the painting, to me, a childhood that he tried to own. Narration of the childhood was/is not a process you initiate; as a kid you see your younger self in the eyes of adults, what they tell you of what you did and how you did it because you didn’t have any way of being reliable with your memory. Your narration is only a myth. That painting was kept because Theo didn’t know what to do with it (what do we do with our memories, really) except admire it up close, worry about it almost every second, hold but never fully grasp it, then forget about it.
But in the last few pages of the book, Tartt took it back. The painting, the great painting was returned. “So I can’t own and care for this memory I call my childhood?” then, I asked. But Hobie explained to Theo, and consoled me, what The Great Art was — what every art is, in fact. Created it might to impress, to flourish in the admiring gaze of those who knew how to read its strokes and study its style; but that art lived as its own entity when it began with a dot and ended with a dot. When created, it was like childhood lived without the consciousness of the gazes it might interest, the dollars it might attract. 
And that was how we’ve lived, as a kid? We did what we could do, we became person of the moment and we were cruelly realistic about most things limited in our tiny world. How can I arrogantly think she should try harder or be kinder? Who was I to insist this?
It kind of made sense to no longer reminiscent about childhood that was not mine. But also, it made sense to not be angry anymore. To leave that skinny girl alone. Because why not.
No memory is ever fully mine. My anger itself could be ungrounded — a myth. 
p/s: Pictures have nothing to do with post (review?), but I’m back in whatever this place is (home/not home, temporary, foreign land.)

It’s been hard, trying to write about home. It felt foreign to be home and I write this as how my body remembers it. My body noticed the changes, especially how we never open the doors and always have the a/c on now because it is very dangerous and warm outside, how my mum has gotten into the habit of hiding our valuables in the most common but unthinkable to thieves who’re looking for the nook and crannies that people usually use to hide their valuables, how the kitchen is stocked with the same unchanging greens, how the same detergent is now a scent completely different from what I remember it was. It felt foreign to be in my own skin and to notice these things.

I was in my primary school (teaching, if you’re wondering) and it was hard. Not the job (I mean, the job has its own challenges), but the image of myself when I was younger. Some parts of the school didn’t change, at least I felt it didn’t — the fourth floor, the eerie silence of the staircase leading to my Primary 6 class, my fascination with the teacher’s restroom, the horrible toilets, the class where I happened to throw my pencil case to a boy who made fun of me. I could relive some moments in vivid colors but blurred images altogether in my head. I could speak to my younger self, see her in her skinny form, too embarrassed to smile because of her uneven front teeth and yet it was as if we spoke in different languages. There isn’t much difference between us. We’re about the same height, we both slouch.

There was reconciliation. I don’t say this in the sense that it was life-changing because forgiving my younger self felt organic, as in, I was supposed to hate my childhood and then realise there was nothing to hate, nothing to be angry about. I realised I was right, “Children are cruel monsters,” but what I thought was one monster (i.e. myself) was in fact, everyone. I couldn’t really laugh at my ways as a kid, often I criticized myself, “my childhood wasn’t pleasant,” and “I hate the bitchy kid that I was!” I told people; but come on, what the hell did you expect, now suddenly all-grown-up self?

On a totally unrelated, but then-related note, I read The Goldfinch. It took me the whole summer to go through, I rated it 3/5 on Goodreads. It wasn’t enjoyable, but it wasn’t as if it pained me to read it, except for the fact that I felt it was too freaking long. I’m not commenting on how well Donna Tartt writes the book (what do I know about good writing) but I am writing about how the book coincided with this { home x foreignness x childhood } trilogy. I loved, nay, savored how Tartt destroyed Theo’s conception of home —

My bed — a brass camp bed from the flea market, soldierly and reassuring — had always seemed like the safest place in the world to hide something. But now, looking around (beat-up desk, Japanese Godzilla poster, the penguin mug from the zoo that I used as a pencil cup), I felt the impermanence of it all strike me hard; and it made me dizzy to think of all our things flying out of the apartment, furniture and silver and all of my mother’s clothes: sample-sale dresses with the tags still on them, all those colored ballet slippers and tailored shirts with her initials on the cuffs. Chairs and Chinese lamps, old jazz records on vinyl that she’d bought down in the Village, jars of marmalade and olives and sharp German mustard in the refrigerator. In the bathroom, a bewilderment of perfumed oils and moisturizers, colored bubble bath, half-empty bottles of overpriced shampoo crowded on the side of the tub (Kiehl’s, Klorane, Kerastase, my mother always had five or six kinds going.) How could the apartment have seemed so permanent and solid-looking when it was only a stage set, waiting to be struck and carried away by movers in uniform?

Yes, Theo. How the fuck indeed.

Reading the book, one has to wonder — what does this painting mean? In Theo’s context, in the story’s context, in my context. From the beginning, Theo was written to sound not like a 10 year old, I’m not sure if this was Tartt’s style, or if all New York kids sounded like Theo when they were 10; but there was no growth at all in how he thinks and how he spoke. He was an adult in a child’s body, he was the same adult when he was older and that made him almost childish, in the end. 

To me the painting was Theo’s childhood, something that I never got a glimpse of; perhaps lost when the museum Theo and his Mum visited exploded, or perhaps when Blackwell gave Theo his ring, or perhaps when Theo returned the ring to Hobie. But when didn’t matter to me, what mattered was how that childhood was now on a canvas, a one-of-a-kind piece that belonged to the public. Somehow taking it away from the public, keeping it away from their eyes, Theo’s obsession and fascination made the painting, to me, a childhood that he tried to own. Narration of the childhood was/is not a process you initiate; as a kid you see your younger self in the eyes of adults, what they tell you of what you did and how you did it because you didn’t have any way of being reliable with your memory. Your narration is only a myth. That painting was kept because Theo didn’t know what to do with it (what do we do with our memories, really) except admire it up close, worry about it almost every second, hold but never fully grasp it, then forget about it.

But in the last few pages of the book, Tartt took it back. The painting, the great painting was returned. “So I can’t own and care for this memory I call my childhood?” then, I asked. But Hobie explained to Theo, and consoled me, what The Great Art was — what every art is, in fact. Created it might to impress, to flourish in the admiring gaze of those who knew how to read its strokes and study its style; but that art lived as its own entity when it began with a dot and ended with a dot. When created, it was like childhood lived without the consciousness of the gazes it might interest, the dollars it might attract. 

And that was how we’ve lived, as a kid? We did what we could do, we became person of the moment and we were cruelly realistic about most things limited in our tiny world. How can I arrogantly think she should try harder or be kinder? Who was I to insist this?

It kind of made sense to no longer reminiscent about childhood that was not mine. But also, it made sense to not be angry anymore. To leave that skinny girl alone. Because why not.

No memory is ever fully mine. My anger itself could be ungrounded — a myth. 

p/s: Pictures have nothing to do with post (review?), but I’m back in whatever this place is (home/not home, temporary, foreign land.)

elanormcinerney:

my mother’s notes from a two-week cycling trip in England in July 1973:
“The bikes are gradually falling to pieces… The countryside is beautiful so green + peaceful. We have been going mainly by lanes so less traffic. We are enjoying it deep down inside.”
“she brought no mac + only one jumper, so she freezes + gets shitty all the time. I feel I will go spare soon. The others are getting just as sick of it. Weather now very nice.”
“+ everyone is bad news. I am really shat off /w the lot of them.”
“they can’t ride bikes well”
“she goes on for hrs, + I just have to switch off or go insane or yell at her and get everyone in a foul mood.”
“she would not even let me read the paper tonight - said she had not finished /w it but was not reading it at the time.”
“She looks down on people /w ideas unlike her + yet she is so conservative so in need of religion family etc, she needs people. I feel they get in the way at the moment.”
“The lemon squash we had was pure cordial - how dumb can you get.”
“We then invaded a cake shop”
“We cycled to Stonehenge”
“knickerbocker glories so much carbohydrate, I also had a salad to even things off.”
“V. Woolf. - we seem to be going through a craze for her at the moment.”

elanormcinerney:

my mother’s notes from a two-week cycling trip in England in July 1973:

“The bikes are gradually falling to pieces… The countryside is beautiful so green + peaceful. We have been going mainly by lanes so less traffic. We are enjoying it deep down inside.”

“she brought no mac + only one jumper, so she freezes + gets shitty all the time. I feel I will go spare soon. The others are getting just as sick of it. Weather now very nice.”

“+ everyone is bad news. I am really shat off /w the lot of them.”

“they can’t ride bikes well”

“she goes on for hrs, + I just have to switch off or go insane or yell at her and get everyone in a foul mood.”

“she would not even let me read the paper tonight - said she had not finished /w it but was not reading it at the time.”

“She looks down on people /w ideas unlike her + yet she is so conservative so in need of religion family etc, she needs people. I feel they get in the way at the moment.”

“The lemon squash we had was pure cordial - how dumb can you get.”

“We then invaded a cake shop”

“We cycled to Stonehenge”

“knickerbocker glories so much carbohydrate, I also had a salad to even things off.”

“V. Woolf. - we seem to be going through a craze for her at the moment.”