I have an undeniable obsession 

with thrift-stores. Seriously.

 It's a part of my weekend routine, not that I really have a weekend routine, since I usually end up doing the unknown on dearest Saturday and Sunday's, but once I get my humble amount of a pay-check, thrifting is the first thing I think about and usually end up doing. 


So, what exactly is it about thrift-stores that I find so sweetly addicting? All of it, I guess. Of course, the bargained part of it is one. You can get the most amazing things--clothes, shoes, jewelry, books, accessories, art, all for the most nominal amount. And the uniqueness of it all, most of the items found are one-of-a-kind around. but beyond that, beyond the obvious central reasons, something I find absolutely fascinating, (which others in their right minds may find odd) -- the mystery. The mystery of it all. Knowing that those items which you're dazing off into once belonged to someone. A stranger, someone you've possibly encountered before, someone with a story to tell, or a story left behind. 


I found a book once, and inside it was a squiggly, slightly visible note. It went somewhere along the lines of "you are worth much more than you'll ever know, my love." It was signed and dated, Thomas 1972. I didn't end up getting the book, I can't recall the reason why. But I wonder, who was this Thomas? Who was his love? and did he or she feel worthless? And where may that book be now? In a dusty book shelf under the ownership of some other unknown Thomas, perhaps? Is that note still there? What if someone tore the page, shredded it. Accidentally spilled apple juice on it...blurring each sentence to the point of obsolete. It's silly, I'll never know the answer to these questions. 
I carry the mystery of that page, and the lives behind it. 
The lives behind it...they'll never know this. They'll never know, would they ever have thought, even now would it cross their minds, if it's possible, that some 19 year old stranger would be mentioning them in a blog post? Wondering about them? 


One day, in my old age, if I live to be...I'll donate my old books, my favorite dresses, my capsuled spectacles--and the stories, and the moments, and the bits of me along with them. And hope that at least one of those items end up in the sight, own, and mind of 
some alluring blog posting stranger.

I heard there's no stars in the city

I heard there's no room for hearts on your wall

I heard you lack words and sense of emotion

I've heard of your faults and your flaws

Yet with days, past and timing,

I can't help but trace the thought

If my eyes were made of honey

I would smitten you with sweetest charm.

http://bertrandmandico.com/index.html

 Memories, like images, often become blurred. 

my love for this film is eternal.

his voice, his words, his old soul. h i m.

dancing. dancing.

" Today I saw a young mother brushing her five-year-old son's perfect hair. They were in the bus with me. He was all dressed up, like a little schoolboy, in a perfect white shirt, immaculately ironed trousers, shiny little shoes. Her own hair was very dirty and messy, unsuccessfully collected into a ponytail bump. But she didn't care about it. And it made me feel angry. Disgusted. Confused.

I left a beautiful dress in Sarajevo. A black dotted dress with a pink ribbon. I left it on a hanger in a small room. I realized that as I was watching the filthy mother. I never even put it on while I was there, not once. It just kept hanging. I'll be back in September and it will be there, waiting for me. 

Only, by that time, there will be no point in wearing it. Its classic beauty will be wasted on nameless passersby and neglected sidewalks. The beholder will be absent this time. The one who knows how to stare. But it's OK. And the dress will be just fine. It's an old dress. She's been through worse. 

I found this photograph on the internet. It's a shot of a little girl dancing in the Gloucester Cathedral:

The photograph made me think of the steps we take in our lives and where they end up taking us. It's extraordinary how fragile these little destinies are. A tiny, almost invisible discrepancy in the path and your destination is altered from the ground. We never know. But we keep going.
Some people walk. 
Some people run. 
And some stop for a minute to dance in a cathedral. "

It blows me away, 

the way peoples minds work.

I want to know, I want to know every thought

of every single stranger that I'll never get to meet.

You can turn the city upside down, like an umbrella,

but it won't keep you dry.

I miss the old me,

Whoever that may be.

"I cannot function when I listen to this. 

I can merely sit and be mesmerized by my emotions.

But strangely, I'm okay with that."

If you want words, go read a book . 

• Ghost Poet- Peanut butter blues and melancholy Jam
• Christina Rosenvinge - La distancia adecuada
• James Blake- I never learnt to share
• Tricky- Aftermath (mellow version)
• Stereo Lab- Nomus et Phusis
• White Wishes- Hold your hand
• Maserati- Cities
• The Mercury Program- You give me problems

P.S; I love it when records and CD's include their song lyrics in them. 

P.S.S;  I'm infatuated with the words of Laura Marling.

I'm anxiously counting down the days.

May fourteenth may possibly be the end of me.
 I really wouldn't mind.

"I want to become a different person, and that's what working in film allows.

I want to be a punk or a sweetheart or a drug addict."

- Nina Dobrev.

I'll take off my cool, I'll bare it all for you, darling.
I'll drift from my ways, I'll see me as you do, honey.

I'm such a bore.
I'm so shaky, and awkward.
My taste in music is phenomenal.
I don't like vulgar language
But fuck you. Fuck you very much.
I can't cook, more or so cos' I haven't really given it a try.
I miss out on a lot, cos' I don't always try.
I hate it. I realize it, and I hate it.
I'm at conflict with myself more than I'll ever be with another.
I was given free will, and it haunts me.
I like to be positive
I'm a good doer
But at times it wears me down.
I'm a mess.
I like to help others.
I like seeing other people happy.
I like seeing other people in love.
but I myself am quite bitter
fickle, I carry around a heaviness,
or perhaps it's just this time of month.
Yes, that is definitely it.
We all need to vent, sometimes.
Sulk
Sigh
Weep
Cry
Write
Shake it off
Carry on
Mend
And lose control to the sound of disco.

I wanna show you, something that you've never seen.

...because boys like this don't exist in California.

Oh, french muses.

I find it annoying when people, more specifically les garçons, text back instantaneously.

Contain yourself, make me wait for a minute or two. It'll make me want your words.

I want to want your words. So, help me out here, s'il vous plaît.

 O u i .

 "I want a mind blowing romantic love affair, like the old days ---

So good that it makes me feel like I'm on drugs ."

"e d i e"

I'm a mess. I know it.
Should I call you?
And cry to you, and tell you my fears?
Do you care to understand my heart?
My thoughts blur, become foggy
And I don't know what to believe, anymore.
Should I chase my dreams?
Artificial fruitful dreams...
and risk it all?
What exactly is it that I'm risking, again?

It's 2:48 AM, and sleep is immune
But this is nothing new, I wish it were, I truly do.

And if I break, will I feel better?
Will I ever feel fucking better?

"Just be yourself." he said.
And with a smile I asked "which one?"

Which one will suit you best?
Perhaps my face?-- a sweet taste for when you swallow me whole.
If not, my legs?-- to help you stand as I take the fall.

Oh, love, I am but
A clip from one of your films
A muse
A rage
A trend
A waste

As your daughter
As your sister
As your lover
As your friend

I'm just a card
Upon your table of aluminum and ashes

And if I had a choice
If my say had any count--
I'd still choose to die young
For this much like passion of art I know,

"You live alone, creating your life as you go."


>> Note: 
I just finished watching the documentary film Factory Girl, and already Edie Sedgwick has inspired a few pages of writing. She was just phenomenal. There's no question as to why she was such a muse of Andy Warhol's, and an inspiration to Bob Dylan. It's a shame how sadly her life ended, but the legacy she left behind is evermore. This pack and glass are for you, dearest Edie.

"You care enough, that you want your life to be fulfilled in a living way, 

not in a painting way, not in a writing way…

you really do want it to be involving in living, 

corresponding with other living objects, 

moving, changing, that kind of thing."

- Edie Sedgwick.

http://injil.org/TWOR/05.html  

Bare bones
Out in the open
Guns out
Thoughts shut off
Past and future like dust
Every word ever said like raindrops in a drought
Washed out

I'll never know the state that you're in
I cannot climb into your skin

So bare your bones
Out in the open
Guns out
Thoughts shut off
Past and future like dust
With every word ever said like raindrops in a drought
Washed out---

I'll eat away your sadness
And every common mistake made by man
I'll fight relentless battles without a stone in hand

I'll block away the images, scare away the ghost
Every night you may sleep in peace
Within you shall remain a hope

I'll grow my hair long enough
You'll never feel cold again
And when you tire
In my labor find a resting place

When no ones home
When both moon and sun refuse display
And vacant signs array
Even then, you'll never be alone---

Without name
Without identity
Without renown or any fame

I'll bare my bones
Out in the open
Rise and fall a hundred times

'Cause I want to know you
I want to show you
Console you til you understand...

There's nothing wrong with being boring,

as long as you have someone who will be boring with you.

Perhaps, my strangeness is my charm.
I'm awkward, even with the people I feel most comfortable with.
I walk clumsily. My stare is often blank, I daydream more than I should.
I humm a lot. I like touching stuff--leaves on trees, the spines of books, 
clothes on racks. I'm intrigued by anonymity. 
I often purposely leave hidden notes in books at the library, 
sometimes I write on their pages. I leave in them secrets, thoughts, quotes...
never my name. Even in my personal journal entry's, I purposely leave out the dates in which they were written, and leave only the time in which I wrote; 
2:11 AM, 4:15 AM, 11:18 PM. I like the sense of mystery. 
I don't mind when people spell my name wrong. 
Out of all my visits to Starbucks (which is a great amount) 
there have been about three or so to ever get it right. 
Gladis, Gladice, Gladece...Gladys.
I prefer sweet'n low over any other kind of sugar. 
I tend to find meaning in just about everything.
I'm very introspective. Melancholic, even. 
I'm quite compassionate, and well-mannered.
My humor is more on the sarcastic side. I could be witty when I choose to be.
"I'm so lonesome I could cry." I could listen to that song over, and over...
Johnny Cash's voice is fascinating to me. I have a record of his pinned to my wall.
My room resembles that of a museum, or an art gallery. 
Or a decor hoarder in the making.
There's this quote I read in an interview of Devandra Banhart once. He said,
"The space you live in reflects the inside of your mind." I believe that to be so. 
My room is a mere reflection of my brain. I'm a romantic. Hopeless? 
I'm still deciding on that. I want, I don't want, but I think I do. 
I should, shouldn't I? Yes, I can be quite confusing,
especially in terms of relationships. 
There are times I cannot make sense of it. Myself, of my own self. 
but with much humility in regard, I know I'd be worth it. 
I'm worth it. Just like you.



Shyness is nice,
and shyness can stop you
 from doing all the things in life you’d like to.

Another amazing film watched: Les Amours Imaginaires, or "Heartbeats." 

You are bound to fall in love with one, if not all the actors in this film. 

Guaranteed. Trust me, I would know. 

I'd be a groupie of Xavier Dolan if he didn't live countries away.

 The only truth is love beyond reason.

am·ne·sia/amˈnēZHə/ --- A partial or total loss of memory.

I've been quite obsessed with the Sun-dance channel these past few weeks.

Last night I finally got the chance to see the film 

Fur: An Imaginary Portrait of Diane Arbus.

I've never been much of a Nicole Kidman fan, but she is just brilliant in this.

And Robert Downey Jr., well he is just a fox. Even with a hairy ass.

There's this guy.
I don't know his name.
Who he is.
Where he's from.
We go to the same college.
We've walked the same hallways.
As we sat across from each-other in the computer-lab,
I could tell. I could tell he wanted to say hello, too.
He sneezed, I said bless you.
He said "thank-you."
We proceeded with what we were doing,
My last-minute essay typing of the Great Gatsby,
His what is curiously yet unknown to me.
We both looked up, quite a few times
With the same intrigue, wonder, hesitation,
Trying to avoid the lock of eyes
A sort of introduction in disguise.

He left
Found an excuse to come back
Hesitated some more, then sheeped out.

This made me smile
And I can just tell
He'll be looking forward to it, too.
The chance of another encounter.
The mystery
The sense of chemistry
The unravel
The endless possibilities
The unfold that can be sought
with a simple "hello".

  

Let's build a time machine,

You and I.

The words trapped inside your head
from yesterday and the night before--
Take a deep breath, instead
I don't want to know how you feel.


Cos' I'm a fool either way
Rich with love, constrained by hate
I'll never get it right--
Close your eyes, count your sheep instead.


Mislead, in all ingenuity
Suppress my intentions with subtle charm
If I weep
If I hide
If I moan
clash,
collide,
Don't be alarmed.


Sweet disposition
wavering like the sea
returning as the tide--
it will tear us apart.


You and I,
as two, as one,
As half.


Dodge the bullet
And flee.


Take the money
And Run.


Passion
suits
only
those
who
choose
to
die
young.


Stay.


Grab your coat
Grasp your kite,
If you decide to stay.


This
windy
blizzard
of
a
heart
is
not
the
safest
place.


---


Your hands slip under my dress
Head rested upon my breasts
Lips parted
The taste of flower buds
burst into bloom 
on the tip of your tongue. 


It will never make sense,
It will never make sense,
It will never make sense.


These words trapped inside my head
from yesterday and the night before--
Abide oblivion, instead


You don't want to know how I feel.

"Together, let's die alone."

sometimes, melancholia is essential. 

I want to meet him.
Have conversations over tea with him.
Sit down in a still silent room and listen to records with him.
In the simplest of forms, as two vinyl-loving friends.
I'd be the happiest girl, I truly would.

I love hearing my mum sing, 

especially when she does so while cooking or cleaning.

So oblivious to everything else, genuinely singing from the inside-out.

I love British accents. I find them quite enthralling.

I love driving, driving to nowhere in particular,

and ending up at some great unexpected place.

I love those little moments...

the ones where you're heading back home from school

or walking from one place to another, when all of a sudden,

you feel this sort of burst within you, your heart gradually swelling up,

and you know it, you just know that you're alive.

That warmth that swarms within you, a static that makes you tremble, 

gives you goosebumps, a temper that let's you know you're capable of love. 

You are love itself wandering about.

(or perhaps that's just me?)

I love quirky lyrics, such as those of Tegan and Sara.

I love sad depressing music, it makes me content.

I love the rush of being young and in-run.

For some odd reason, late night coffee always seems to taste better.

I love coffee. The smell of it, the taste of it. It's addictive-ness. 

Films are most inspiring during the A.M of late nights.

Vivid dreams worth writing down--

a capsule of the brilliance of your unconscious state of mind.

The colored variety of chop-stick covers at Panda Express.

It's these little things...the little details that stand out, 

that stick with me.