I shall ramble on.

I'm a flake. I haven't posted since the summer, but forgive me (if any readers are left.) I promise to enliven this thing. I swear, my mind is twirling with ideas. For now, my current inspirations:

Surrealism.

Millet's Angelus.

Swann's Way.
"And just as the Japanese amuse themselves by filling a porcelain bowl with water and steeping in it little crumbs of paper which until then are without character or form, but the moment they become wet, stretch themselves and bend, take on color and distinctive shape, become flowers or houses or people, permanent or recognizable, so in that moment all the flowers in our garden and in M. Swann's park, and the water-lilies on the Vivonne and the good folk of the village and their little dwellings and the parish church and the whole of Combray and of its surroundings, taking their proper shapes and growing solid, sprang into being, towns and gardens alike, from my cup of tea."

Walks around my neighborhood.

Some socks

I've been petulant and moody, unable to write anything. I did buy colorful socks: they're nicer than these humid days.

My Idleness

I have not made myself write in a while, coasting on the thoughts of history's shadows. I'm enamored by fictional characters. The silently passionate Tatiana, sitting by the window, pale, with flaming dark eyes. Andrei Bolkonsky underneath Austerlitz skies and his steel, cynical stature. After these summer days, these creatures haunt my impressionable mind, more solid and lasting than my ephemeral whims.

I'm also considering collecting beautiful faces, to brand with names and loves and stories. My collection starts with him. A Eugene Onegin with red hair, perhaps?

The Sartorialist

Hiatus

Am leaving for the Black Sea for about ten days. When I'm back, expect a flurry of moderately witty posts.

Because the present doesn't always suit.

I have several unrealistic visions of the future. I could be the mysterious old lady with purple hair living in a mansion in New Zealand. I would be the enigma of the town by day and by night, I would publish poems under a crafty pseudonym. I could also own a coffee shop by the Black Sea, playing moody music of the Tom Waits and Regina Spektor variety, and mixing strange drinks. I might be a wandering writer, a modern day gypsy armed with a notebook, a pen, and some killer wit. Either way, I promise to myself to dress extravagantly: peacock feathers, sequins, high heels, and dainty hats. Sadly, I have yet to become the woman of my midnight visions, but I'm sure will one day.

Who will you be?

Wear your equations on your sleeve.

I've always thought of myself as a nerd. I'm a bit too aloof and much more immersed in the world of ideas than reality. The vortexes of mathematical equations spinning in my mind and the musings of book characters seem more vivid and coherent than my daily breakfast routine. An especially pretty trigonometric function can leave me in fits of giggles, as if I've spoken to a charming boy. That's why I've always been attracted to the nerd aesthetic so popular these days. I would love to wear clothes with code messages, which could only understood by people with likewise scholastic passions. Sadly, the clothing toted under the nerd trend have always lacked some enigma... That's where Rhombus comes in. Their simple, clean styles and photo-shoots staged in classrooms and libraries say "nerd" better than many others do.









That boy just might be cuter than a trig function... Nah, not quite.

Going away

I'm leaving for Ukraine to see my relatives tomorrow morning and posting from there might be harder than usual. I have been doddering around, doing little. Wearing perfume at home to avoid the suffocating smell of my own sweat, listening to lovely music splayed out on the floor, drinking cups and cups of tea. Summer living.

I've been reading Sylvia Plath's diaries and she continues to fascinate me. I find a comforting familiarity with her overwhelming ambition to write.

Mad Girl's Love Song
by Sylvia Plath

I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead;
I lift my lids and all is born again.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

The stars go waltzing out in blue and red,
And arbitrary blackness gallops in:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed
And sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

God topples from the sky, hell's fires fade:
Exit seraphim and Satan's men:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

I fancied you'd return the way you said,
But I grow old and I forget your name.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

I should have loved a thunderbird instead;
At least when spring comes they roar back again.
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)