"men of snow" - ingrid michaelson

people and things i have been inspired by as of lately:

• the photographs of ryan mcginley and alison scarpulla
• amber ortolano (she’s only 15)
• the movie submarine
• the soundtrack for ^
• overheard conversations
• the colours of the trees on campus
• paradoxes
• quirks and abnormalities in other people
• this guy’s tumblr
• this woman’s voice
• this man’s voice
• the way snow looks on a mountain
• castles and old cathedrals
• willow trees when they sway in the wind
• houses and rooms (how where we live can say so much about who we are)
• fleeting moments shared with intriguing strangers through alternating eye contact (especially while on public transit)
• the sound of piano keys and violin strings
• this
• and this

the colour of the trees at the park near my house.

“All of my books are about two people trying to talk to each other. Everything that I’ve ever written is about people trying to talk to each other and the total impossibility of ever saying actually what you want to say and being understood exactly as you want to be understood and the worth of trying. The books are not depressing. They are not about how we’ll never be able to communicate. They are about how we continually try to communicate and how those efforts are so important and so beautiful.” - Jonathan Safran Foer

just in case you didn't already know, my friend shanene and i decided to start our own online magazine. you can view our first issue here.

submarine

submarine (2010) directed by richard ayoade.

i absolutely loved the quirkiness of submarine. the soundtrack, featuring songs by alex turner (lead singer of the arctic monkeys), the wardrobe, the quintessential british humour, the cinematography and literally every single aspect of submarine was just impeccable.

"you have to be able to observe life as if you were a camera all the time, constantly looking at light and the way that things are placed and the way people hold themselves. you need the ability to see something in someone or something that no one else really sees and be able to bring that to light. basically, you have to be an obsessive crazy person.”

- Ryan McGinley

cities.

berlin, germany by christian pitschl.

innsbruck, austria by kristine may.

aarhus, denmark by ida thue.


salzburg, austria by claire sandra.

paris, france by albina & kostya.

reykjavik, iceland by berta.


pigalle, france by m b.



cesky krumlov, czech republic by giwrgos livydikos.


edinburgh, scotland by jessica.


prague, czech republic by erik witsoe.


marburg, germany by hannah schmucker.


reine, norway by lara alegre.


shirakawa-go, japan by kiyo.

to be continued...

"i'm almost never serious, and i'm always too serious. too deep, too shallow. too sensitive, too cold hearted. i'm like a collection of paradoxes."

- Ferdinand von Schrubentaufft

julie kwon

"for you" - josh beech

Josh Beech "For You". www.marceloburlonblog.com from Marcelo Burlon on Vimeo.

just more of a reason to love josh beech.

"biographies"

after awhile, the most intriguing strangers become a sort of fiction.
you begin to see them in diptychs;
the contours and lines of their pasts and futures
sewn together by the missing jigsaw puzzle pieces
currently hidden under your quilted couch in your living room,
by the negatives from the pentax disposable cameras you developed all too long ago
and filtering through alternating eye contact and brainstormed, ad-libbed dialogue
(a game of chess)
and their second-hand gazes.
(they’re only second-hand, because they’re all too familiar)
we’re always chasing and holding onto lost memories,
reminders and discarded post-it notes of all that we once knew
or the answers we’ve never known.
(they’re still pending)
we all suffer from amesia,
(don’t worry, it’s only temporary)
until we get struck by lightning
and our sight becomes cloudless.
we’re always trying to find our way home.
(checkmate)

mia

february, 2011.

blood - the middle east

listen.
the name of the song is deceiving, i can assure you.

"acrophobia"

swallowed beneath an azure, hazy sea of fog,

we became the mountains.

20,000 feet above all that we know, all that we are.

“we have officially begun our descent.”

firmly pressed against the facet of my window seat, you believed in respiration.

i choked on air, all white-skinned and ashen.

you knew i was chasing slumber,

to fall into a terminal coma;

until a voice spoke:

“welcome home.”

untitled

it was something to do with the way your arms drew like vines when you moved.

the way they’d intertwine and weave so effortlessly like the french braids you wore in your hair when you were seven.

or maybe it was the way the pallid tulle fabric from your frayed petticoat would knowingly elevate itself by flight like black widows knitting their cobwebs; verses and strokes onto some spilled canvas; mine.

or the way the peach in your gaunt soles quivered like roots stemming from the ground en pointe, all callused and bruised and phantom limbs.

or the way your pirouettes and grand jetés were enunciated like soft-spoken hallelujahs under some celestial sky.

or the way i knew you once.

or the way your history beckoned to be narrated; for your entire existence to overflow into fine-grained, milk-eyed hues of coral and sea foam and cerulean.

or the way you beseeched to be resurrected by my tabula rasa; all life-sized and concrete.

you were more than just skin and bones, you promised.

autumn

sylvia mann, tom lander and jake cooper by bell soto

we spend the majority of our lives waiting; waiting for something to happen, waiting for something to end, waiting for something to begin. that ‘something’ is most definitely life itself and why are we waiting? why do we wait for something that is blatantly and inevitably right before our eyes? why do we choose to ignore life? are we afraid of it? i think we are. we fear, yet we lust over the idea of the unknown, yet the fear takes its toll and we are left, waiting. it’s not fair, is it?

quiet - rachael yamagata (live at KCRW)

"what if i was someone different in your only history? would you feel the same?"

"i can never say what i want to say. it's been like this for awhile now. i try to say something, but all i get are the wrong words; the wrong words or the exact opposite words from what i mean. i try to correct myself and that only makes it worse. i lose track of what i was trying to say to begin with. it's like i'm split in two and playing tag with myself. one half is chasing the other half around the big, fat post. the other me has the right words, but this me can't catch her."

- Haruki Murakami, Norwegian Wood

reminiscing of summer 2010

when i'd lie next to you on the velvet, emerald grass adjacent to my front porch and gaze endlessly at the starry sky every night and shine flashlights in each others’ faces until we'd blink and our eyelashes fluttered simultaneously. when i'd take long exposures of you sitting on the very edge of the pavement with fluorescent yellow and white headlights beaming luminously across your face and you would be lost amidst a sea of shadows from the tall evergreens across the street that swayed back and forth in unison. when i'd race you down the street until we'd stop to catch our breath as we faced oncoming traffic and people in cars stopped and subtly observed our youthful expressions longingly as if they wished that just for a second, they could be with us. when i spent the night laughing aimlessly with you until my ribs ached and tears began to stream down my face until we forgot precisely what we were initially laughing about. when we'd listen to phoenix’s rome on the bus and shamelessly attempt to lip-sync each lyric whilst receiving menacing stares from fellow strangers alike. and even though i know you’ll come back, i’m really, really going to miss you.















it’s sad how distance can change everything. summer’s gone, but it will come and go; autumn’s shortly made it’s appearance, and it will come and go. and you, you will come and go as well. i always walk by your house on my way home from school, the one you spent your entire life in and nothing ever stays the same, does it? i remember for five years, we walked to school and back together and you’d tell me how much you despised high school and how you wanted to leave and in time, the day you’d leave, your entire life would change. i knew you were right, but i didn’t want to believe you, because i knew you were afraid. you think these things will last forever, until you realize that you cannot hold onto forever, because it’s already here.

kirsten dunst and jason schwartzman by gia coppola and tracy antonopoulos for opening ceremony