Monday, July 29, 2013

plaid applique party (and everyone's invited!)

There are two style blogging truths I have come to terms with– nay, embraced– of late and this is what they are: first, just because your research has meant you know every single trick of the trade for making a 'successful' style blog, doesn't mean you (me) are able to successfully implement them (see: setting up tripod for well-framed, in-focus photos); and second, if my history on style blogging has brought anything to my attention (jk it has brought lots of things to my attention b/c obviously it is very thorough and clever) it reminded me that in the beginning style blogging was a lot more lo-fi and that was what I actually loved about it.

Of course it's a pleasure skimming the gorgeous, profesh 'glossy' blogs but I'm still kind of crazy about the bloggers who posed against the same corner of their living room for every shot (with the same plant on the side) and those whose photos were a bit blurry but were also the best because you saw how happy they felt in the clothes so they just had to jump around in them to show us. 
You know what I mean?

So in celebration of these two truths, I bring you my latest, maybe greatest (ok probably not, why raise your hopes) outfit post to date. It features the most incredible DVN skirt I had on layby for about seven years, a Rittenhouse mens shirt I always liked myself but selflessly gave Nick and then he didn't love the fit on him so score! mine now! and the Jil Sander loafers I got on crazy sale that time that I live in. I'm also wearing a necklace I made yesterday featuring a vintage African trade bead- I love these beads, they're the most weathered and beautiful. 

I wore this to uni and work today because life is too short to save up the silk appliqué stunners for the odd wedding or doctoral graduation ceremony, don't you think?

Ok so I'm hanging in my dining area and trying to channel "chic". Except if I have a photo taken and I don't smile/pull a cheesy pose, I invariably end up channelling "sociopath".
 Exhibit A. 
Stone. Cold. Eyes.
This more accurately reflects my state of being today which was an internal loop of "WOW I AM WEARING THE WORLD'S MOST FREAKING AMAZING SKIRT WHICH MAKES MY LEGS LOOK LIKE THEY'RE GROWING BLACK CORAL" interrupted momentarily by weighing up my hunger against the likelihood that I would spill the foodstuffs in question on aforementioned skirt. Happy to report that no spillages were accrued PHEW cause I might actually die of mortification.
It's not appliquéd all the way around cause come on guys, that would be excessive, it's only all down the front (with sequins). What you see on the shelf there are some treasured stuff including but not limited to my statue of a flamingo drinking water and a blue folder where I write all the good recipes I like and also the ones that sound amazing but I deeply truly know I'll never actually make (blue cheese gougeres? I don't even really know what a gougere is, let's be real.)

But then my camera got all moody on me and this happened:
 I mean WHUT?! My face is the same colour as the WALL behind my HEAD! And that only happens very occasionally when I have been pulling long hours in the ARC which did not happen today. But I kind of like how it makes me look like an apparition? 

And then I made love to the camera.
(top to toe photo only achieved thanks to the intervention of Sal who saved the Jil Sanders from a lifetime of obscurity. Thanks Sal!)
Ok bye I have to go and write my PhD now!

Monday, July 15, 2013

utter unconsciousness


The peculiarity of poetry appears to us to lie in the poet's utter unconsciousness of a listener. Poetry is feeling confessing itself to itself, in moments of solitude.

John Stuart Mill

Sunday, July 14, 2013

Of wit and enigma




Prada's A/W2013 Mens Campaign feat. Christoph Waltz, Ben Whishaw and Ezra Miller. 
You're welcome.

Friday, July 12, 2013

a big unravelling sigh


Ok so this is how it went down. I started by editing what I wrote yesterday. And then I got an email from my supervisor who had read the first 3000 or so words of it and had great feedback for me. My mind didn't clear then, but grew more waterlogged with what needs to happen, essential steps to get this chapter done but oh! All of these dot points clattered densely on top of each other as I ground to a stop.

Tired. Hungry. And despite my beautiful surrounds, suddenly over it. Went and got lunch and mysteriously felt more irritable after than I did before (I thought I had just been suffering from 'hanger' but apparently not?) Got back to 'my' desk, to the book I had told myself I would read after lunch (semiotics, urgh)– not. into. it. Not just not into the Eco (oops, sorry Umberto fans) but all of it. All of it. The chapter, which I actually do really want to do justice to (in my head, no-one else cares as deeply as I do about how my readership chapter is written!) but the thought of reworking Part Two like I know I need to in order to make the ideas clearer and less about me (my main methodology there is auto-ethnography, interesting but tricky as to write, I find), and to bulk up the theory in Part One and then do something with Part Three (aka write it)- oh, don't make me!

So I went home. To bed. And I read a bit more of Anne Goldsworthy's most excellent Quarterly Essay 'Unfinished Business: Sex, Freedom and Misogyny' (women of Australia, read it, men of Australia, read it) and then had a lovely dinner with mum and dad who brought me back to life and so here I am, writing this weird productive/stymied day out of my system.

Tomorrow will be a day off before getting back on a plane and get back to the ARC and back to the grindstone on Sunday. And I know eventually it will flow and I will tweet happy tweets all up in your face but today... today was just... you know? One of those days.

ps. in other news, still not over this old Jil Sander ad. Still not over the turtleneck predilection but yet to find the perfect black one- a good basic is hard to find. But have worn the same striped bassike long-sleeve t-shirt + Ann D black wrap skirt over faded grey jeans + black boots combo for three days running now. Signature look or end-of-candidature PhD student? Who even knows anymore?!

The dome

Today, I find myself in the LaTrobe Reading Room in the State Library of Victoria, better described by its diminutive 'The Dome'. It is exquisite, this spacious place– high espaliered walls rising white and etched with the words of those who have been here before and those who have rhapsodised about books, followed up then by books themselves, 'the children of the brain' (Jonathan Swift). Their spines bristle in faded colour in their orderly rows across wooden shelves, tucked behind decorative balustrades as if they were taking in an opera. Perhaps they watch us, we scattered scholars bent over our flattened pages or our laptops, oddly redundant in this majestic space.

How futile the plastic covers against clothbound volumes that have stood sentry here for years. How insignificant the weak backlit glow underneath the sheltering arms of the glass dome, pouring cool clean light over our bent heads. I tried to photograph it using Instagram but there was too much beauty to squeeze into that matchbox square. Even now, I suspect my words cannot distill the serene loveliness here. 

It is a glass heart. It holds the brimming promise of a day of writing poured forth, of the delight of reading taken headily again and again. I feel as though I am in a spacious well but swimming with words rather than any substance so heavy as water, and excitement shudders in my blood. 

The wall nearest to me, the wall is inscribed with these words,
The studious silence of the library... tranquil brightness James Joyce To slide into the domed reading room at ten each morning, specially in summer, off the hot street outside was a sensation as delicious as dropping into the water off the concrete edge of the Fitzroy Baths Helen Garner But words are things, and a small drop of ink, falling like dew, upon a thought, produces that which makes thousands, perhaps millions, think Lord Byron Come, and take choice of all my library, and so beguile they sorrow William Shakespeare

I will beguile my sorrow here, and let fall words in drops of ink, and I will revel.