lately, I’ve been reading Norman Mailer on writing, on America via Hollywood and its relationship with the con artist, the visual artist and everything in between; went to a thrift shop and bought a stack of old yellowed paperbacks to sing me to sleep.
I’ve been eating sautéed greens with fresh ricotta, and cold rice-noodle salads with herbs and radish and grilled octopus and feta and avocado.
I’ve been taking long walks in the evening, surrounded by balm and dusk and warm cooking smells.
I’ve been looking towards spring, and then summer, and beyond towards roadtrips–and just newness, exploration, journey, bloom. it’s the twilight of my twenties and I’m moving, onwards and forwards and upwards, finding my way out of a some sort of labyrinth, or closer to the same one’s center.
already dreaming of spring; planning for it–and who can blame a girl in sunshiny, windy, blue-skyed Texas for jumping to conclusions after a string of mild days?
perhaps we’ll get another freeze. but, I’m already thinking of high-waisted shorts and vintage leather flats–like the buttery-soft, cap-toed ones made in Spain that I found recently, with a subtle, elfin point and little silver nails in the heel–and silk blouses. pleated skirts. blue and white. cool and soft, smooth and elegant, clean and simple.