all the beautiful boys

Despite an overwhelming amount of editorials which I look at during the day, and which usually feature women, I noticed that most of my inspiration for clothes comes from the male population walking our planet. Yep, I am talking about the guys here.
Isn't it really unfair that they look best when caring least. So unfair! Messy hair, unshaved, outfit thrown together from what was lying around on the floor. How I would love to live/dress this way. But somewhere deep deep down, women still seem to be expected to present a well-tended, cultivated image- well that and the sad lack of beards, haha.
Since I was never the type of girl to dress up in high heels and use make-up of any kind, I developed a passion for shopping not only in the women's department. Why would I? There are much cooler clothes in the men's section and much cheaper clothes in the children's department.
I feel like women usually have to choose between looking sexy and looking crazy. For men, this often goes hand in hand. Here are some examples to show you what I mean. If I was a guy, I would dress like this in a sec.

 

 Well, ok, and they usually look much better while smoking then we do...

You get my point? Yeah, and whenever I really like a look on a woman, it is usually rather boyish or has some mascular aspect to it, as you can see below and already here:

 

  (credits: thesartorialist, Fashiongonerogue, google and others I cannot remember)

people is place

saw her in dijon many weeks ago and still hear her beautiful voice in my dreams. on bus drives to other countries she is a lovely companion, too.

saturday night

Wrapped in layers of warm clothes, with a cup of tea and this song in the background. not the worst scenario for a saturday night, right?

Paul moins Auster

You know that feeling when there is something great happening around you, but you don't have a camera? Yeah, already great.
But even better when you HAVE a camera, which it is one you got from your dad and initially a present for your grand dad, but it turned out his fingers were too large and the buttons of the camera too small. yeah, great right?
Now you're stuck with this one and try your best, but somehow it never captures the real light -well or the moment.
So that is the story behind the following picture and the reason for the exclusive collection of photos on this blog (all I have, I tell you..).

I entered a new café today and although it turned out to be way too expensive, I noticed something in the menu that might otherwise turn it into my favorite place ever.
Remember how I wrote about my passion for Paul Auster and then the picture of the table with the two pleasures of coffee and his book? yeah? you see where this is going?

Yeah, you cannot see it (as it is usually the case after taking a picture), but this café actually has a "Paul moins Auster", a coffee actually named after my favourite writer. It's the last name on the page and right beneath Shakespeare, can you believe it? Well, you'd have too, since you cannot see it for yourselves...
Well, yeah okay this is mostly for my pleasure.
I get it. - But maybe you enjoy the rest.

 Today's coffee literature.

And some other shots from the city I will miss each and every day. Magic light, I tell ya.

and any day that you wonna waste, you can

What do I expect from myself? Way too much, as it seems these days. Never have I had expectations concerning myself and my life that overlapped with those bestowed on me by others.

 Exceptional grades were not necessary, since you don’t need them for eventually becoming a teacher; a perfect outer appearance was never important to me, since I realized very soon that special features or so-called flaws were always most appealing to me when regarding others; having many friends, going out a lot, making out with boys, being drunk and derived from your memory- all those measurements never measured up to my personal standards.

Why is it then that I tend to torment myself for not living up to my own expectations? These fragile ideas that soon turn into fixed rules to my behavior. In many cases, I cannot even remember how they ended up in my mind. Suddenly it is clear to me that I cannot feel complete and comfortable with myself if I don’t strive to become a writer – whatever that means (Selling? Publishing? Writing itself?). Or that I cannot stay in my home country forever; that I have to live in another country –or better several of them- for a couple of years. That I have to get over past relationships instead of being hurt for years to come.

It is difficult for me to just BE for a while. To just do what I want. I am still so young, but I judge myself as if I was a ninety-year-old woman, looking back on her life and examining if she did not waste any of her days. Shouldn’t you be friends with yourself instead of being your worst critic?

So, for now, I try to slow down a little. Jumping into a pool of books, running, talking and loving for a long time. Let’s see how that turns out…

some inspiration and encouragement in form of a song:

dreameadowords

In 2009 a friend and I spent eleven beautiful days in one of the most beautiful countries I can imagine. I am talking about Sweden here. 

We had bought a travel guide and with this little book, a small car and an even smaller tent we made our way along the east cost up to Stockholm and down again. It was August and the weather was truly great. While climbing up mountains and trying to read runes on what amounted to half a million stones (my friend is a huge fan of the Viking culture-unfortunately), we did not wear more than shorts and shirts. People tend to think of Sweden as quite cold and rainy, since it is way up north, but it was a summer like pretty much everywhere else.

 As with Ireland, I think the best part of Sweden is its landscape. We spent two days in Stockholm, but the city itself did not impress me in comparison to what I had seen during the rest of the trip: endless fields, old trees from centuries ago, mystic lakes, dreamy meadows…

Since you can put your tent almost everywhere in this country, we just stopped where we liked and while I prepared the meal on a tiny portable gas stove, my friend built up the tent. This worked surprisingly well and wherever we met Swedish people, they offered us water, food or any other kind of help we might have needed. Never have I met so many friendly people in such a short time. There were really no exceptions. Can a country breed polite and friendly and cooperative people? 

If there’s a recipe for that, than Sweden sure owns it.

 

summer sun in november

la mode

(credit: Thesartorialist; Fashiongonerogue)

emily

Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without the words,
And never stops at all,


And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.


I've heard it in the chillest land,
And on the streangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.

Emily Dickinson

Le Mayence

My three big loves on one table: Café, Crêpes and a novel by Paul Auster. One might go so far as to call it perfection.

In my heart and in my head you were the only dream I dreamt

La distance est à l'amour ce que le vent est aux flammes. Il éteint petit feu et il avive le grand.

“Once upon a time there was a girl I knew, who lived across the street. Brown hair, brown eyes. When she smiled, I smiled. When she cried, I cried. Every single thing that ever happened to me that mattered, in some way had to do with her. That day Winnie and I promised each other that no matter what, that we'd always be together. It was a promise full of passion and truth and wisdom. It was the kind of promise that can only come from the hearts of the very young.”

The Wonder Years

Tonight all I can think about is love. Far away from my Wonder Boy in the land of the croissant I found a blog somewhat comforting me, called "kissssing". Here are some impressions I had to collect for myself -and maybe for you.

greenery

The first thing many people think about when hearing about Ireland -apart from the religious conflicts- is the constant rain. The country enjoys a reputation of being rather dark, wet and unfriendly.

Well, dark and wet is possible true (seven days of rain in ten days I spent there), but they both result in making it also the greenest country I have seen so far. Endless meadows of unworldly green, rough landscapes dominated by cliffs, stones and mounds. 

The so-called Sleeping Giant

It is a truly magical country with, home of endless repertoires of tales and stories about mythical creatures and their adventures, which serve as explanations for mysterious formations or shapes of rocks or hills. The people there believe in and know them by heart, which never stopped fascinating me. 

I spent one night in a Bed&Breakfast place in the middle of nowhere. In the evening I explored the house and found a cozy sort of living room with a fire place and comfortable couches and armchairs. Three people where there: a girl reading poems in one of her many books, an old woman just looking into the fire and a guy playing the guitar and singing songs from his home, which was Iceland. I listened to him for hours, not understanding a word of his songs, but enchanted by this perfect moment that fit so well the country it took place in.

I could really imagine living in Ireland in a tiny lonesome house near the ocean, spending my days wandering through the rain, reading books in front of the fire place and eating in small pubs while listening to old people’s stories about the past.