You and I, Ingrid Michaelson

Source: Observando's tumblr

For the longest time, this song got me through commute.

Rare Sunday

It's a rare sunday I'm not at work or working. So, i guess, being sick has its advantages. Antidote for today: endless lovely pictures. I hope you enjoy them as much as I do. *SNEEZE*

Joanne Woodward & Paul Newman

Image Source: Life.com


Whenever I fall sick, I like to read about Old Hollywood Legends. It may stem from my love of greek mythology (classic hollywood icons are our closest embodiments of immortality ) and my love for classic hollywood movies. I was struck again by Joanne Woodward and Paul Newman's long marriage and love story.

Can you see how Paul Newman only ever looks at her?

It reminded me of Louise Gluck's poem titled "Happiness":

A man and a woman lie on a white bed.
It is morning. I think
Soon they will waken.
On the bedside table is a vase
of lilies; sunlight
pools in their throats.
I watch him turn to her
as though to speak her name
but silently, deep in her mouth--
At the window ledge,
once, twice,
a bird calls.
And then she stirs; her body
fills with his breath.

I open my eyes; you are watching me.
Almost over this room
the sun is gliding.
Look at your face, you say,
holding your own close to me
to make a mirror.
How calm you are. And the burning wheel
passes gently over us.

Typewriter

When I was young, my mum gave us a typewriter and I loved it. You can't make errors when you use a typewriter. Or more wondrously, even an error is beautiful. As if every second of your existence can be embodied in the typewriter - and you can't hide your mistakes. You must be brave and say the truth.

I want to buy a typewriter. There are a lot of things I would like to type. And not have the ability to erase.

"The Habit of Loving"

Photo Credits: The Simply Luxurious Life

I bought a beautiful hard-cover copy of Doris Lessing's Stories. I love the weight of the book as I placed it on my lap or side-wise on the bed. I've aways wanted to write short stories, but it's a very difficult medium. Sometimes people ask me what does this story mean? And, I want to laugh, because I'm probably not the right person to ever say what something means. For me, short stories embody a feeling. They are like a dream - very short, very powerful or quiet, it really all depends, but it takes you out of your world and makes you live something vivid for that short moment. Not quite a song, but sometimes I have a feeling that I cannot describe - I would know it, it's just like A in that short story when A did that! Some short stories have made me cry. I'm always grateful for them... i suppose everyone will have that something special to make them feel human and words always have been the key for me.

I've just read "The Habit of Loving" in the collection... and I know, that I have not experienced heartbreak, at least not in its complete painful form, because I could not understand the emotional depths of the characters. I felt really sad, looking inwards, for I was still a child.

She had been living beside him, George, and he had no idea at all of her unhappiness. He went over to her, put his old arms around her, and she stood with her head on his shoulder and wept. For the first time, George thought, they were together. They sat by the fire a long time that night, drinking, smoking, and her head was on his knee and he stroked it, and thought that now, at last, she had been admitted into the world of emotion and they would learn to be really together.

Do I want to be admitted into this world of emotion?

“The woman who follows the crowd will usually get no further than the crowd. The woman who walks alone is likely to find herself in places no one has ever been.”

–Albert Einstein

The World still revolves around You

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