Finally saw...

So far the costume and cinematography is my favourite aspect of it. Definitely need to see it a few more times.

it occurred to her that in every relationship in which she had participated, in every union older than a year that she’d observed, imbalance existed. of a couple, one person invariably loved stronger than the other. it seemed a law of nature, a cruel law that led to tension and destruction. she was dismayed that a law so unfair, so miserable prevailed, but since it did, since imbalance seemed inevitable, it must be easier, healthier to be the lover who loved least.— tom robbin

The Dragonfly

Once, in a little pond, in the muddy water under the lily pads, there lived a little water beetle in a community of water beetles. They lived a simple and comfortable life in the pond with few disturbances and interruptions.

Once in a while, sadness would come to the community when one of their fellow beetles would climb the stem of a lily pad and would never be seen again. They knew when this happened; their friend was dead, gone forever.

Then, one day, one little water beetle felt an irresistible urge to climb up that stem. However, he was determined that he would not leave forever. He would come back and tell his friends what he had found at the top.

When he reached the top and climbed out of the water onto the surface of the lily pad, he was so tired, and the sun felt so warm, that he decided he must take a nap. As he slept, his body changed and when he woke up, he had turned into a beautiful blue-tailed dragonfly with broad wings and a slender body designed for flying.

So, fly he did! And, as he soared he saw the beauty of a whole new world and a far superior way of life to what he had never known existed.

Then he remembered his beetle friends and how they were thinking by now he was dead. He wanted to go back to tell them, and explain to them that he was now more alive than he had ever been before. His life had been fulfilled rather than ended.

But, his new body would not go down into the water. He could not get back to tell his friends the good news. Then he understood that their time would come, when they, too, would know what he now knew. So, he raised his wings and flew off into his joyous new life!


~Author Unknown~

Red Jeep

I am here but I want to be in a red jeep, three years ago. The Buddhists call it duality. I have this, but I want that.

I want to be driving through the countryside, where my best friend used to live. Dew on the grass of a morning and crisp air laced with the fragrance of farm life. Even cow shit smells sweet in my memories.

High beams had to be flicked on when driving at night; you never knew when a kangaroo would hop out in front of you. I killed a wombat out there once. It was standing in the middle of the road and by the time I saw it, it was too late.

We used to see plenty of road kill. One night we stopped the car to move three huge, dead wombats from the middle of the road. We knew we couldn’t leave them so we stood there, biting our nails and cringing at the blood.

I miss leaving too late for school after sleepovers, running out of the house holding shoes in our hands and jamming lunchboxes into our bags. We would drive in the red jeep, with the bite of morning air hitting our cheeks through the open windows. We had buns on top of our heads and shimmer on our cheek bones. We listened to pretty songs on FBi radio, but the volume from our speakers was never quite loud enough. The urge to ditch school and go to the beach would tug mercilessly at our minds.

A huntsman spider would often crawl across the window screen, making us squeal with fearful despair. Our trip would become delayed as we would pull over and dive out of the car, waiting for the spider to reappear. It would hide from us and we would be forced to hesitantly get back in the car and try to make it to school before the bell - imaginary bugs crawling over our skin.

Those are some of the best memoires of my life, I think. When I remember back to mist rising from deep green grass, the smell of hay, sun glittering off the hairs on our arms, energetic chatter, the birds, the music, the nothingness. I think back and taste freedom, excitement, wine from the local winery, cups of tea out of colourful mugs with mismatching saucers. I see kittens that were born on Valentines Day, parties, skinny dipping, laughing everyday to the point of breathlessness, gardening. I remember breakfast outside and feeding the dog our scraps, watching the dog play with the chickens and cats, birds sitting on horses’ backs and feeling free to walk around outside in undies because the neighbours house was so far away.

The red jeep now sits down the back of her old house where she no longer lives. It lays untouched, broken in many ways, amongst overgrown grass. That cheeky huntsman has probably had babies by now, and lives undisturbed in the car with all its family and friends. Meanwhile, the squealing girls with buns on their heads have joined the real world, where weekday trips to the beach have been replaced with offices and paperwork.

But I haven’t grown up completely; I still run late each morning, holding my shoes as I tumble out of the house, jamming my lunch into my bag. It’s just not as fun without a best friend and a red jeep.

Dani

The Nightingale and the Rose - Oscar Wilde

"She said that she would dance with me if I brought her red roses,"

cried the young Student; "but in all my garden there is no red

rose."

From her nest in the holm-oak tree the Nightingale heard him, and

she looked out through the leaves, and wondered.

"No red rose in all my garden!" he cried, and his beautiful eyes

filled with tears. "Ah, on what little things does happiness

depend! I have read all that the wise men have written, and all

the secrets of philosophy are mine, yet for want of a red rose is

my life made wretched."

"Here at last is a true lover," said the Nightingale. "Night after

night have I sung of him, though I knew him not: night after night

have I told his story to the stars, and now I see him. His hair is

dark as the hyacinth-blossom, and his lips are red as the rose of

his desire; but passion has made his face like pale ivory, and

sorrow has set her seal upon his brow."

"The Prince gives a ball to-morrow night," murmured the young

Student, "and my love will be of the company. If I bring her a red

rose she will dance with me till dawn. If I bring her a red rose,

I shall hold her in my arms, and she will lean her head upon my

shoulder, and her hand will be clasped in mine. But there is no

red rose in my garden, so I shall sit lonely, and she will pass me

by. She will have no heed of me, and my heart will break."

"Here indeed is the true lover," said the Nightingale. "What I

sing of, he suffers--what is joy to me, to him is pain. Surely

Love is a wonderful thing. It is more precious than emeralds, and

dearer than fine opals. Pearls and pomegranates cannot buy it, nor

is it set forth in the marketplace. It may not be purchased of the

merchants, nor can it be weighed out in the balance for gold."

"The musicians will sit in their gallery," said the young Student,

"and play upon their stringed instruments, and my love will dance

to the sound of the harp and the violin. She will dance so lightly

that her feet will not touch the floor, and the courtiers in their

gay dresses will throng round her. But with me she will not dance,

for I have no red rose to give her"; and he flung himself down on

the grass, and buried his face in his hands, and wept.

"Why is he weeping?" asked a little Green Lizard, as he ran past

him with his tail in the air.

"Why, indeed?" said a Butterfly, who was fluttering about after a

sunbeam.

"Why, indeed?" whispered a Daisy to his neighbour, in a soft, low

voice.

"He is weeping for a red rose," said the Nightingale.

"For a red rose?" they cried; "how very ridiculous!" and the little

Lizard, who was something of a cynic, laughed outright.

But the Nightingale understood the secret of the Student's sorrow,

and she sat silent in the oak-tree, and thought about the mystery

of Love.

Suddenly she spread her brown wings for flight, and soared into the

air. She passed through the grove like a shadow, and like a shadow

she sailed across the garden.

In the centre of the grass-plot was standing a beautiful Rose-tree,

and when she saw it she flew over to it, and lit upon a spray.

"Give me a red rose," she cried, "and I will sing you my sweetest

song."

But the Tree shook its head.

"My roses are white," it answered; "as white as the foam of the

sea, and whiter than the snow upon the mountain. But go to my

brother who grows round the old sun-dial, and perhaps he will give

you what you want."

So the Nightingale flew over to the Rose-tree that was growing

round the old sun-dial.

"Give me a red rose," she cried, "and I will sing you my sweetest

song."

But the Tree shook its head.

"My roses are yellow," it answered; "as yellow as the hair of the

mermaiden who sits upon an amber throne, and yellower than the

daffodil that blooms in the meadow before the mower comes with his

scythe. But go to my brother who grows beneath the Student's

window, and perhaps he will give you what you want."

So the Nightingale flew over to the Rose-tree that was growing

beneath the Student's window.

"Give me a red rose," she cried, "and I will sing you my sweetest

song."

But the Tree shook its head.

"My roses are red," it answered, "as red as the feet of the dove,

and redder than the great fans of coral that wave and wave in the

ocean-cavern. But the winter has chilled my veins, and the frost

has nipped my buds, and the storm has broken my branches, and I

shall have no roses at all this year."

"One red rose is all I want," cried the Nightingale, "only one red

rose! Is there no way by which I can get it?"

"There is away," answered the Tree; "but it is so terrible that I

dare not tell it to you."

"Tell it to me," said the Nightingale, "I am not afraid."

"If you want a red rose," said the Tree, "you must build it out of

music by moonlight, and stain it with your own heart's-blood. You

must sing to me with your breast against a thorn. All night long

you must sing to me, and the thorn must pierce your heart, and your

life-blood must flow into my veins, and become mine."

"Death is a great price to pay for a red rose," cried the

Nightingale, "and Life is very dear to all. It is pleasant to sit

in the green wood, and to watch the Sun in his chariot of gold, and

the Moon in her chariot of pearl. Sweet is the scent of the

hawthorn, and sweet are the bluebells that hide in the valley, and

the heather that blows on the hill. Yet Love is better than Life,

and what is the heart of a bird compared to the heart of a man?"

So she spread her brown wings for flight, and soared into the air.

She swept over the garden like a shadow, and like a shadow she

sailed through the grove.

The young Student was still lying on the grass, where she had left

him, and the tears were not yet dry in his beautiful eyes.

"Be happy," cried the Nightingale, "be happy; you shall have your

red rose. I will build it out of music by moonlight, and stain it

with my own heart's-blood. All that I ask of you in return is that

you will be a true lover, for Love is wiser than Philosophy, though

she is wise, and mightier than Power, though he is mighty. Flame-

coloured are his wings, and coloured like flame is his body. His

lips are sweet as honey, and his breath is like frankincense."

The Student looked up from the grass, and listened, but he could

not understand what the Nightingale was saying to him, for he only

knew the things that are written down in books.

But the Oak-tree understood, and felt sad, for he was very fond of

the little Nightingale who had built her nest in his branches.

"Sing me one last song," he whispered; "I shall feel very lonely

when you are gone."

So the Nightingale sang to the Oak-tree, and her voice was like

water bubbling from a silver jar.

When she had finished her song the Student got up, and pulled a

note-book and a lead-pencil out of his pocket.

"She has form," he said to himself, as he walked away through the

grove--"that cannot be denied to her; but has she got feeling? I

am afraid not. In fact, she is like most artists; she is all

style, without any sincerity. She would not sacrifice herself for

others. She thinks merely of music, and everybody knows that the

arts are selfish. Still, it must be admitted that she has some

beautiful notes in her voice. What a pity it is that they do not

mean anything, or do any practical good." And he went into his

room, and lay down on his little pallet-bed, and began to think of

his love; and, after a time, he fell asleep.

And when the Moon shone in the heavens the Nightingale flew to the

Rose-tree, and set her breast against the thorn. All night long

she sang with her breast against the thorn, and the cold crystal

Moon leaned down and listened. All night long she sang, and the

thorn went deeper and deeper into her breast, and her life-blood

ebbed away from her.

She sang first of the birth of love in the heart of a boy and a

girl. And on the top-most spray of the Rose-tree there blossomed a

marvellous rose, petal following petal, as song followed song.

Pale was it, at first, as the mist that hangs over the river--pale

as the feet of the morning, and silver as the wings of the dawn.

As the shadow of a rose in a mirror of silver, as the shadow of a

rose in a water-pool, so was the rose that blossomed on the topmost

spray of the Tree.

But the Tree cried to the Nightingale to press closer against the

thorn. "Press closer, little Nightingale," cried the Tree, "or the

Day will come before the rose is finished."

So the Nightingale pressed closer against the thorn, and louder and

louder grew her song, for she sang of the birth of passion in the

soul of a man and a maid.

And a delicate flush of pink came into the leaves of the rose, like

the flush in the face of the bridegroom when he kisses the lips of

the bride. But the thorn had not yet reached her heart, so the

rose's heart remained white, for only a Nightingale's heart's-blood

can crimson the heart of a rose.

And the Tree cried to the Nightingale to press closer against the

thorn. "Press closer, little Nightingale," cried the Tree, "or the

Day will come before the rose is finished."

So the Nightingale pressed closer against the thorn, and the thorn

touched her heart, and a fierce pang of pain shot through her.

Bitter, bitter was the pain, and wilder and wilder grew her song,

for she sang of the Love that is perfected by Death, of the Love

that dies not in the tomb.

And the marvellous rose became crimson, like the rose of the

eastern sky. Crimson was the girdle of petals, and crimson as a

ruby was the heart.

But the Nightingale's voice grew fainter, and her little wings

began to beat, and a film came over her eyes. Fainter and fainter

grew her song, and she felt something choking her in her throat.

Then she gave one last burst of music. The white Moon heard it,

and she forgot the dawn, and lingered on in the sky. The red rose

heard it, and it trembled all over with ecstasy, and opened its

petals to the cold morning air. Echo bore it to her purple cavern

in the hills, and woke the sleeping shepherds from their dreams.

It floated through the reeds of the river, and they carried its

message to the sea.

"Look, look!" cried the Tree, "the rose is finished now"; but the

Nightingale made no answer, for she was lying dead in the long

grass, with the thorn in her heart.

And at noon the Student opened his window and looked out.

"Why, what a wonderful piece of luck!" he cried; "here is a red

rose! I have never seen any rose like it in all my life. It is so

beautiful that I am sure it has a long Latin name"; and he leaned

down and plucked it.

Then he put on his hat, and ran up to the Professor's house with

the rose in his hand.

The daughter of the Professor was sitting in the doorway winding

blue silk on a reel, and her little dog was lying at her feet.

"You said that you would dance with me if I brought you a red

rose," cried the Student. "Here is the reddest rose in all the

world. You will wear it to-night next your heart, and as we dance

together it will tell you how I love you."

But the girl frowned.

"I am afraid it will not go with my dress," she answered; "and,

besides, the Chamberlain's nephew has sent me some real jewels, and

everybody knows that jewels cost far more than flowers."

"Well, upon my word, you are very ungrateful," said the Student

angrily; and he threw the rose into the street, where it fell into

the gutter, and a cart-wheel went over it.

"Ungrateful!" said the girl. "I tell you what, you are very rude;

and, after all, who are you? Only a Student. Why, I don't believe

you have even got silver buckles to your shoes as the Chamberlain's

nephew has"; and she got up from her chair and went into the house.

"What I a silly thing Love is," said the Student as he walked away.

"It is not half as useful as Logic, for it does not prove anything,

and it is always telling one of things that are not going to

happen, and making one believe things that are not true. In fact,

it is quite unpractical, and, as in this age to be practical is

everything, I shall go back to Philosophy and study Metaphysics."

So he returned to his room and pulled out a great dusty book, and

began to read.

Lara Jade Photography

I used to follow this girl's work when I was a young girl trying out photography for myself and uploading it onto the now very popular art site DeviantArt. I was always envious that she was my exact age but her photography was amazing - she had a professional touch at the age of 16 and her Photoshop skills were phenominal. I sometimes even found it hard to look at her work, I was too jealous! I just didn't have the natural ability she had.

Today, nearly five years on from my DeviantArt phase, I look at my daily Lookbook email where they show you the Looks of the day. I'm immediately drawn to a girl called Lara Jade's style. Something about her is familiar, although totally unfamiliar at the same time. (Remember, I hadn't seen any of/or thought of Lara's work for very many years.) I follow her links and find her portfolio website. I realise this is the girl whose photos made my jaw drop - and they still do!

Now she's one of the youngest photographers to have photographed at Spring Studio. She's travelling for work, she's a self-confessed workaholic, she's signing up with agencies in Milan and she's just being all-around amazing. Her DeviantArt page has now hit 11 million views, and that baffles me.

http://www.larajade.co.uk/

Hope you enjoy her stuff. She's only 20, yet more inspiring than many.

Hello

Here are some songs
Astronauts by Otouto, a gorgeous melbourne trio
Spanish Sahara by Foals, a 5 piece from Oxford, England
Hustle by Tunng, an experimental folk band from the UK

Here is some art
Caitlin Shearer

This is a blog I love:
A beautiful, creative married couple who take divine photos of their day to day lives: Hannah and Landon Metz

Enjoy your day!