things that i always have with me (bag spill).

This is just a little something different. Light hearted. To get to know me a little.
This is a list of all the things I will always always have in my bag. I need these to exist.

Firstly, the bag. Though it can’t be fully seen here, it’s a beauty. I switch between this Matt & Nat saddle bag ( ) and an equally gorgeous Hide & Seeker leather tote. The tote is just a little too big for day to day use. They both are some of the prettiest things I own. And the compliments they get bring me such happiness.
The Status Anxiety wallet ( ). Because having access to cash is necessary for my lifestyle (even though I have my credit card memorised). This one is actually a brand spanka, and a men’s wallet too. But it’s the perfect size, and pretty to boot. And encourages me to not carry so many random cards and receipts in my wallet.
The very beautiful watch was a gift from my parents for my birthday. It’s my first ever watch too, due to having small wrists. It’s a Daniel Wellington watch ( ) and it is perfection. I feel so classy and grownup when I wear it – like I really have my life together. And I already miss it when I forget to put it on in a morning rush.
The Oscar Wylee specs ( ).Worn for reading, writing, driving or being in front of a computer. AKA all the time. And needing them more and more. I love them. They feel good on my face. And they make me feel like a nerd in the best way possible.
My favourite polariods. (Instaxs just doesn’t have the same ring to it). I bought myself an Instax Wide ( ) and it’s one of my favourite cameras. Waiting for a photo develop in front of you is a pretty rad feeling. And the atmosphere that always translates is brill. Carrying around all my favourite photos in hardcopy form is just…really really nice. Nostalgic almost. I always like to flick through them when I have a spare minute, or am having a terrible day. Or whenever really, I never get tired of them.
My pen. My favourite pen of all time is from Kmart, bless them. I have about a million of these at home, and one always in my bag. It writes so smoothly and nicely, and leaves an ink stain on my finger that I find romantic.
A notepad. I also have a million of these around the house. I need one with me always. Most of my thoughts and beginning of pieces came when I am not sitting at my desk, and if I don’t write them down I forget them quicker than you would believe. And it’s always handy to have actual paper (let’s bring back the old school way of passing notes and actually writing down your number and giving it to someone, not just following them on the gram).
And last but in no way, shape or form least, a book. I swear by always having a book on hand. This is one of the four copies I own of my favourite book, Pride and Prejudice. The amount of times I have thanked my lucky stars for always squeezing a book in. Whenever you’re stuck in traffic, have an appointment run late, or just have thirty minutes to spare, whip out the old novel. So much more rewarding then scrolling through facebook. And it looks cuter too.
A special mention goes to the any one of the five different cameras I own that didn’t make it to this post (I forgot to put one in the photo). I always try and have at least one camera-camera on me. At the moment it’s my point and shoot film camera that’s with me the most, because film is just gorgeous. But in a pinch my trusty iPhone always comes through with the goods. Some people say we should live in the moment, and take less photos. But I like to be able to savour the memory. To have it forever. Even if it’s just for you.

So, there we have it. These are the things that I always have on hand (unless I’ve forgotten them, which sounds hypocritical of this whole post, but I can’t change who I am). These are the things I need with me to feel complete. Ready for anything as the cliche goes. But cliches exist for a reason. And these are mine.

beautiful poems that I don’t know the full meaning but still like the sound of.

“If I but thought that my response were made
to one perhaps returning to the world,
this tongue of flame would cease to flicker.
But since, up from these depths, no one has yet
returned alive, if what I hear is true,
I answer without fear of being shamed.”

Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherized upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question …
Oh, do not ask, “What is it?”
Let us go and make our visit.

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes,
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,
And seeing that it was a soft October night,
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.

And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

And indeed there will be time
To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?”
Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair —
(They will say: “How his hair is growing thin!”)
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin —
(They will say: “But how his arms and legs are thin!”)
Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.

For I have known them all already, known them all:
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.
So how should I presume?

And I have known the eyes already, known them all—
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?
And how should I presume?

And I have known the arms already, known them all—
Arms that are braceleted and white and bare
(But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!)
Is it perfume from a dress
That makes me so digress?
Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.
And should I then presume?
And how should I begin?

Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets
And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows? …

I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.

And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!
Smoothed by long fingers,
Asleep … tired … or it malingers,
Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
Though I have seen my head (grown slightly bald) brought in upon a platter,
I am no prophet — and here’s no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
And in short, I was afraid.

And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worth while,
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
To roll it towards some overwhelming question,
To say: “I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all”—
If one, settling a pillow by her head
Should say: “That is not what I meant at all;
That is not it, at all.”

And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while,
After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor—
And this, and so much more?—
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
And turning toward the window, should say:
“That is not it at all,
That is not what I meant, at all.”

No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—
Almost, at times, the Fool.

I grow old … I grow old …
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.

I do not think that they will sing to me.

I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.
We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.
– T.S Elliot, the Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock

when C.S Lewis just hits the nail on the head. it literally hurts how perfect his thoughts and writings are.

“In speaking of this desire for our own far off country, which we find in ourselves even now, I feel a certain shyness. I am almost committing an indecency. I am trying to rip open the inconsolable secret in each one of you—the secret which hurts so much that you take your revenge on it by calling it names like Nostalgia and Romanticism and Adolescence; the secret also which pierces with such sweetness that when, in very intimate conversation, the mention of it becomes imminent, we grow awkward and affect to laugh at ourselves; the secret we cannot hide and cannot tell, though we desire to do both. We cannot tell it because it is a desire for something that has never actually appeared in our experience. We cannot hide it because our experience is constantly suggesting it, and we betray ourselves like lovers at the mention of a name. Our commonest expedient is to call it beauty and behave as if that had settled the matter. Wordsworth’s expedient was to identify it with certain moments in his own past. But all this is a cheat. If Wordsworth had gone back to those moments in the past, he would not have found the thing itself, but only the reminder of it; what he remembered would turn out to be itself a remembering. The books or the music in which we thought the beauty was located will betray us if we trust to them; it was not in them, it only came through them, and what came through them was longing. These things—the beauty, the memory of our own past—are good images of what we really desire; but if they are mistaken for the thing itself they turn into dumb idols, breaking the hearts of their worshipers. For they are not the thing itself; they are only the scent of a flower we have not found, the echo of a tune we have not heard, news from a country we have never yet visited.”
C.S Lewis, the Weight of Glory

the most beautiful photoset i have ever seen.

The internet does beautiful things sometimes, like bringing to you images that someone has found the negatives of in an old vintage box in a thrift store in california, and has had them developed, and they’ve turned out to be beautiful film shots taken sometime in 1940-1950, and they just take your breath away.

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