From Dry to Snow-Covered Grass

A typical winter's day can feel dreary, but there's beauty in dead overgrown grass when the sun bathes it in golden light. And when you've just accustomed yourself to the dryness of winter weather, clouds blanket the ground in delicate snow.

Winter Light, Plates, & Paper

He pleats and folds every sheet with measured precision, and the result is a manifestation of his love for what others might deem an utterly mundane and insipid material.

Pentagonal Naomiki Sato Rose folded by Seiji Murakami

An Afternoon in NYC (Stumptown / Morgan Library & Museum / Dover Street Market)

I haven't really spent a lot of time walking through the city recently, but I did just that this Thursday. It was a lot of fun: I fueled up with a skim cortado at Stumptown; I visited the Morgan Library & Museum for the Martin Luther exhibit (I was intrigued because we learned about him in my AP Modern European History class); and I browsed my way through Dover Street Market.

A Day at the Moderna Museet

Pastels and a Red Lip

Musings Part II

Musing 2.1

People always talk about the power of names, and I believe in their power when it comes to emotional attraction. That complete stranger can remember to use your name, and suddenly you've been taken. He has breathed delicate, anxious butterflies through your mouth, and they settle in your gut. You're surprised, but also glad he's chosen you; a sliver of your heart has been exposed. "You okay Amaia?" he asks in a mellifluous tonality. There's a liaison between "okay" and "Amaia," because everything he does is as sweet and as glossy as golden chestnut-honey. The swirling funnel of fragility and appetite spins faster and grows wider within your esophagus—into your core..."Amaia?" You hesitate and his attention has turned to Lily who is striding by. "Hey Lily! What's up?" She nods and smiles, so you shuffle away, wishing you weren't feeling as volatile as the light Spring breeze. Although you've departed, the flickering warmth has not; it is gradually turning into an evening chill, and a white duvet seems as appealing as the bouquet of white Lilies some admirer has given to your sister.

Musing 2.2

Filming herself on camera, Sandy walked into the town butcher shop. She was facing the camera lens toward herself so that to everyone who walked by, her new and shiny face was the two-dimensional playback screen. Either she was interested in the mundane artistry of her quotidian lifestyle, or she had a bout of sheer narcissism.
Waiting for her parents to buy what would become dinner, she stared blankly at the camera without so much as a blink. Perhaps it was indeed narcissism, for she was capturing no regular movement for later artistic interpretation.
After her parents finished up with the butcher, she followed them out of the store, intently focusing on only the camera with that expressionless glare that made those around her wonder if she had a penchant for the inscrutable. Sandy was of a curious mind—one not usually understood by others—or so she liked to think...However, her uncle took pride in being one of the few individuals she opened up to. He was an insufferable, corpulent man whose arrogance extended far beyond the likes of Sandy. He drove a scarlet 1966 Shelby 427 Cobra, and no one knew how he had obtained such a car with his meager salary as an employee at Price Chopper. He longed for an opulent Gatsby-like sense of mystery, but besides the probably illegal nature of his car, his crass act was easily discernable for what it was. Waving at strangers from his scarlet automobile, he seemed for all the world an avid disciple of the Queen of England—the town mayor simply would not due as a role model. His name was Bob, and if he wasn't at home polishing the mirrors of his Cobra, he could certainly be found driving down Main Street beside his blond girlfriend of eleven years.

Embracing the Green

Musings of an Absent-Minded Observer

There are moments in my everyday life when I disconnect from the present because I find the interactions of the moment to be particularly intriguing. Upon departing from the action, I become an observer who endeavors to write with the splendor a given space may merit. I scrutinize the object of my attention while seeking out as many details as possible, in the hopes that a reader of my composition will be able to follow my individual brushstrokes and discern a frozen and lacquered painting hanging on the wall that had seemed bare only moments before. I don't really know why I fill the margins of my life with these aimless annotations, but read on and preserve the musings of an absent-minded observer.

Merry Christmas 2015!

Je Suis Paris

Source: Jean Jullien

My dear Nº 14 readers,

Words cannot describe the horrific events that took place in Paris on Friday night.

Afraid of the Dark

Some Peach Colored Ribbon

Favorite Summer Moments