“I have love in me the likes of which you can scarcely imagine and rage the likes of which you would not believe. If I cannot satisfy the one, I will indulge the other.”
— Mary Shelley, Frankenstein
Friday, July 26, 2013
Friday QuoteDay
Thursday, July 25, 2013
Weekly Flâneur: Parallel Reminders
Warning: Reflections in this mirror may be distorted by socially constructed ideas of 'beauty'
InSpiral Lounge, a small cafe in Camden Town, London, December, 2009.
you are beautiful
Restaurant X, a small cafe in Davidson, North Carolina, July, 2013.
Thanks, bathroom mirrors of the world, for the reminder.
Things That Happened Today On Twitter
"Everything In My Closet Is Slutty Or Casual: A Journey Of Inappropriate
Work Attire, An Autobiography Of Every Morning at 7 A.M." By Natalie
Chapter 1: Why is this shirt covered in cat hair?
Chapter 2: It's not TECHNICALLY strapless, so it works, right?
Chapter 3: Why do you own so many pairs of shorts? You don't even wear shorts. Except the purple ones. But not to work. Don't put those on.
Chapter 4: The many ways in which your ass can no longer fit into those pants you have owned since 2003.
Chapter 5: Did you shave your legs? You didn't. How not-shaven are they? Eh, that dress is long enough.
Chapter 6: Sitting in the middle of your floorobe sighing and checking Facebook will not get you to work on time.
Chapter 7: Define skintight.
Chapter 8: Didn't you wear that Monday?
Chapter 9: Damn it, just throw something on already. No, not that.
Chapter 10: How the many vows to buy appropriate work attire will be forgotten by the time you finish your morning coffee.
Chapter 11: Doing it all again tomorrow as if it were a grand surprise.
(Email me at flaneurinthecity at gmail dot com if you want to follow my personal Twitter. Maybe one day I'll actually use the flaneurinthecity official Twitter account. After I buy a proper pair of trousers and a sensible shirt.)
Chapter 1: Why is this shirt covered in cat hair?
Chapter 2: It's not TECHNICALLY strapless, so it works, right?
Chapter 3: Why do you own so many pairs of shorts? You don't even wear shorts. Except the purple ones. But not to work. Don't put those on.
Chapter 4: The many ways in which your ass can no longer fit into those pants you have owned since 2003.
Chapter 5: Did you shave your legs? You didn't. How not-shaven are they? Eh, that dress is long enough.
Chapter 6: Sitting in the middle of your floorobe sighing and checking Facebook will not get you to work on time.
Chapter 7: Define skintight.
Chapter 8: Didn't you wear that Monday?
Chapter 9: Damn it, just throw something on already. No, not that.
Chapter 10: How the many vows to buy appropriate work attire will be forgotten by the time you finish your morning coffee.
Chapter 11: Doing it all again tomorrow as if it were a grand surprise.
(Email me at flaneurinthecity at gmail dot com if you want to follow my personal Twitter. Maybe one day I'll actually use the flaneurinthecity official Twitter account. After I buy a proper pair of trousers and a sensible shirt.)
Friday, July 19, 2013
Friday QuoteDay
“I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where. I love you simply, without problems or pride: I love you in this way because I do not know any other way of loving but this, in which there is no I or you, so intimate that your hand upon my chest is my hand, so intimate that when I fall asleep your eyes close.”
― Pablo Neruda, Chilean poet, 100 Love Sonnets
Thursday, July 18, 2013
Weekly Flâneur: Two-Tone
 |
| Image of two-tone glass skyscraper. Click to enlarge. |
Blue on blue, reflecting the sky.
The architecture of this building reminds me of stair-steps to the clouds.
Charlotte Plaza, Charlotte (duh), N.C., 2013
Tuesday, July 16, 2013
Handfast
There are little things about our life together that I am afraid I will forget. Quiet, daily moments that will be swept aside in memory for the big events. There will always be big events; graduations, birthdays, Christmas mornings. Give me the memory of his spoon stirring my morning cup of coffee. The joke we shared through puffs of breath during a late-afternoon run. I do not want to forget the
rise and fall of his back as sleeps on his
stomach on a dreary Sunday afternoon. The scent of his hair wet from the
shower, shampoo and Ivory soap and something that is only him,
indescribable.
The rains come again, heavy and incessant. It is summer, it is green and gray and strange to look at the calendar and think: July. This is July. We take a nap Sunday afternoon, because the rain starts again and the wind sends it sideways on the bedroom windows, and it is dark and cool and the weather of hibernation and secrets. We each claim a side of the bed, legs and arms akimbo, spread out, taking space. When it is hot, we neglect to snuggle close, we are a duo that is solo in sleep.
Despite the length of the bed between us, there are times I will wake in the night to find our hands clasped together; in our sleep we find each other, hold on. We start out sleeping apart, I on my side, he on his, curled around pillows or snuggled tight around blankets. Each lost to our own worlds. But somehow in the night we untangle, we cross the space of cold sheets and tossed pillows, our hands reach out and we weave together, my hand in his, his in mine. Unconscious. Unknown. Unable to let go even in dreams.
Some summer day it may not be the sole pair of us; we may have children, we may have a wagging-tailed dog, we may have a house shared with parents or relatives. Some day it may just be him, alone and waiting in this world, this life. Some day, it may be just me, a husband gone, children grown, my hair gray and thin and sparse. On that day, I want to remember the space of time when it was just me and him, our bed an island in a sea of dreams, my fingers moving through sleep, his hand sneaking a way through parted sheets, both safely reaching out in darkness to hold the hand that was made for the other.
The rains come again, heavy and incessant. It is summer, it is green and gray and strange to look at the calendar and think: July. This is July. We take a nap Sunday afternoon, because the rain starts again and the wind sends it sideways on the bedroom windows, and it is dark and cool and the weather of hibernation and secrets. We each claim a side of the bed, legs and arms akimbo, spread out, taking space. When it is hot, we neglect to snuggle close, we are a duo that is solo in sleep.
Despite the length of the bed between us, there are times I will wake in the night to find our hands clasped together; in our sleep we find each other, hold on. We start out sleeping apart, I on my side, he on his, curled around pillows or snuggled tight around blankets. Each lost to our own worlds. But somehow in the night we untangle, we cross the space of cold sheets and tossed pillows, our hands reach out and we weave together, my hand in his, his in mine. Unconscious. Unknown. Unable to let go even in dreams.
Some summer day it may not be the sole pair of us; we may have children, we may have a wagging-tailed dog, we may have a house shared with parents or relatives. Some day it may just be him, alone and waiting in this world, this life. Some day, it may be just me, a husband gone, children grown, my hair gray and thin and sparse. On that day, I want to remember the space of time when it was just me and him, our bed an island in a sea of dreams, my fingers moving through sleep, his hand sneaking a way through parted sheets, both safely reaching out in darkness to hold the hand that was made for the other.
Friday, July 5, 2013
Friday QuoteDay
“The only thing I know is this: I am full of wounds and still standing on my feet.”
― Nikos Kazantzakis, Greek novelist
Thursday, July 4, 2013
Weekly Flâneur: Red, White, and Blue
 |
| Take a bite. Click to enlarge. |
Happy 4th of July!
Time to get star spangled hammered. For America!
Red, white, and blue, the fruits of summer are for you. Charlotte, N.C., 2013
Time to get star spangled hammered. For America!
Red, white, and blue, the fruits of summer are for you. Charlotte, N.C., 2013
Tags:
Weekly Flâneur
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)