Wednesday, September 28, 2011

Time is on your side

This song makes me want to do everything in this video clip, including the slo mo's.

Tuesday, September 27, 2011


A little Americana goes a long way

Thursday, September 22, 2011

Tuesday, September 20, 2011

three am

white lilies pilates two coffees one red bull pink flowers smells like summer white butterfly elderly lady at the bus stop with cream organza bow tied around her neck fishing store sequin specialist cherrys house kick door in jump on Rita get cape fly to Midian wake up Herbie soften blow with packed lunch prance around stage blow up balloons get thrown over shoulder scavenge reverse garbage fly home bath groan and cry through last words of just kids by patti smith.

Monday, September 19, 2011

Saturday, September 17, 2011

Thursday, September 15, 2011

When you are completely lost you are completely free

White bed, white sheets, white curtains, white bath, white lavender body lotion, white noise.

Wednesday, September 14, 2011


"Once having traversed the threshold, the hero moves in a dream landscape of curiously fluid, ambiguous forms, where he must survive a succession of trials... he discovers for the first time that there is a benign power everywhere supporting him in his superhuman passage.’ Joseph Campbell, The Hero With A Thousand Faces."

Monday, September 12, 2011


I had the most amazing birthday in London. I turned 26 on a Barge in Paddington wearing my DiMaggio Yankees shirt that Tess bought me in New York and I went to my old local pub with lots of old friends from home that turned into even better friends overnight. My girlfriends made me a cake and I bought lingerie in Soho. We went to Bath and had picnics, got drunk in the park and swam. I stole the scrabble pieces from the pub and hid them down my playsuit. Then shimmied them out of the bottom in the park and Steve made words out of them on the ground. I spent the afternoon with boys in the old open air baths playing Marco Paulo and making chairs out of noodles. Banana and chocolate pasties taste like garbage.
I hung out with friends and friends of friends in East London – slowly running into more and more people and more and more types of booze. Cider in London fields, bloody marys in Hackney, dinner in a Dalston gastropub and beer in an ex African-American club with too many attractive men for my brain to handle. I went back with Poppit later, danced and kissed a boy called Sebastian with slicked back hair and a killer moustache.
Poppit and I live together for a couple of weeks in a room in Hackney. We spend nights in Dalston drinking red wine and falling over each other. Roasts in Stoke Newington at the Rose and Crown or The New Rose – dimly lit pubs with wooden walls on rainy Sunday nights, hungover and lying in the leather booths listening to The Horrors. We have the same conversations over and over and speak in shared jokes and repeated quotes. We’re not perfect spending 24/7 up in each other’s video but, like sisters, even doing the laundry turns into a peaceful adventure of smoothies and rose tea.
My two childhood friends kissed in London. I went to my favourite pubs and bars and got really drunk on Whiskey with people I love. We have five hour jam sessions at each others’ houses. I swear off hangovers. Then I remember how much I relish them. Days partying are interspersed with days in bed watching Barfly and Beverly Hills episodes. Being embarrassed becomes second nature. Acting like a twat becomes forgivable. And leaving it all behind, hard.

Saturday, September 10, 2011


I would say Paris because that’s the only place in France I was meant to go to. But I missed my plane and ended up on one to Lyon and on a train to Paris.
I met a wonderful, eccentric couple my parent’s age on the plane to Lyon. He reminded me of Jacques Tati. They offered me a ride to the train station and gave me a tour of the city on the way.
Everyone in France is amazingly friendly and my faith in humanity is restored.
In Paris I am sick with the flu. I’m locked up in a beautiful apartment in Montmartre watching Black Books and blowing into tissues. I only came here for the crazy horse and Monet’s garden and I am well enough to do both, but I am too sick to explore Le Marais and Rue Cler again. Or enjoy the sun. But I do ride a bike through the countryside and have to take refuge in a lovely inn for lunch when the courtyard gets flooded with a passing storm. Dianne and I ride back in yellow rain ponchos and laugh so much we have to stop. There are wildflowers and horses and grug plants. I look forward to seeing Poppit on Tuesday and I breathe through any tension in Paris that will soon leave.

Wednesday, September 7, 2011


Spain is hot. It is hot and dry and the only thing I love is the graffiti that covers it. There are tourists everywhere and I resent being one of them, but the tapas is great. The water is cool and I listen to a jazz band on the beach - the drummer used to play with John Coltrane. I meet an amazing blonde Swedish man who has been traveling in a van with his dog and living in caves.
I spend two days alone in Granada, visiting the baths and having gin and tonics with a likeminded woman. I wander the Alhambra grounds and sleep in a beautiful hotel. It is bliss and I am alone.
I visit family in Alicante and swim in their pool and drink lots of tea while talking about what my grandpa was like when he was young. There are palm tress. It is like an oasis in the desert.
In Barcelona, Di and I stay with a wonderful couple in their bohemian apartment on a mattress on the floor and a rooftop that looks over El Borne. We go to the beach and eat good food and smile and have a week of interesting conversation.
I learnt so much in Spain. I always thought people said that as a compromise to saying “I had such a bad time” but now I understand. I had opportunities to change my path and when I didn’t take them the universe hurled more and more abuse at me until I understood that one must follow their own path, even if it means hurting someone else. Because otherwise, you’ll hurt them anyway later, and yourself too. It’s the non-judgement it should be done with that is such a challenge and I was wondering how the universe was going to kick my ass for being so inept at it. It seems like such a simple lesson but I learnt it over and over again; a friend clarifies it as “recognition and detachment”. I feel she is a genius even though it seems like such a clear truth.

Thursday, September 1, 2011

New York's Thataway!

New York is walking around the Lower East side at 4am looking for a hotel (“How long would you like the room for? An hour? – taxi driver) and getting mistaken for a prostitute. First me, then him. It’s conversations that change the way I think for the rest of my life – and sort the boring from the brilliant.
It’s sex that I cant even be bothered trying to explain with words. The bottom of a shower alcove used to be where I’d sink to in melancholy and now it’s a spot to share happiness with the same lover. It’s falling in love all over again and regret that it cannot be sustained. Luckily the regret isn’t sustainable either.
Poppit makes a wish somewhere for the both of us to stay away from mediocrity. I am scared of mediocrity too. The price I will pay is that I can no longer stand anybody that embodies it. But it’s all subjective anyway.
It’s hanging out on our Williamsburg fire escape watching the Orthodox Jewish kids play on the street and getting stoned with old friends. It’s breaking into apartments to fill the tub with cold water because it’s so hot outside.
Getting lost in the Met, stung by a bee in Central Park, lobster spaghetti, jazz bars and red wine, coffee every morning in Brooklyn, outdoor movie festivals and concerts, pretentious roof top bars with beer, unpretentious roof top parties with cocktails, the Chelsea hotel, lots of breakfasts, reading books on the Highline, earl grey popsicles, lavender donuts. Markets and boys with long hair, dive bars and getting hilariously drunk. Singing Eric Clapton on the street with Poppit playing drums on her legs. It’s so hot, there is always sweat on our legs. The sun is so hot and the air is hot and even the clouds in the air are hot. The mosquitoes stop us sleeping at night and the fans aren’t strong enough. We catch the train to Coney Island (grey, dreary, like a bad summer horror movie) too many times.
When we leave we have had one hour of sleep and there are tears in my eyes, when the universe comes to save the day once again, as usual, and “Funkytown” comes on the taxi radio.