Modern and Rustic

This home from Design*Sponge is absolutely a dream. The dichotomy of rustic, unfinished woods, and sleek modern whites is killing me. It feels sophisticated yet cheekily unhinged, making me want to listen to Joni Mitchell and slide around in my socks. I think it ought to be tucked right in between the coast and a cozy forest line, Oregon perhaps? Can you believe it's tucked away in Brooklyn? I would definitely add a few more pops of color; some of the rooms feel a bit too sterile. But in all, it is definitely got that subtle something that totally enchants me.

Orange Cat

I contemplate a dead orange cat.
And he contemplates me.
I am standing in the gutter in the street,
he is laying just inside the road.

I want to move him from danger,
this dead cat, for my own sake,
but all I can do is stand over him,
sobbing incoherently into the telephone.

I remember hearing once,
in catholic school,
something about a little bird dying
every time a boy wanks off.

And I would just picture my classmates
their braces shining holy
in the shaking computer light,
mouths turned upwards toward the heavens.
And then, just beyond the swing-set,
a tiny sparrow, knowingly,
careens toward the manicured lawn.

I wanted to think of the cat's parents
leaving niblets on the porch,
worried hands on hips, patting little heads.
I tried.

But all I could think,
standing there in the street,
is that every time you break an eager heart,
in a hurry,
on the internet,

An orange cat dies,
eyes open,
in a ditch,
in a suburb.

-Hannah Morris

Santorini, anyone?

Isn't dreaming about spur of the moment holidays the loveliest feeling? Today, I would head off to Santorini and bury myself in the sand with some lime-water. My list of places to visit grows each day; not a place in this world I don't want to see!

This gorgeous suit for a golden tan from Anthropologie, of course. I was told there'd be cake is supposed to be reminiscent of Miranda July's No one belongs here more than you and so I am sold. (Miranda July: Fantastically weird protagonist/writer of the film "Me you and everyone we know") Also, though I haven't tried any of the perfumes from Cb I hate perfume, I have spent many an office hour perusing creator Christopher Brosius's blog/website and I find him charmingly candid and chock full of whimsy. All of the descriptions of his potions are like poems in themselves. Check out his description of "Mr. Hulot's Holiday":
The salty breath of the breeze off the Mediterranean, driftwood, rocks covered with seaweed and the smell of old leather suitcases

I don't know about you, but that is exactly what I am looking for in life.

Santorini Photos via National Geographic

Summer

Something about summer; the piddlyness of it, makes you assess everything. Like a snaggletoothed red head with a magnifying glass. The walking around the house bare-skinned, drinking berry nectar out of the bottle, sitting on the porch to talk to the plants. The joyous pointlessness. The sweetly sick looming of a grown-up life and the realization too that any plans you made were lost in the flood and now unfold like spittled paper. I am not afraid of the future; I love it, I want to hold it and tickle its belly and guffaw at its ingenious jokes. I want the togetherness and the aloneness, the clashing of bodies like wooden spoons. I want that familiar ache of the loss of something real. Make the right moves and the wrong ones just as fast. Don't you think it's just marvelous; all this living?

photo: JFK Library