incorrigible

Their style was classic devil-may-care, rock n’ roll: thick furs, gaudy prints, ruffled sleeves, rounded shades, chunky heels, skin-tight leathers, and of course, the ever-present cigarette accessory (accented accordingly with lustrous shaggy manes and plump pouts). Simultaneously incorrigible and devastatingly sensual, their pairing was the paramount of quintessential 1960’s sexuality and flair.

john-paul jespersen

notre jour viendra

romanticist

the bird cage by frederick carl frieseke

lavenders&lush

plunge

lore

emerald enigma

iconic gown from atonement, won by keira knightly

by jacqueline durran

precious

kitten greys and delicate croche.

delphin enjolras

bilbao, spain

guggenheim museum by frank gehry

currently yearning for...

Swarovski crystal-embellished skull ring
Alexander McQueen

linga sharira

The catharsis of letting go. Of things, of places, of people, of emotions. The cutting loose of all the superfluous ties that bind us to our inner tribulations, and prevent us from truly being free to experience life. To be suffocated by material possessions is a daunting, heavy burden that is borne on the shoulders of our venerable mental health, as the clutter blots out all good energy and asphyxiates perspective. It is the same with lurking thoughts; sneaking suspicions of what-might-have-beens and regrets for all those times when our shortcomings were realized and more than just anxious internal qualms. All of the I-miss-yous and I-hate-yous and the crushing comprehension that those who were once like family to you are now nothing more than strangers...the devastating recognition that surfaces, knowing it will happen again. With lovers, with friends. The world will take you where it will, on the wind’s breath as you blow in and out of cities and love and leave all kinds of new faces. And I suppose that’s life. When you close your eyes at night, there is only you. There is only that heart that beats in your own chest. And at the end of it all, do we want to be remembered for hating or helping others? Jealousy is an addiction, an all-encompassing yearning that springs from some secret insecurity, an outward projection of all the qualities that we detest within ourselves. And life is really too short to spend hating ourselves. It is time to be cleansed of all the negative will we wear around our necks like a yoke; there is only now, only the one you are with, only the self. Therapeutic atonement. Do not covet love and happiness. Carve it out for yourself.

And the credence is lifted…

Meditations in an Emergency

The title of the book began as a very sophisticated literary joke, an allusion to John Donne's "Meditations on Emergent Occasions." But as sometimes happened in O'Hara's poetry, the joke turned out to have a surplus of meaning. His poems are meditations -- but not the kind that comes after hours of quiet thought; they proceed from the heart of noise; they are written on the run, in a hurry, on a lunch break, in a perennial emergency. O'Hara's poems perfectly capture the pace of a New York day in 1962. He is a master of the art of gentle self-laceration: "Now I am quietly waiting for / the catastrophe of my personality / to seem beautiful again, / and interesting, and modern."

via

words for the soul

Meditations in an Emergency

Am I to become profligate as if I were a blonde? Or religious
as if I were French?

Each time my heart is broken it makes me feel more adventurous
(and how the same names keep recurring on that interminable
list!), but one of these days there'll be nothing left with
which to venture forth.

Why should I share you? Why don't you get rid of someone else
for a change?

I am the least difficult of men. All I want is boundless love.

Even trees understand me! Good heavens, I lie under them, too,
don't I? I'm just like a pile of leaves.

However, I have never clogged myself with the praises of
pastoral life, nor with nostalgia for an innocent past of
perverted acts in pastures. No. One need never leave the
confines of New York to get all the greenery one wishes--I can't
even enjoy a blade of grass unless i know there's a subway
handy, or a record store or some other sign that people do not
totally _regret_ life. It is more important to affirm the
least sincere; the clouds get enough attention as it is and
even they continue to pass. Do they know what they're missing?
Uh huh.

My eyes are vague blue, like the sky, and change all the time;
they are indiscriminate but fleeting, entirely specific and
disloyal, so that no one trusts me. I am always looking away.
Or again at something after it has given me up. It makes me
restless and that makes me unhappy, but I cannot keep them
still. If only i had grey, green, black, brown, yellow eyes; I
would stay at home and do something. It's not that I'm
curious. On the contrary, I am bored but it's my duty to be
attentive, I am needed by things as the sky must be above the
earth. And lately, so great has _their_ anxiety become, I can
spare myself little sleep.

Now there is only one man I like to kiss when he is unshaven.
Heterosexuality! you are inexorably approaching. (How best
discourage her?)

St. Serapion, I wrap myself in the robes of your whiteness
which is like midnight in Dostoevsky. How I am to become a
legend, my dear? I've tried love, but that holds you in the
bosom of another and I'm always springing forth from it like
the lotus--the ecstasy of always bursting forth! (but one must
not be distracted by it!) or like a hyacinth, "to keep the
filth of life away," yes, even in the heart, where the filth is
pumped in and slanders and pollutes and determines. I will my
will, though I may become famous for a mysterious vacancy in
that department, that greenhouse.

Destroy yourself, if you don't know!

It is easy to be beautiful; it is difficult to appear so. I
admire you, beloved, for the trap you've set. It's like a
final chapter no one reads because the plot is over.

"Fanny Brown is run away--scampered off with a Cornet of Horse;
I do love that little Minx, & hope She may be happy, tho' She
has vexed me by this exploit a little too.--Poor silly
Cecchina! or F:B: as we used to call her.--I wish She had a
good Whipping and 10,000 pounds."--Mrs. Thrale

I've got to get out of here. I choose a piece of shawl and my
dirtiest suntans. I'll be back, I'll re-emerge, defeated, from
the valley; you don't want me to go where you go, so I go where
you don't want me to. It's only afternoon, there's a lot
ahead. There won't be any mail downstairs. Turning, I spit in
the lock and the knob turns.

Frank O'Hara

ravish

rosie huntington whiteley for LOVE, aug 2010

impressionist mystique

Henri Matisse.

Olivia Palermo for ASOS, Aug 2010

the colours of dreams

Pierre Bonnard.

babydoll

Vogue Germany, Aug 2010
Abbey Lee by Matthew Hutchinson

nastygal

images via