May 27, 2015

New music. (And check out the Whiplash-inspired video for another groovy song, too.)

(Source: Spotify)

May 22, 2015

(via Golden Days by Shana Cleveland and the Sandcastles - YouTube)

Here’s a lovely song to send you out into the wild long weekend. Last night I looked through a box of old photographs and although I’m trying to cut back on “stuff” and “clutter” and “things,” I miss having photos of friends and family to put in frames. I lugged 3 heavy film cameras back with me so I might as well use them. 

May 15, 2015
“Barnes creates a detailed two-page spread for each match he commentates for BBC Radio Newcastle. The notes are divided into two color-coded segments: The left-hand page contains background information on Sunderland’s opposition—the club’s starting XI from its last fixture, previous results, and stadium details—while the right-hand side is updated in real time as the action happens.”—via Eight by EightThese are beautiful.

“Barnes creates a detailed two-page spread for each match he commentates for BBC Radio Newcastle. The notes are divided into two color-coded segments: The left-hand page contains background information on Sunderland’s opposition—the club’s starting XI from its last fixture, previous results, and stadium details—while the right-hand side is updated in real time as the action happens.”

—via Eight by Eight

These are beautiful.

May 14, 2015
I love Robert Bechtle. (It’s his birthday. Go look at his work.)(via archivemultiplicity)

I love Robert Bechtle. 

(It’s his birthday. Go look at his work.)

(via archivemultiplicity)

May 14, 2015
I’m moving into a new apartment this weekend. It is beige and carpeted, which is not the way I prefer my space, but at least it is large and has giant living room windows. My decor strategy is as follows: plants, plants, and more plants and big bold art.(Art by Jonas Wood)

I’m moving into a new apartment this weekend. It is beige and carpeted, which is not the way I prefer my space, but at least it is large and has giant living room windows. My decor strategy is as follows: plants, plants, and more plants and big bold art.

(Art by Jonas Wood)

May 14, 2015

This week, I recommend “Dark Bird is Home” by The Tallest Man on Earth and “Jackrabbit” by San Fermin.

(Source: Spotify)

May 13, 2015
“I bought the Yoko Myth wholesale. The only received images I could conjure of her were ones in which she was tied to John: Here she is sitting silently at the Let It Be sessions as Paul fumes; there she is entwined with her man in the famous Annie Leibovitz picture. I still considered her name an insult — the woman who won’t let the boys have their fun. In my early 20s, it felt important to let men believe that I wasn’t like that. I hated all the parts of myself that could be perceived as co-dependent or excessively feminine. I was terrified of vulnerability because I thought it could exist only at the expense of independence. I thought I knew what a feminist was. I thought I knew about Yoko Ono. I had a lot to learn.”— Yoko Ono and the Myth That Deserves to Die – Vulture (emphasis mine)I don’t know all that much about Yoko Ono’s work, or Yoko Ono as a person, but I do know that her book, Grapefruit, is full of strange and sweet treasures.

“I bought the Yoko Myth wholesale. The only received images I could conjure of her were ones in which she was tied to John: Here she is sitting silently at the Let It Be sessions as Paul fumes; there she is entwined with her man in the famous Annie Leibovitz picture. I still considered her name an insult — the woman who won’t let the boys have their fun. In my early 20s, it felt important to let men believe that I wasn’t like that. I hated all the parts of myself that could be perceived as co-dependent or excessively feminine. I was terrified of vulnerability because I thought it could exist only at the expense of independence. I thought I knew what a feminist was. I thought I knew about Yoko Ono. I had a lot to learn.”

— Yoko Ono and the Myth That Deserves to Die – Vulture (emphasis mine)

I don’t know all that much about Yoko Ono’s work, or Yoko Ono as a person, but I do know that her book, Grapefruit, is full of strange and sweet treasures.

May 13, 2015

image

3 (+1) Things You Can Do While Dealing With A Break-Up in a New City:

1. Talk to your friends instead of reading old emails and text messages or listening to old voicemails. Your friends are your lakes. Dwelling on memories of your ex is a desert and you will only suffer from dehydration. You will perish. If you find your mind stuck in the desert, use your body and leave it.

2. Go find new words that will make your heart full again, if only temporarily. Even if these words are in a bookstore, and even if every bookstore reminds you of your book-crazy ex, words will help fill you up again with a range of human emotions that either mirror your own or take you out of your own head. (Poetry, if you like that sort of thing, can help you shed a lot of tears, if it is in fact tears you need to shed to move into the next part of your day.)

3. Dress for success. If you are in a new job in a new city, which you are, wake up in the morning and put on all your expensive fancy makeup and put that expensive “serum” in your hair even if you don’t know what it does. Put on tights that cut into your belly full of ice cream. Heels, too, even though you’re late to work and you’d be a minute faster in flats. And stand up straight.

You will try to: Go to places where you like to be and where people you might get along with would be (example: bookstores, museums) and maybe there are cute boys there you can talk to. There probably aren’t because your glasses are still very foggy and all you can see is an alternate universe where your loved one is still by your side and not 2,000 miles away.

(Image: Laura Berger)

Apr 28, 2015

Music for a foggy, dreary day

(Source: Spotify)

Apr 15, 2015
I can’t stop talking about Arizmendi Bakery. My relationship with pastries has been a long one, and my first memory of eating them was 25 years ago, on the top floor of a high-rise hotel in Hong Kong. I was five, my mom was pregnant with my brother, and what I remember from that trip is as follows: watching kung fu soap operas in the hotel room; waking up in the middle of the night and vomiting all over the bedspread; going to a store with some of my dad’s friends and accepting the gift of a little ceramic poodle (which I remember feeling guilt at having let these people buy it for me); and eating a pile of chocolate croissants from the breakfast buffet every morning. I live two long and three short blocks from Arizmendi, a worker-owned bakery that opened in 1997 in Oakland, and then in my temporary neighborhood, Inner Sunset, in 2000. It’s also directly on my walk to work, should I choose. I’m saying it’s not out of my way in any way, shape, or form. I resisted its draw for three whole days until I decided I needed a cookie (I was gearing up for a tough phone call): a mint double chocolate cookie. I stayed away for another week, but any sort of willpower is now gone. Here’s what I’ve tried:Double chocolate mint cookie: ASourdough chocolate croissant: A+Sourdough boule: B (I know, what’s going on?)Giant brownie: ATomato, spinach, mushroom focaccia: A (it’s basically pizza)Corn-blueberry muffin: A+For as much time as I’ve spent in bakeries, however, the flow of Arizmendi - getting your baked good and paying for it - is still a struggle for me after a handful of visits. I think it’s because everybody there is a regular and can zoom in on exactly what he or she wants. There are two stations for selecting bags and the little white sheets you use to grab the goods, and if you skip one over, it’s hard to go back, because people keep walking in behind you. It’s like trying to parallel park on a busy street. The fear is the same; the flush on my face that begins to pool is the same. This morning I fumbled in selecting focaccia, getting sauce all over my jacket sleeve and hand, but the man who came in behind me stood patiently behind me until I collected myself. I left the pastry door open for him, assuming that he would also be selecting some bread from that case, but instead he closed it after I had moved on and moved onto the next shelf.People are patient until they’re not. As I zigzagged around the store, each person kept track of the order they entered and let me pay before them. But this morning, I needed to swerve out of line. I didn’t have enough cash for my treasures - focaccia and a muffin - and had to fumble around my purse for quarters. The line moved on. I wondered if anybody inside might lend me a dime if I came up short. About every other morning, a man stands outside the door of the bakery and jerks his hand out to everybody who passes. I can’t make out what he’s saying, and I don’t know if he wants food or money. This has, in the past, dissuaded me from going inside. I don’t want to deal with the passive but somewhat aggressive motion. But now, in week four, this doesn’t seem to matter. I go in and out of the bakery, ignoring him.

I can’t stop talking about Arizmendi Bakery. My relationship with pastries has been a long one, and my first memory of eating them was 25 years ago, on the top floor of a high-rise hotel in Hong Kong. I was five, my mom was pregnant with my brother, and what I remember from that trip is as follows: watching kung fu soap operas in the hotel room; waking up in the middle of the night and vomiting all over the bedspread; going to a store with some of my dad’s friends and accepting the gift of a little ceramic poodle (which I remember feeling guilt at having let these people buy it for me); and eating a pile of chocolate croissants from the breakfast buffet every morning. 

I live two long and three short blocks from Arizmendi, a worker-owned bakery that opened in 1997 in Oakland, and then in my temporary neighborhood, Inner Sunset, in 2000. It’s also directly on my walk to work, should I choose. I’m saying it’s not out of my way in any way, shape, or form. I resisted its draw for three whole days until I decided I needed a cookie (I was gearing up for a tough phone call): a mint double chocolate cookie. I stayed away for another week, but any sort of willpower is now gone. 

Here’s what I’ve tried:

Double chocolate mint cookie: A
Sourdough chocolate croissant: A+
Sourdough boule: B (I know, what’s going on?)
Giant brownie: A
Tomato, spinach, mushroom focaccia: A (it’s basically pizza)
Corn-blueberry muffin: A+

For as much time as I’ve spent in bakeries, however, the flow of Arizmendi - getting your baked good and paying for it - is still a struggle for me after a handful of visits. I think it’s because everybody there is a regular and can zoom in on exactly what he or she wants. There are two stations for selecting bags and the little white sheets you use to grab the goods, and if you skip one over, it’s hard to go back, because people keep walking in behind you. It’s like trying to parallel park on a busy street. The fear is the same; the flush on my face that begins to pool is the same. This morning I fumbled in selecting focaccia, getting sauce all over my jacket sleeve and hand, but the man who came in behind me stood patiently behind me until I collected myself. I left the pastry door open for him, assuming that he would also be selecting some bread from that case, but instead he closed it after I had moved on and moved onto the next shelf.

People are patient until they’re not. As I zigzagged around the store, each person kept track of the order they entered and let me pay before them. But this morning, I needed to swerve out of line. I didn’t have enough cash for my treasures - focaccia and a muffin - and had to fumble around my purse for quarters. The line moved on. I wondered if anybody inside might lend me a dime if I came up short. 

About every other morning, a man stands outside the door of the bakery and jerks his hand out to everybody who passes. I can’t make out what he’s saying, and I don’t know if he wants food or money. This has, in the past, dissuaded me from going inside. I don’t want to deal with the passive but somewhat aggressive motion. But now, in week four, this doesn’t seem to matter. I go in and out of the bakery, ignoring him.

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