macklin celebrini has autism
Phantogram Three
izzy's playlists!
Show & Tell
Sweet Seals For You, Always
Aqua Utopia｜海の底で記憶を紡ぐ
almost home
Keni
The Bright Sessions
The Bowery Presents
art blog(derogatory)
noise dept.
The Stonewall Inn
I'd rather be in outer space 🛸
Lint Roller? I Barely Know Her
PUT YOUR BEARD IN MY MOUTH
ellievsbear
No title available
Today's Document
Fai_Ryy
seen from South Africa
seen from Ecuador
seen from Netherlands
seen from United States
seen from Japan
seen from Malaysia
seen from Iraq
seen from United Kingdom
seen from China
seen from United States
seen from Türkiye
seen from Singapore
seen from Philippines
seen from Bangladesh
seen from United States
seen from Germany
seen from United Arab Emirates
seen from Uzbekistan
seen from Uzbekistan
seen from United States
@deliciousthankyoumoreplease
The tickets taking me through Miami and Bogota, and eventually depositing me in Santa Marta at 12.15 tomorrow afternoon (5.15 our time). Let's see how well my brain remembers Spanish when I get picked up by a Spanish-speaking woman called Helga (I know, she sounds German!) at the other end of this day and a half of travelling.
Paper Fifty Three
This video makes this App look so innovative, easy to use, and indispensable to anyone with a remotely creative tendon in their body that I am almost tempted to purchase an iPad simply to play with it.
Perhaps I'll write that novel, inspired by the cityscape before me and with such a tool always by my side. Or finally start painting like I would have if only it didn't mean carrying an easel around and dealing with temperamental tubes of paint squirting their vibrant paste over the contents of my bag - less shabby sheek, more toddler tantrum.
Marina and the Diamonds - Lies
Little Birds
Jessie Ware & Sampha - Valentine
"Watch your thoughts, they become words. Watch your words, they become actions. Watch your actions, they become habits. Watch your habits, they become your character. Watch your character, it becomes your destiny."
the teacher who changed your life
In Waiting For Superman (the trailer of which is my previous post), Davis Guggenheim, the director, highlights the importance of great teachers. How no child, no school, no educational system can succeed without them. How they are always remembered.
There are the ones we despised. The ones we taunted with devious little tricks we knew would contort their expressions into tormented twists. The ones we could fill with exasperation simply by being present. The ones we resented and so whose authority we seeked to thwart at every opportunity. The ones we lied to, poked fun at and swore about when we first discovered how to curse.
Reveling in this past mischief at the expense of our own versions of Mrs Trunchbull can be an entertaining reminisce, but it is with a deeper fondness and a sense of admiration that we remember the teachers we loved. Our own Miss Honey's if you will. Minus the adoption.
For these teachers we would eagerly bounce in our seats with our hands stretched up in the air striving to extend the tips of our fingers just that little bit higher than our neighbours' so that we'd be picked to answer from the crowd of flailing arms. For these teachers, we'd scribble, read, recite, multiply, paint, sing, run, type and plonk on the piano with the enthusiastic concentration and excited determination of young minds. Only sometimes distracted by a meandering ladybird or the silent passing round of gossip-filled scraps of paper.
I think I want to be a teacher. I want to be that teacher. That fondly remembered teacher. I want to inspire someone, cultivate a love in them for something, guide them through a problem or task.
The problem is I have a fear of being the other teacher. The hated, resented, belittled teacher. The teacher who loses her rag as often as her glasses and who finds the day more of a tiresome effort than a welcome challenge.
Perhaps here I should turn to Dangerous Minds and channel my inner Michelle Pfeiffer because I do believe that a good education and, crucially, an enjoyment of that education relies on the constant and unfaltering resilience, determination and enthusiasm of the teacher. Considering a down day is a rarity for me, this shouldn't be an issue. The only thing now is to test the theory and find the age group I suit.
Waiting For Superman
Ok Go - Needing/Getting
Mince pies courtesy of Dad - the only time of year he is allowed anywhere near the kitchen and can use Mum's own phrase - "get out and just leave me to get on with it" - on her
A foolish man tells a woman to stop talking, but a wise man tells her that her mouth is extremely beautiful when her lips are closed.
should i buy or should i go?
Well, my bank account - oh when will the student loan set in - certainly says don't do it! But my desire for something new and shiny (what is this obsession - something driven into me by twice yearly influxes of presents on my birthday and at Christmas perhaps?) says "Buy. Buy. Buy."
Now I am by no means saying that I am one of those shopoholic type girls who is capable of marching from one brightly lit store to another from dawn til dusk; the type you see staggering about the tube with fifteen separate bags full of new, on trend clothing. To be honest, shopping tires me. If I know what I'm going in for, it's fine: I have a mission, I have a purpose and I take joy in finding what I'm searching for. Otherwise, it's just an exhausting schedule of aimlessly wandering (or trotting, as I had to when I was little to keep up with my mother) about looking at things you can't afford. And that's just plain depressing if you ask me!
So what is it that has persuaded me to give up my some of my saved away notes and pennies, I hear you ask. Well, it's four things actually. God, I already feel guilty.
Item No. 1: The Coat
I hate coats. Being a girl who is vertically challenged and slightly soft in physicality (ie. not toned), the right coat has proven the trickiest piece of clothing to find. They tend to turn me from quite a small looking thing into a very small fat looking thing. But finally, Urban Outifitters has brought out this classic looking Mac with a gorgeously soft detachable sheepskin collar for wintry days. Given that currently a thin leather jacket is all I have to protect me from the elements, I think this coat is worth the £98 investment. A horrifically large sum of money that I dread to part with but... (my mind wrestles) it's a coat that will work in all seasons so the economic section of my brain says yes!
Item No. 2: The Boots
As I think I may have possibly mentioned, I am rather on the short side. As such, I am delighted with all these new high-heeled but practical boots about. Again, the ever lovely Urban Outfitters has delivered two pairs which I have totally fallen in love with.
They are high (thus making the legs look better - the absolute best trick of the high heel) and sturdy, hopefully meaning no late night (or early afternoon) stumbles as I totter home full of beer and vodka shots. So which to choose? So much of me wants both! I know, the greed! Isn't it awful. But instead I have compromised that I shall invest (yes, invest!) in the laced leather wedge you see on the left here and save up for the (more expensive) suede boot on the right. Already a slightly lighter load for the bank balance.
Item No. 3: The Polaroid Camera
I'm tired of digital cameras. The little Sony Cybershot I own seems to only take good pictures in bright daylight when held completely still. Any glimpse of a shadow or slight twitch of the finger and the image comes out too dark, too light or blurry. It's an infuriating and constant battle to get a good photograph! Of course, this is most probably because I don't understand the ruddy thing and don't have the foggiest idea of what any setting is capable of. So I just leave it to good old trusty 'auto' mode. But that's the problem. 'Auto' is so boring and mechanic. So, to liven up my photographic world I'm going to buy a Polaroid. I have this idea of creating a snapshot diary. Maybe a photo a day. Maybe just things that catch my eye. We'll see. Though I'll be sure to pop my first photograph on here.
Item No. 4: The Retro Camcorder
Honestly, I am very unlikely to buy this item but, secretly (not so much now), it's the one I want the most! I know it's silly. The arguments for why not are stacking up in my head like heavy books balanced on an uneven surface ready to topple onto the few ideas I do have: you will never use it; you are not a film-maker; you don't know where to get tape from; it will becomes useless clutter; you can't afford it and so on. Yet, (sorry if this sounds pompous) my artistic side really craves it. Maybe I'll learn the trade, it says. Maybe I'll watch what I film when I'm old and nostalgic. Maybe, maybe. It's a beautiful camera, as you can see. Old, a part of history and sort of majestic in that way retro things are (God, how sentimental of me). I know I shouldn't get it but, you never know, maybe a month from now, you'll see my first amateur film and find out that I really am a frivolous spendthrift. We shall see.
the sweet insatiable thrill of winning money
Tonight, having exhausted the supply of weekend papers scattered across the kitchen table and given the current status of the television (attached to the wall but on hiatus because we recently moved house), my dad and I sat down for a competitive round of backgammon.
I unashamedly love this board game, taught to me at a very young age with generous head starts of ten points gradually lessening to nothing as the years passed and my tactics improved. Not an innately competitive person, it is one of the few pastimes able to induce in me a real hunger to win. However, where we used to play for points of pride, we now battle for each other's hard earned cash. Well, more like the collection of coins cluttering up our wallets. Don't laugh: these are my baby steps into the addictive world of gambling and it's only sensible to start with the coppers!
But tonight, the stakes are raised: I suggest going for a bet of 5p a point at which Dad scoffs "don't be soft - we'll play for 10p." I am not worried about this (rather drastic in our 'Gambling for Dummies' arena) increase as on previous gambling occasions I seem to have had a certain knack for losing spectacularly in the first game and then clawing my way back to a zero deficit. Evidently, my instincts care a lot more about those little metal pictures of Her Majesty jingling about in my pocket than I am consciously aware of.
I shall spare you the ins and outs of the seven-or-eight-match competition that ensued. Lets just say Dad was extremely lucky in Game 1, irritatingly stealing the victory just when things were looking home and dry for me, and won a stake of £1.60. Nevertheless, with immense concentration and a certain element of aggressive board game tactics (with lucky throws), I ever so narrowly turned the table, being sure to gloat as I neared victory (only reflecting the same smugness my dad wears when he's winning!).
Ten pence now lies in my purse: physical evidence of my sweet success. So, any of you readers fancy playing me for money? I'll let you win... at first.
diary of a working girl -- cramped tubes and running in heels
It's been one week in London and the novelty of looking after my aunt's two cats has most definitely worn off. Every night Candy, the more sprightly of the two, has whined and moaned until she is let out, forcing me to chase her back in before I retire to bed so that none of those viscous city foxes make their way into the kitchen. And then there's Max, the older cat (about 160 in human years!), who has this knack for eerily following me around the kitchen and staring at me with his huge, reflective eyes. Not being used to animals of any sort, I find this extremely unnerving - no doubt a reaction that any animal lovers among you readers will be completely baffled by.
However, life with these malting cats only accounts for a small proportion of my time in London. The majority has been filled with errands and research tasks, negotiating databases, sorting DVDs and a frantic trip to Hamleys to name a few, as I beaver on at Consolidated PR.
The Hamleys trip was today; the items were urgently needed and there were many of them! The sluggish movements of countless tourists trudging up Regent Street along with over-excited wild children bounding around Hamleys made for a very short temper on my part as the task of meandering through the crowd became increasingly difficult. Leaping onto the tube with two heavy bags (which are also dragging along the floor because my arms are too short to hold them higher - damn you genetics for making me vertically challenged) I accidentally knock the back of a woman's leg who delivers me the most appalled look as though I have stabbed her with a knife as opposed to the sharp corner of a box. Well, excuse me for not having the upper body strength to perfectly control two heavy bags whilst jumping into a very full tube train.
Now, rant over, I must thank my sister. Last Thursday evening my dad took us out for a congratulatory dinner at The Luxe in Spittafields: having graduated from Cardiff University this summer my sister has found a job working with a very prestigious architect (the name of whom constantly escapes me) in (I think) Hoxton area. After a delicious dinner (thank you pap!) my sister and I head to Brick Lane to meet up with a few of her Cardiff friends also now working in London (so adult and yet only two years away for me - argh!). This is the day I have chosen to wear my gorgeous suede heeled boots which normally serve me well, even in the hills of Exeter, even walking with 6 foot friends where I must trot slightly to keep pace (humiliating, I assure you), but somehow not suitable to march down Bethnal Green Road and then Brick Lane to reach The Big Chill Bar.
Now usually it's a good thing to have me, not my sister, as the navigator. Our mum would especially agree with me on this count. However, in this case, I took myself and my trusting sister the longest possible way. The journey (had we gone the sensible, short route) should have taken around 10 minutes. Instead it took nearer an hour. Not one of my proudest or most intellectual moments to say the least.
