Happy Birthday

It is the 10th of February — my birthday. One hour past midnight and I am allowed to say something new, another number, when asked to reveal my age. I was born on a Saturday, twenty years ago. I am 20 years old: a two and a zero combined is the summed up total of my life. Every memory and every feeling exists in there; to be looked back at with romanticism or a small sensation of victory. I won’t miss having absolute youth, not yet. From here, will there be a fine rise or a fast fading?

Ask me anything

Just a quick note to say to that I’ve created a page for Le Portillon on formspring, here, where you can fill in a form to send me your questions or comments. I’ll do my best to answer quickly.

A Coat, a Bag, and Maine

Friday Morning Details

Awoke at seven to a still dark morning. Said goodbye to Love as he left for another day at work; did the dishes as one must; ate dear beloved oatmeal and decided to document a few details, to share some parts from my Friday morning. I have always preferred the pre-noon; one can feel falsely new and at ease. Light filters softly through windows, while trees stand frozen and kind.

Here are four objects —

A pretty plate, here, several decades old yet quite prim. A family regular in white and strange pink.

Sleepwear, fun-to-wear.
While usually not quite my style, I’m very fond of the skirt as I bought it in Paris on my 18th birthday — a one euro find made at Puces de Vanves. On top, torn favorite 1970s t-shirt from YSL Rive Gauche.

Before heading out to meet the day; a raspberry and banana smoothie definitely contributes nicely to a fine mood.

Getting dressed.
This is where I throw clothes that I currently cannot make room for in the closet.

First, are you our sort of a person?

A face, loose locks, eyes to stare at obtrusively: that is Monica Vitti, actress supreme, in L’eclisse from 1962. These stills repeat themselves, capture by capture, in my mind as I form ideas and opinions on such ordinary topics as beauty.

Her appearance: almost barefaced, plain clothes, seen moving through rapid scenes in black and white — does not inspire one to take out reds, or greens, or violets. It brings nothing new to contemporary eyes. It purely, with absolute effort until success, reminiscents silently about beautiful details. Details found not in objects and trends, but within the second it takes for a person to divert their eyes. Lift lashes, eyelids unfolding.

My Favorite Novels

I could never give away my favorite novels, put them on display for others to see, to judge, to pin down with remarks. Each one has had its own profound, particular effect on me. Some still linger in mind years after I first found them. No book read has ever awoken me on a metapsychical level — but there are a few whose words speak to me as if they had been composed for that purpose only.

I admire their covers, faded typography, fascinated by how a novel – essentially, an object on a shelf – can be so distant; hinting at superior universes, yet feel as close as a friend or an idol. Relatable to nearly every aspect of one’s own being and life.

One such book, first found about fortytwo months ago, is Franny and Zooey. Two stories about two slightly lost siblings in a large, characterful, family. I shall not reveal its plot here, to you, as any search for it would tell it in seconds.

No, with J.D. Salinger’s passing recently I think it’s important to give light to his legacy beyond the Rye. I’ve read that most famous work of his as well, but Holden Caulfield never spoke to me as immediately as Franny: laying ill, as she did, on a sofa through a dozen of pages. Holden never quite compared, in my mind, to the Zooey-named male contemplating his hours away in a bathroom. Franny and Zooey both hold a sort of charm, a charm rarely seen in real life people but always found in the stories. A pity, perhaps, if it weren’t one of the greatest pleasures of fiction.

I first read this two-story book when I was 17, bored with school, dull days, and having to write terms papers I had no interest in. I read it, then, and felt almost rescued. It become clear to me that personal pursuits ultimately mean more than school, than duties. It seemed normal suddenly to wish for something more, something beyond trivialities. Shortly put, it gave me courage – a very healthy ingredient in the life of a young person.

Now, I’m not sure if I should continue this revealing of favorite novels — as to do so would mean making the assumption that other people might find it interesting. Instead it seems a good idea to have a little dialogue.

What book read has had an evident, obvious or obscure, effect on you?