Turning the page

now playing: Dauðalogn by Sigur Ros

The mind is an intricate shadow dashing around here and there.

As the new year begins to lumber on, a certain resolve of turning a new leaf, formed during the remnants of the previous year, have already taken hold. These thoughts, pulled out from cabinets inside my head, swept down on my virtual identity and left stones upturned on its wake.

Just like the season turning colors, this blog has changed names and titles. I made new corners and scrapped old dusty ones. It is a bit of a fleeting goodbye from its old face since I wasn't able to say it properly. The little readers I have before, or none for that matter, must think I've disappeared into oblivion.

The blog link and name of this spot was replaced from disheveled chic to wisps of melancholy. It's been coming along for a while now but I deemed the former name doesn't relate to me anymore nor could I feel any bridge of connection. 

Most of what I post here lately are mere reflection of things and ideas that come to me at moments out of time, like fleeting impressions swept by the wind. This may seem a vague description of the state of my mind, how it chases one thing to another, how unpredictable it can be.

No matter, it's time to turn the page.

{P.S. At the present, instead of just changing names, I decided to move my blog to a new place.}

{collage, balloons}

ode to my childhood home, part three

III. The Gardens

i stare at the familiar walls
the now overgrown gardens
where we used to lie and sit and run
why do they feel colder to me now?
have the years long been gone?

the half unkempt yard 
an aesthetic boon to our childhood 
where we dwell many playing days
through our wooden broken front gate
under the arbor of yellow bells.

growing along the rusty fence
popping red flowers of May
evoke hot summers of church processions
and fragrant whiffs of little white buds 
onslaught passersby as dusk deepens.

the grass was attuned to seasons
yellow and brown on summers
looking bleak and bare
Irish green on wet months
with a spray of dew to damp the air.

the old backyard trees
golden hued on late afternoons
invite me under their drowsy arms
why don't they now beckon to me?
they turned frail like crumbling stones.

lilies, daisies, orchids and roses
fruit trees and herbs
slabs of corner stones and a path of pebbles
these are things I miss
these were things that have become dribbled memories.

my home is no more,
only a hollow shell remains.

(an excerpt from Ode to my Childhood Home)




{the secret garden (film)}

Handmade Memories

I love scrapbooks. It has a life of its own.

A page turned is like a trip down to memory lane or a captured moment with the ones we have loved, places we had been, and else more.

PS. I still want to steal Claire's travel scrapbook from Elizabethtown.

{image credits: 1 // 2 // 3} 

portraits de nostalgie, four

Dancing is like dreaming with your feet

- Constanze

{image credit: tumblr, misscheriedior, ballet  }

Hopping by Circa

Period films, fashion shoots, theme parties...love, love, love.

Dakota and Kirsten in the film The Runaways

Natalia Vodianova by Meisel for Vogue

Masquerade

Hippie chic

Keira in Pride and Prejudice

The looks for every circa make for an interesting study. 


At times, I feel like I was an eighteenth century lady in my past life. Most times, I've been wanting to see things in a hippie's point of view. One part of me wants to get out and flaunt some rock image or be like a mysterious creature in a ball gown and mask. 


Ah, who of them all had the most intriguing life?

{image credits: stylehop; stylehive;life is bananas; elle fr; xinhuanet}

Mesmerized by Meisel, always

For many times, I wish to live a "flapper" kind of life.

...wearing felt hats

...conversation over coffee and croissants

...the glamor of a Parisienne.

Photos by Steven Meisel for Vogue September 2007

first love never dies

The memory of a young love is young forever.

Like a stone that withstands time; its memory is young forever.

Happy Valentines, everyone! 

Source: young love, heartstone