"I think people are often quite unaware of their inner selves, their other selves, their imaginative selves, the selves that aren’t on show in the world. It’s something you grow out of from childhood onwards, losing possession of yourself, really. I think literature is one of the best ways back into that. You are hypnotized as soon as you get into a book that particularly works for you, whether it’s fiction or a poem. You find that your defenses drop, and as soon as that happens, an imaginative reality can take over because you are no longer censoring your own perceptions, your own awareness of the world."

Jeanette Winterson, The Art of Fiction No. 150 (via bookmania)

Crossing the Dead Sea, Jordan to Israel, July 2013

Crossing the Dead Sea, Jordan to Israel, July 2013

Ramallah, West Bank

Ramallah, West Bank


By Lorenzo Durán, starting with sketching out little illustrations and lying them over the washed, dried leaves, the artist begins to intricately cut out the images by hand until these delicate cut illustrations are made. 

(via therhumboogie)



Little tubes of flavored ice in plastic casings are a fond memory of my past. You see I was a very willful child. I would do whatever I want, when I pleased. I’d like to think that there’s a fine line between being a spoiled little brat and just knowing what you want. Roadside es lilin is…

"Perhaps most of all, though, you deserve to be okay. You deserve to know that a day in which you can just barely get out of bed because you are sad, or sick, or simply not ready to see the outside is not the end of the world. You deserve to know that moments of weakness do not make you fundamentally weak, only fundamentally human, and that sometimes we’re not going to be effusively happy, and that is okay."

— Chelsea Fagan, What You Deserve (via jeremyclarksons)

(via travelthirst)

"I confess I do not believe in time. I like to fold my magic carpet, after use, in such a way as to superimpose one part of the pattern upon another. Let visitors trip. And the highest enjoyment of timelessness-in a landscape selected at random-is when I stand among rare butterflies and their food plants. This is ecstasy, and behind the ecstasy is something else, which is hard to explain. It is like a momentary vacuum into which rushes all that I love. A sense of oneness with sun and stone. A thrill of gratitude to whom it may concern-to the contrapuntal genius of human fate or to tender ghosts humoring a lucky mortal."

Vladimir NabokovSpeak, Memory (via bookmania)


What’s for dinner?

OldCity NewWave necklace - March 2013