kind of tried to do the whole chic parisian in stripes thing, but i don't have a really good quality striped shirt to pull it off! on the lookout for one now, lol
i wore the octopus leg earrings my mom gave me last christmas from octopus me on etsy, they're pretty cool up close! actual octopus legs are cast into earrings, i love them
shirt: thrifted; shoes: health food store; jeans: macy's?
and there are some new purchases to show off; bubbles that smell like strawberry ice cream, the big size benetint (i live on this stuff), and a very old, very heavy typewriter! when i have my own place, i plan on having multiple rooms with desks in each, and a typewriter on each desk, just in case i come up with an idea on the spot and must write it all out before i forget! i carry around post it notes for the time being, but there's nothing like the sound of typewriter keys...which reminds me of this poem, which my english teacher gave to us the last day of class on the last day of the year. i want to be able to sit at a desk in a light filled room and write poetry like this, maybe some day
In her room at the prow of the house
Where light breaks, and the windows are tossed with linden,
My daughter is writing a story.
I pause in the stairwell, hearing
From her shut door a commotion of typewriter-keys
Like a chain hauled over a gunwale.
Young as she is, the stuff
Of her life is a great cargo, and some of it heavy:
I wish her a lucky passage.
But now it is she who pauses,
As if to reject my thought and its easy figure.
A stillness greatens, in which
The whole house seems to be thinking,
And then she is at it again with a bunched clamor
Of strokes, and again is silent.
I remember the dazed starling
Which was trapped in that very room, two years ago;
How we stole in, lifted a sash
And retreated, not to affright it;
And how for a helpless hour, through the crack of the door,
We watched the sleek, wild, dark
And iridescent creature
Batter against the brilliance, drop like a glove
To the hard floor, or the desk-top,
And wait then, humped and bloody,
For the wits to try it again; and how our spirits
Rose when, suddenly sure,
It lifted off from a chair-back,
Beating a smooth course for the right window
And clearing the sill of the world.
It is always a matter, my darling,
Of life or death, as I had forgotten. I wish
What I wished you before, but harder.