I want to write a novel, find a cure for procrastination, make millions of plushies... Elephantine is about what makes me crazy (in a good way) and what I'm working on.
I love getting email.
Posts about inspiration, however, do borrow photos from other sites. If I've used one of your photos and you'd like it removed, please just let me know.
After weeks of looking, I found the right one. Meet my shiny new friend, the 700c Draft, bluish gray, 27 pounds. A bit retro, too: it has a grand total of one speed. After swapping the straight handlebars for curved ones, it'll be perfect.
And I just love the description over at Bike Emory: "Who Rides a Draft? You appreciate simplicity in your life and have an eye for smooth lines and aesthetics." Yup, they got me. Spot on.
Japanese linen tape from A Little Goodness and Odds and Ends from Field and Sea.
On the bus ride home, out of nowhere, I hear: "Cows? Cows!... he said that? Cows?!" I glance back – it's coming from these two girls that I often see sitting together. One of them – the one with the dark hair – has a history of showing up to the bus stop either immediately before or immediately after me. The other girl usually boards a few stops down the route.
"Cows!" I hear again. "Really, he said 'cows'?!"
The three of us all get off at the same stop. As I'm trekking up the hill, the two of them are walking in the same direction, but on the other side of the street. One more time I hear, with slight variation (all together now): "Chickens and cows!"
In case you're not on the mailing list: exclusive video recordings of Radiohead's In Rainbows are now available on iTunes, shot by the indie music series folks over at From The Basement. The videos were all captured in a single day. I'm downloading All I Need and Nude as we speak.
Yesterday beau and I were meandering around Fred Meyer when I spotted their (lo-fi) fireworks display. "Oh, come on, we have to get some Pop-its!" I insisted, but then I grabbed one of the boxes and the top fell open, revealing that there was nothing inside. A speck of saw dust, maybe, but nothing else. Whoever you are, you thief, I hope the guilt is eating away at you. Who steals Pop-its? They're, like, seventy-five cents. (This reminds me of once when I was little, and I had my hands in my pockets when we were checking out at the grocery store. The cashier was giving me a suspicious eye, and my mom warned me, "She probably thinks you stole some chapstick or something." Even to this day, I often get nervous about what to do with my hands when leaving stores.)
Amazing hand embroidered work from Takashi Iwasaki and, swoon, the Olivetti Valentine Typewriter, circa 1969.
Rufus loves nothing more than Q-tips. His face lights up as soon as he spots one (and don't even ask me how they escape from the container), with a gleam in his eyes that screams, "PURE GOLD! MINE, ALL MINE!" And then he pounces, tortures, and attempts to eat the little white swabs. He keeps himself entertained until he accidentally knocks one under the door of our shoe closet, which is followed by blindly and desperately pawing under the door for maybe five or six minutes while thumping his whole body angrily against the door, which is eventually followed by a split-second change of mood to indifference.
I heard the familiar thump-thump-thumping as I was getting ready for work this morning. Then a muffled "mmmmrerr," and then another thump-thump.
"Rufus, cut it out," I yell out to him from the other room.
More thump-thump-thumping.
Then I peek out at the shoe closet. No Rufus. No frustrated cat, front paws searching furiously under the door. Just more thump-thump-thump.
I walk over and yank open the door, which had been completely closed. First I see a trampled mess of shoes, and then I see him, sitting in the dark with glowing eyes, glaring at me for accidentally shutting the door on him five minutes before.
"Oh," I mumble, and he dashes out furiously.
If I didn't have to pay rent or buy kitty litter or a pasta machine or christmas presents, my bank account would be flushed out in two seconds at Daylesford Organic. Everything is heartbreakingly minimalist-perfect in design and looks as though it would taste like heaven. Guess what the container in the upper left corner is. Go ahead, guess. Alright, well, whatever you thought was wrong. It's toliet cleaner, for Christ's sake.
Today somebody left a very full single-serve bowl of peeled and sliced oranges in the kitchen at work. Beside it was a Post-it note that instructed, "oranges try it" – no punctuation, nothing. And I'm thinking: first of all, it's a little suspicious to cut up a whole orange so meticulously (getting all the rind off of fruit disturbs me more than almost anything) and then leave the whole thing for someone else. Second, the "try it" part seemed a bit out of place, because who hasn't tried an orange? Is this a special orange, an orange that tastes like peanut butter or vermouth? Most of it was gone, later on. I hope whoever tried it really enjoyed it.
Something more than a marvel, gorgeously enigmatic shot from muszka (via FFFFound).
Today I was whistled at, honked and pointed at, and had a stranger's "hola" thrown in my direction. And yet, I'm flabbergasted, because I was dressed down, if anything. Heels, yes, but with jeans that don't even fit me quite right and a sweater and a sports jacket. And, fyi, honking five times in a row and rudely pointing at me on the sidewalk is generally not a good idea. You're not accomplishing anything, and you're not making yourself look any less like an idiot.
When I get home, I'm promptly ignored by Rufus, am too hungry to think, but start shuffling through the mail. There's a large manila package at the bottom of the pile.
"Did you order something?" I ask Stefan.
"No, look, it's for you."
I rip it open, unusually excited. Oh, something for me! And you know what I pull out? A pen. A pen with "Elephantine" and my home address inscribed on it. It's a sample of the Translucent Squiggle Pen, which is apparently America's New Favorite (Favorite pen? Favorite poking device? Come on, Pen Company, be more specific). There is also a slip of paper with 200-point type that reads, "A Word of Advice," informing me very sternly, "Please make sure you buy a large enough quantity to cover your promotional needs for the year... you should stock up now with your product introduction onetime discount. We always want to make you happy, but a deal is a deal." Yes, that's what I call good marketing. Threaten me into buying your fancy schmancy squiggle pens.
Nike lobster shoes, you are rad. Oh, and can "lobsterize" be added to the dictionary, pretty please? I really feel that somehow, someday, there will be the perfect opportunity to toss it into conversation. Oh, you just wait. (Via Kitsune Noir).
I had lunch today with my long lost partner in crime, my best friend since seventh grade who I lived with for four years and now only see every couple months because we live too far apart. We were seated on the breezy deck of a small italian place a block away from my work, with a carafe of chilled water and iced tea and hot plates of food. It was really good to catch up.
My notes for the roman à clef are coming along nicely. It's a bit nostalgic, but mostly a relief to be treading in different waters these days. I think things are turning out the way I had always wanted. Although I still need a house, a dog, a vintage typewriter, and a walk-in closet. Then I'll be set.
Work from bailey doesn't bark (left) and linotte (right).
If you had been there last night, at the driving range, you would have thought that I was trying to not hit the ball. You would have heard the airy whoosh of the club, swing, swing, swing, swing, then a delirious squeal, "Sweet, I finally hit it!" The evening was setting as our buckets of golf balls gradually emptied, and at one point the positioning was just right so that the field was blind to me and I was feeling as if I was hitting them directly into the sun. But you know what I'd really like to be good at? Archery. That would be hot. That shot from the editorial in Vogue really got my aspirations buzzing.
Besides the half hour of what clearly would have been humiliating if I had been, let's say, on a first date, yesterday was languid and warm and breezy. Six o'clock on a Saturday is evidently an optimal time for uncrowded shopping at U Village – either that, or there was a massive party I wasn't invited to – but despite feeling a bit like a celebrity who commanded the shops to be emptied out, I didn't see anything I wanted to bring into a dressing room, let alone purchase. Correction, there was a scarf I liked – but who buys a scarf in the middle of June?
I regret very few things in life, but I wish that I had known about James Huston's remix of Nude ten days ago. The scanner, in particular, just kills me. I must have mentioned before that I have a bit of an infatuation with this song, right?
When we were still on third avenue today and traffic was beginning to choke, my bus driver opened up his side window and began yelling out to the adjacent metro. They fake-argued about whether he was going to let the other driver into his lane, since the next bus stop was less than a block away. But our driver also neglected to remember that his mouth was still close to the internal mic, and therefore his voice was also booming all throughout the coach, an amplification that made it seem as if the bus itself was talking.
"Well, what do you want to do!" he shouted outside, and unknowingly inside. In the mirror, I could see his wide-mouthed grin, a shiny warm face. He roared to the other driver, "Pass me, then! Harhar, go on!"
And in a twelve-inch voice I heard a woman behind me urge, "Race him. Yeah, yeah, race him."
Surprise, I'm back, and you probably didn't even know I was gone. Sorry to be a little sneak, but the last couple posts were written/published before the fact – yeah, there, that's the control freak in me making an appearance.
Some notes on San Diego:
We did a lot of walking. A lot. The first day was spent exploring the residential areas around the hotel, wandering aimlessly among mismatched houses, most with dehydrated yellow lawns (the one with the greenest, most manicured grass was also decorated with dog poo). The second and third days were dedicated to downtown, the Gaslamp district, the pier, the zoo (twice through the panda exhibit, of course), Balboa park, and again around the hotel area. The food wasn't particularly San Diegan, but still good: a cafe with mouth-watering fruit tarts and pulpy OJ, too many french fries for my own good (and one case of pommes frites), the Hard Rock Cafe, an entire bag of succulent cherries, a thick vanilla shake from Ghirardelli, yakisoba with loads of bean sprouts, a very home-cooked meal from a diner (complete with a mini dish of lime jello at the end).
And of course there were the little quirky things I kept my I Spy eye on alert for: the cashier who "accidentally" let coins drop into the tip jar when handing back change; the man who, distracted by food, abandoned his wheelchair-bound wife in the middle of the airport, to which she shot back with thick sarcasm, "Well, thanks for just leaving me here!"; the interactive dinosaur game at the Natural History Museum titled "Life is great, then you die." (Am I sensing a good bumper sticker here?)
Even though it was good to cut ties with my computer for a hundred-plus hours, it's even better to be home again.
