One Minute Blog

"Life shrinks and expands in proportion to one's courage." - Anais Nin

Untitled

Stop it. You're hurting me.

Is it ever wise to look down?

My brother asked me today why I was wearing my jeans 'up there', before telling me I looked like an American from the 90's. I looked down, hoping he was right, and saw my vintage 501's covering me from just below my belly button to just above my ankle. cuffs rolled up, faded just so by their previous owner(s?), they put a grin on my face as thoughts of Alexander Wang, Americana and mussed up, plaited hair slid attractively into my mind, single file like the models on that dear man's catwalk.

Now, I know that if I were a true Wang Girl, I would be lusting after black with a hint of black, a la Autumn/Winter 2010 (for the record, I am: that boy's cigarette pants are to die for); but the sheer number of wang plaits adorning heads when I leave my house convinces me that, although very very old news in fashiony circles, the styling here still appeals. And so I am continuing my search for a pair of double waisted, slouchy, sporty pants on the high street with renewed fervour, and until I find them, I will carry on wearing my levis, which I love, and God bless America.

Urgh...get out of my magasine

Yesterday found me sat, maxi-dressed in the sunshine with a pot of rasberry sorbet and lovely elle magasine in leiu of vogue, which i left at that boys house (silly me), with a big spoon at all times between my mouth and said pot. Bloody marvellous set up I think you'll agree. Until I choked on my sorbet, having seen a picture of this girl I used to know when I lived in Canterbury, in a style profile article in my magasine. Who was decidedly un-nice when I knew her. The article was about what stylish people wear to work...which also means she has a good, elle-approved job. There she was, in her erdem shorts, looking primped and glossy, and bloody good, actually. How irritating. I had a really really big spoon full of sorbet, congratulated her inside my head and turned the page. Good for her, but I hope she's nicer now. I? I am getting my Vogue back at the earliest opportunity. There's never anyone I know in there.

These are the shorts. I think you see what I mean.

How acceptable is it to cry in public places? And does there need to be an obvious reason for doing so?

I am very well aware of the fact that people think I am wierd and its never really bothered me, in fact I agree wholeheartedly: I don't think they realise the full extent of it actually. This makes me glad; I don't think too many people would continue to spend their time around me if they had sat in my head for any length of time. But there we are. However. However. However this weekend I realised something. I realised that I have cried, really, honest to goodness cried real tears, in two places full to the brim with public in the space of forty-eight hours. And I didn't do it subtly, let me tell you. Is this just a bit too odd?
I went to see Laura Marling on Friday. Tiny little Laura Marling who commanded the stage and held everyone in absolute thrall for two hours as if she were an amazonian giantess with a machine gun and a chip on her shoulder, not a little slip of a thing armed with a beautiful sense of the world and a guitar. And a voice. Let us not forget her voice. Like a machine gun, it smacked me between the eyes and hit my heart, and I felt it hurt me. She sang these lines: "there is hope in the air, there's hope in the water...' and I felt the tears slide down my face and fall on my hands that I had clasped in my lap and was squeezing tightly together without noticing that i was making little purple crescents on the backs of them with my nails. She didn't make me sad, she made me proud; and acutely aware that for some people, talent is a duty. I thought then, that she fulfills hers absolutely.
If Laura Marling understands what keeps us all ticking over, then there is no doubt that Nicholas Sparks understands that its nice now and again to punctuate all of this bloody reality with a gorgeous man falling for a gorgeous woman. To a soundtrack. No real explanation needed i fear, I wept at the romance of it all and wished unshamedly, along with every woman in the cinema at the time I imagine, that one day I'll find my John and live in a movie all of the time. Pipe dream? Possibly. But I was touched nonetheless.
Dear John is a film based on a romantic's imagination. Laura Marling's songs remind me that there is something to be said for our mad world after all. Its seems they are both adept at prompting my mother to say she's glad I'm in touch with my emotions.

Three things that have been beautiful today

1.
I wish I could say this was some fabulous friend of mine, or better yet, me. But it is not. Still, never mind. She has made me happy, whoever she is; and she has made me wish desparately for her hair. She has made my mind up, too. I am dying mine tomorrow. I think.


2.


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rt1dmt-Zqyc&feature=PlayList&p=372FD90B4DC11EF9&playnext_from=PL&playnext=7&index=6





I sat and listened to Laura Marling sing and I thought, 'this, this is what it sounds like to be beautiful. I heard strength. And I imagined her smiling through nostalgia and tears.




3.

Third on my list is a feeling. I was at my desk at work, wandering around in my mind as I tend to do now and again, feeling sorry for myself because my current bout of flu will not relinquish its hold on my body, however many lemsips I drink - in short, I was wallowing - and a ray of pure spring sunshine fell on me. My head was bent and the strands of my hair that had fallen forward glinted like metal does. I smiled a big smile because it didn't seem accidental; it seemed like someone somewhere knew I needed springtime, if only for a minute.

What's MY problem?

I do not see why it is an issue for me to be right? I dont need a hobby, I need you to be nice to me. Dont you dare criticise me for knowing something you dont know. say fucking thankyou.
And my daddy did not commit bloody suicide.