eggshell

the city is raging around me but I found a tent to set up where I cultivate my silence. 

people want to pull me aboard and sometimes I let them but I don't do too much talking other than the dialogues between the covers of the books I read as if I could live on nothing but poetry and coconut milk.
I make sure I'm spooning my heart out, I don't want to miss a bit of its metallic taste that pours out from the cracks and holds particles of such universal knowing and viking strength I can't believe I forgot it was there all this time with a beat I'm learning to sing my songs to again.
the night has quickly become my favourite time. this is when the ghosts that are haunting the streets present me with their essence and for a moment I can grasp their concept. that's when I have to be quick to move and grab a brush, a pen or the guitar to put them into pieces of art like some put butterflies into glass jars.
they have a strange beauty I am yet to figure out.

it's becoming clearer and clearer I am going to leave this town that's built on hollow bones and gossamer.
I started letting go and now I can't stop it

>

ashes

when the rain came down I locked myself in the bathroom to record a song I wrote/ 

now you're out on the bottomless sea

I went to the water twice this week. the first time I was accompanied by the boy with seaweed eyes who made a mixtape so we could sing along to weird little songs I had almost forgotten.

I told him that when I eat enough fruit fast enough I get high on it, so on the way home we bought bananas and kiwis and munched on them and got hysterically happy with the car's windows open and the ocean still on our skin.

photography by anna eve

the gardener's dictionary

 

remember to look for beauty.

I just restarted working on the alphabet of pressed flowers I've had on my mind for years and that I attempt on finishing over time. I am not setting a date for it, as in this case the road really is the destination.

the project is a perfect training in awareness for the beauty around you and the little details that magic consists of. also there's a lot of knowledge about the use of domestic plants in natural remedies, potions and cosmetics you'll pick up along the way.

the tasks include wandering around, keeping an open eye for everything blooming around me.
when I find a flower I want to add to the alphabet I'll pick some petals (carefully, harming nature should be kept to a minimum) and carry them home where I classify them with the help of a book about domestic plants. I may have to shorten some stems for the flowers to fit into my flower press where I organize them on paper individually, according to type of flower. (if there is more space I'll combine some flowers like a miniature bouquet that I can frame later on)

the petals then have to sit in the press for some days. after this time having passed I can open it carefully and take the pressed flowers out to arrange them alphabetically into an album with leather covers.

creating an album with pressed flowers is a beautiful project and meditation, especially with the rain falling before my open windows, a cup of fresh coffee besides me and the music of vashti bunyan playing.
I'll spend some time letting my brain overgrow with flowers and see what comes out of it and I am very excited to do so.

as constant as the northern star

Wendy Nichol A/W 2013 from Wendy Nichol on Vimeo.

I'm a lonely painter
I live in a box of paint
//

 You tried to change didn’t you?
closed your mouth more
tried to be softer
prettier
less volatile, less awake
but even when sleeping you could feel
him travelling away from you in his dreams
so what did you want to do love
split his head open?
you can’t make homes out of human beings
someone should have already told you that
and if he wants to leave
then let him leave
you are terrifying
and strange and beautiful
something not everyone knows how to love.

warsan shire 'for women who are difficult to love'

flow

the star gazers are gathering around me to tell me their stories of aimless journeys on overgrown paths. the kind of journeys that start with you doing a tip tap dance to a song that only exists in your head and then not being able to stop your shuffeling feet so you only grab one or two apples and your woolen jacket as you are pulled out the door. it is left wide open and soon, the little creatures will make a home in those abandonned chambers with their dark faces and sharp teeth, their croaky giggles and weird lullabies of butterfly skeletons. it's alright now, you realize although they might have bit you in the toes and scared you with their dreary poetry, they never meant harm, it's just who they are. out there, the night sky greets you, forever sending you light on those paths that noone walked before. one of those star childs left one of these days and we don't know if we will ever see him again. he gets lost so easily and I wish I could write him poems and new songs each day that he could read like maps that would tell him how he is right where he belongs and what I found out about the little creatures. I think they're moaning about him too, I haven't heard their little laughter in days and their songs are getting darker.