keeping secrets

Who could deny that privacy is a jewel? It has always been the mark of privilege, the distinguishing feature of a truely urbane culture.

Phyliss McGinley (1905-1978), US poet


found in Veil: Modesty, privacy and resistance by Fadwa El Guindi (1999, Oxford:Berg)

a little joy in the familiar

i recognized your voice by the sound of your laugh.

vanity and the invisible

It is only shallow people who do not judge by appearances. The true mystery of the world is the visible, not the invisible.


Oscar Wilde, The picture of Dorian Gray (1981)

a rainy sunday morning in the beginning of summer

this morning we enjoyed breakfast together. milky coffee and thick warm waffles covered in dark cheeries, whipped cream and maple syrup.

twenty six oh no!

a little bunch of flowers from the garden and all tied together with a rubber band.

i could listen to this a hundred million times.

i'll take care of you, take care of you, that's true...


from take care by Beach House

saltwater

it's strange to have your salty tears wetting my cheek and stinging my skin. what does it mean to expose the back of a tapestry? to let the curtain rise before all is ready or to let the curtain fall just a little too late? to let the guts of you spill and bleed into me. this sadness. it is mine whenever it is yours.

Sunday lunch and the longest drink in town

lyall bay on a sunny day and a hunt for the elusive red burger van.

we found it!

 

dining on mint choc shakes and burgers filled with beef and hash browns..... oh my! and wedges with homemade tomato sauce. i love mint and chocolate in everything. 'the longest drink in town' shakes always make me think of my mum but i can't remember why. oh and the beetroot... so good.

page one hundred and twenty seven

'So you do love me, little thing?' he murmured.

from A Room with a View by E.M. Forster

if i wrote you a letter in indian ink

i love digital textile design and i also love photography. in this last semester of uni i made a collection of fabrics and a zero-waste dress for our digital class.

our tutor asked us to design by looking at the theme animal, mineral or vegetable. for inspiration i researched minerals. and then rock strata, aerial photography, the movement of water, and kimono. i began drawing inky, gritty, and organic marks with water colours and somehow it became this...

 

the display board - with layout and font designed by holly

model - beautiful nina, a dear friend of laras'

with photography by me

the swirl dress
this is a visualisation of the 'swirl' design as zero-waste garment

the envelope dress
this is a visualisation of the finished dress
the design is garment specific, digitally printed on chiffon, and sewn with a lot of help of hannahs' mum

a wonderful project. and i am very happy with the finished collection. hurrah!

books

"Be careful of books. Be careful with books. Be careful or one can become a weapon-wielder. Be careful or one can become the victim."


Cai Guo-Qiang

on a monday afternoon

we travelled by train to Waikanae. i'd never been up to Waikanae before so we also added in a few stops along the way.

somewhere along the way

our late afternoon lunch in Waikanae

i love that the train ride was the activity for the day and my favorite stop was in Paekakariki. We had hot coffee, hunted for secondhand books and enjoyed a refreshing (read: chilly) walk along the waterfront. i even got in a nap on the way home. nice.

hello

i haven't forgotten about you. shall we make date on sunday afternoon? we can have tea and toast together.

good morning

I opened my mouth and the room filled with birds.

Elliott Smith

a daydream

"... and a city like a forest, cool and quiet."

from Cradle to Cradle by William McDonough and Michael Braungart

found

i found this sign outside the bats theatre when i was walking home last night. there is something very beautiful about its sadness.

away again

But where is "away"? Of course, "away" does not really exist. "Away" has gone away.

from Cradle to Cradle by William McDonough and Michael Braungart

eclipse of the heart

i've been working on an artwork for charity. it's a paper collage that has been sublimate printed on to fabric. this is what i do when i'm living at Uni.

the artwork under construction

a photograph of the finished piece

i wrote...

Through the use of paper collage, scoring and stitching, I have created a composition based around the idea of the heart as the centre of all things. I have taken a conceptual approach to the heart, looking at circles as a representation of the heart. Intersecting lines define the heart motif and the abstract composition plays with the relationship between shapes.
 
Eclipse of the heart has been created as a gift to auction for Ronald McDonald House Charities.  This inspired me to look at quilting as a gift that represents family and the home. The piecing of quilts and the idea that the heart is what connects people to each other has inspired the subtle hand stitched lines. I have looked to the work of Bauhaus designers for inspiration. The glass compositions of Josef Albers and Laszlo Moholy-Nagy’s paper collage work have informed the overall aesthetic. The artwork has been assembled through paper collage and sublimate printing. Glowing edges from the printing process lift the circles from the background providing a contrast to the fine scoring lines. The golden circle becomes a symbol of hope set against a soft heavenly blue.

last night we had a wonderful auction night with Ronald McDonald House Wellington. the event was hosted in the Great Hall at Massey University and it was delightful.

a bookshelf

i love this. it's so erratic and hoarderish (a new word?) and a little bit wonderfully organised all at the same time.

Photo by Melchior Tersen via Andrew Harlow.

sunshine at Makara beach and only one teeny cloud in the sky

on a Sunday morning

i am not meant for mornings.

but fresh coffee and french toast with golden syrup... makes it a little easier.

away

"there is no away to throw things to."

snow day!

happiness.

mornings

author unknown. i received this in an email from my love. myself and the character share some similarities.

a weekend away

a flannelette shirt, photographs, cold fingers and a walk through the mist.

a few little words

"I never read, I just look at pictures."

                                            Andy Warhol

sometimes

i am afraid. the list is getting too long.

sleeping

i like that you blow me kisses even in the middle of the night when you are mostly asleep.

a sense of humour

"i think you're the one," he said.

"really?" she said.

"yeah, i think you're the one."

"what?"

"well, someone was going to get me chocolate, and i think you're the one," he answered.

dear winter

thank you for my new flannelette shirt. it makes me look like a logger and i don't mind one tiny bit.

i'm off to chop up wood for the roaring fire inside.

sharing stories

beautiful words make me happy.

Date a Girl Who Reads by Rosemarie Urquico 

Date a girl who reads. Date a girl who spends her money on books instead of clothes. She has problems with closet space because she has too many books. Date a girl who has a list of books she wants to read, who has had a library card since she was twelve.

Find a girl who reads. You’ll know that she does because she will always have an unread book in her bag. She’s the one lovingly looking over the shelves in the bookstore, the one who quietly cries out when she finds the book she wants. You see the weird chick sniffing the pages of an old book in a second hand book shop? That’s the reader. They can never resist smelling the pages, especially when they are yellow.

She’s the girl reading while waiting in that coffee shop down the street. If you take a peek at her mug, the non-dairy creamer is floating on top because she’s kind of engrossed already. Lost in a world of the author’s making. Sit down. She might give you a glare, as most girls who read do not like to be interrupted. Ask her if she likes the book.

Buy her another cup of coffee.

Let her know what you really think of Murakami. See if she got through the first chapter of Fellowship. Understand that if she says she understood James Joyce’s Ulysses she’s just saying that to sound intelligent. Ask her if she loves Alice or she would like to be Alice.

It’s easy to date a girl who reads. Give her books for her birthday, for Christmas, and for anniversaries. Give her the gift of words, in poetry, in song. Give her Neruda, Pound, Sexton, Cummings. Let her know that you understand that words are love. Understand that she knows the difference between books and reality but by God, she’s going to try to make her life a little like her favorite book. It will never be your fault if she does.

She has to give it a shot somehow.

Lie to her. If she understands syntax, she will understand your need to lie. Behind words are other things: motivation, value, nuance, dialogue. It will not be the end of the world.

Fail her. Because a girl who reads knows that failure always leads up to the climax. Because girls who understand that all things will come to end. That you can always write a sequel. That you can begin again and again and still be the hero. That life is meant to have a villain or two.

Why be frightened of everything that you are not? Girls who read understand that people, like characters, develop. Except in the Twilight series.

If you find a girl who reads, keep her close. When you find her up at 2 AM clutching a book to her chest and weeping, make her a cup of tea and hold her. You may lose her for a couple of hours but she will always come back to you. She’ll talk as if the characters in the book are real, because for a while, they always are.

You will propose on a hot air balloon. Or during a rock concert. Or very casually next time she’s sick. Over Skype.

You will smile so hard you will wonder why your heart hasn’t burst and bled out all over your chest yet. You will write the story of your lives, have kids with strange names and even stranger tastes. She will introduce your children to the Cat in the Hat and Aslan, maybe in the same day. You will walk the winters of your old age together and she will recite Keats under her breath while you shake the snow off your boots.

Date a girl who reads because you deserve it. You deserve a girl who can give you the most colorful life imaginable. If you can only give her monotony, and stale hours and half-baked proposals, then you’re better off alone. If you want the world and the worlds beyond it, date a girl who reads.

Or better yet, date a girl who writes.

i found this here http://or-so-i-feel.blogspot.com/

dr. diver on good manners

"Good manners are an admission that everybody is so tender that they have to be handled with gloves. Now, human respect - you don't call a man a coward or a liar lightly, but if you spend your life sparing people's feelings and feeding their vanity, you get so can't distinguish what should be respected in them."

from Tender is the Night by F. Scott Fitzgerald

curly fries and apple strudel

tonight i spent a quiet evening with my beautiful laura. we shared curly fries and played strange food related board games. and while i was gone, my love made homemade apple strudel. oh my i feel very lucky to have two such wonderful people around me.

an anniversary gift

thanks baby x

mine

one year with a dance at mighty, a first kiss outside nic-nacs, cold evenings of too clovey mulled wine, all the beards and then suddenly non-beards, one long summer and a winter of late night banoffee pie.

i'm yours. thank you for being mine x

the letter x

i found an entire alphabet to give you a kiss.

wallpaper

 the flocked wallpaper co-ordinate design in the 'my dear arthur' collection

i wrote...

An energetic pattern inspired by 1950s vintage print design.

Offset and elongated abstract shapes create a dynamic and lively design. A sense of the theatrical is explored with a play between the static shapes and the movement created through layering. The rich olive flock contrasts to the soft reddened navy and a tinted metallic pearl offers a subtle sophistication.

Add a sense of nostalgia, that’s rich, playful and warm!

my dear arthur

this has been my entire world all year. a lovely fabric inspired by arthur street in wellingtons central city. there have been many tears but i love it.

a screen-printed linen fabric with an all over complex repeat design (not that i will never forget those words).

a shopping list

the boy i love loves writing lists.

admiration

He uses 'forest green' from the tube and he doesn't give a fuck.




i've been reflecting on a self-portrait by an old friend. i think it's a really genuine portrait, moving, inspiring and a little uncomfortable to look at. the use of both colour and media is beautiful, unusual and challenging. how he mixed the paint? is unimportant. it took me six years to notice. so who does give a fuck.

a collection of words

somehow when i see this collection of words

pitter patter goes the rain

i adore you. the way you always arrive so unexpectedly. i love listening to you on the roof and trickling down the windows. with cold fingers in my pockets. you're a wonderful excuse for a pretty umbrella, gloves and a heavy wool coat.
with you, i love a warm cup of tea, a chocolate biscuit or two and quiet conversations about wet socks. and i want to thank you for the way you allow me to sleep in. late. oh so very late.

in half an inch

last friday i lost myself. i'd be loosing myself for sometime. i had forgotten all about taking evening walks. reading a book for enjoyment. celebrating little achievements. attending the birthday plans of old friends. sharing stories over a beer. having a quite coffee. resting. sleeping. laughing.
and so i want to say thank you. to everyone. i am grateful that it is you i have around me. even when i have been swallowed up. when i have not seen you for weeks. you are still there. and you are there again when i am found.

yes.

and here is a quote from Holly's pencil.


And yes I said yes I will Yes.


                                 - James Joyce

my love

i am writing you a letter in indian ink with a pen with a nib.

love x

in the evening

please come. and take me away with you.

to dance

i found this on a very beautiful blog. i needed to keep it somewhere. to put it in a safe place. so i can return to it again and again.

 
it is choreographed by bret easterling. the music is die alone by ingrid michaelson. the dancers are from julliard. i found it here http://or-so-i-feel.blogspot.com/

flight

 

i miss your face next to mine. drawing with my fingers on your skin. listening to the sound of you. breathing. mumbling. my legs all tangled around yours as you fall asleep first. and the warmth of you making me always a little too warm.

and two for tea

"Are you alone?"

-Do you mind if I pull down the curtain?

"Who do you think I'd be with?"

"That's the state I'm in. I'd like to be with you now."

Silence, then a sign and an answer. "I wish you were with me now."



from Tender is the Night by F. Scott Fitzgerald

grief

i am mourning. an entire city is suffering. there is an emptiness in the fallen bricks. missing people. quiet. and those found that will not share the hope still left. i know it is selfish for me to feel isolated in what has been endured. i wish i could help boil the water, sweep up the ceiling from the floor, light the lamps, comfort my little brother and find the cat. i can only give my love and a hug. over the telephone. i was not there. and i feel that.

here are some words.

I did not know what to say to him. I felt awkward and blundering. I did not how I could reach him, where I could overtake him and go hand in hand with him once more.

It is such a secret place, the land of tears.

from The Little Prince by Antoine De Saint-Exupery

jingle jangle morning

A beautiful piece of writing that looses me a little towards the end.

Skinless Love

Louise, pass the salt, please pass

the sun-our savory mornings.

On walks with the dog I'll bring you tied like
a kite to my wrist, your face bobbing in the moonlight.

I dream of you riding a giant spider.

You are all dangle, darling and weightless.

Reel me in tied to your mouth (silk-spin),

your secret glands sticky with waiting.

Save me for later like a peppermint,

I'll nap under your tongue, lick your furry palate.

Who needs breasts, eyebrows, or white platelets?

I think devotion is like this:

skinned of art

a bodiless mingling.

Beyond your cotton-stuffed limbs and nylon slacks,

your greasy cells buttered in wax.

We love beyond all these drippings,

a love that lasts.



from Fields, Ribbons, Folds: Somatic Landscapes for Zaha Hadid by Hadara bar-Nada

a matter of taste

lots of things are different. heavier. lighter. more or less meaningful. there are more tears. deeper breaths. blowed raspberry giggles. tickles. and laughter... and a sore face from smiling so much. things taste different. sweeter. maybe a little salty.

hope

this is a pencil. i found it last friday in swonderful. i wanted it. and that day i needed it. happiness for two dollars and fifty cents.

     She made her life one of uncommon worth.

perspective

His father looked from the horizon to explain that trains got smaller and smaller as they moved away, and that to accommodate them the rails did the same. Otherwise there would be derailments.

from The child in time by Ian McEwan

sharing

i would like to share one of my favorite short stories with you. i love short stories. and this one... i've read over and over again. the story is mournful, lonely, and an illustration of overwhelming sadness. and i find it moving, hopeful and beautiful.

This Is How Good the Coffee  by Denise Sammons

It's a grey day, raining and cold, yet I'm sitting, under shelter, outside. Happy. I am loving the  feeling of the clambering stopping. Then a tram full of American tourists pulls up outside the cafe and empties its cargo onto the footpath. A woman dressed in pink is telling another - who looks like a baseball on legs, all round and striped - about her problem. 'Oh,' her friend says, 'there's a product on the market for that.'

     I sit in the noise and feel a kindness, a warmth, maybe even some kind of love for these loud people. This is how good the coffee is.

     I am thinking of the French doors at home and how they will be leaking now (don't tell the real estate agent). Or do tell the real estate agent and maybe our house will never sell. Yes. I am imagining the soft plop, plop of the drops on the inside of the glass. I know you are at home with the open-mouthed boxes that are waiting to swallow our life together. You will be sitting with the cats, reassuring the ones you are taking and saying goodbye to the ones staying with me. In this moment I can almost see how it could all work out for the best. This is how good the coffee is.

     Sparrows ring the table where I am sitting. They skid towards my plate, aiming for the muffin, but then they get frightened and slide back to the edge of the table. They have no staying power. Their claws have no traction. Up close their bland commonness is transformed into beauty. The striking marking on their wings making a pleasing contrast to the soft, downy bodies. I want to hold one in my hand so some of that softness could seep into me, into my heart. I know that's impossible. I think of her. I do not smile. No coffee is that good.

from This Is How Good the Coffee Is by Denise Sammons. i found it a book given to me by my Nana. One hundred New Zealand short short stories, edited by Stephen Stratford, 2000.

oh it's only the best fish burger you'll ever eat

some time ago now a wonderful person shared something he loved with me. and together we enjoyed a burger on a lovely saturday afternoon.

a beautiful fish burger from Bay Takeaway in Island bay. i think you should go. now.

by train

over the christmas holiday i travelled by train to christchurch. and later home again to wellington.

i think there is something beautiful about taking the train. it's quiet and noisey all at once. sometimes i slept as the train rattled along. i read, daydreamed and listened to the rain. i like to be alone and still surrounded by people and the landscape.

He walked across the length of every carriage looking for the most secluded seat. A disruptive minority of humankind regarded journeys, even short ones, as the occasion for pleasant encounters. There were people ready to inflict intimacies on strangers. Such travellers were to be avoided if you belonged to the majority for whom a journey was the occasion for silence, reflection, daydream. The requirements were simple: an unobstructed view of a changing landscape, however dull, and freedom from the breath of other passengers, their body warmth, sandwiches and limbs.


from The child in time by Ian McEwan

quietly

it's been a slow start to the new year. the best kind. very slow.
i've been lounging in the sun. and then reading, sleeping, traveling, camping and collecting. and i'd like to go back there. please. Oh summer, how i adore you. can't we be together a little longer? just you and i.

      the beautiful blue caravan. i'm in love.