Photos by the Porte-Plume.
A huge final thank you to the wonderful people at ZARA who have involved me in the US launch of their online shopping website. I know every girl was excited about that day in September. I posted about the lovely little gift here. Besides the inspiring “Dear America” photo collection, I also had the chance to use a gift certificate on the new US website. These basic gloves were my final purchase with that money, after the ankle boots and feathered earrings. Simple and warm, with a wonderful addition of this fold-over piece for the thumb, these are the exact black gloves I had been lacking in my fall/winter wardrobe. Thanks again for everything, ZARA.
Marcus Mumford, marry me?
Everyone has their songs. The songs that make them twitch and feel a pull, feel anything again. This is one of those songs for me. A simple poem. It makes me stop staring at the ceiling above my bed and write what I’m feeling behind my eyes. It also, coincidentally, makes me write much faster than normal. Either way, it’s the perfect mix. Page upon page come pouring out of my fingertips as the song repeats and plays on. I like a song that washes away writer’s block, welcomes emotions that are usually brushed under the rug, and keeps your mind turning and toiling in the space between being level-headed and indulging in the black hole of insanity that we all have hidden somewhere. It’s a scream and a whisper all at the same time, and I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to speak quite as clearly. I’ve been enjoying the final products of Clorange completed tunes, reminding myself what jams in the Old Soul‘s attic home used to sound like, and thoroughly enjoying my own clown dance with a drum set. Who cares if I disrupted everything? I’ve been running between closed doors and car engines, finding a way to squeeze everything in with just enough time to take a breath as I lay my head down for sleep. Props to people who can do this 365 days a year. I don’t know about you, but I need grass and a day of bubbles every once and a while. Yeah, I know. I’m never growing up. I’ve been literally laughing out loud at the cheesy 80s music choices for spin class this week, cooking up a storm to the accompaniment of James brown in the rabbit hole, and bringing the warmth of Clorange into my kitchen. Complete with full stomachs. I plan on sharing recipes soon. Mid-terms are sort of over, and I’ve got plans for nights of music, after music, after music. The thrill of live tunes doesn’t seem to get old.