“Message in a Bottle”
We were excited and the air was filled with anticipation. The 3rd annual Emerging Trends Europe was about to begin and so soon we and hundreds of industry professionals were about to discover some of the most talented designers of 2014. Our front row seats promised for an uninterrupted view of the catwalk, I prepared my camera as the lights dimmed and turned blue. The beat started and out came the first model, confident and striking. The air filled with the sounds of hundreds of shutters closing and light bulbs erupted at the end of the runway. This was the beginning of something extraordinary.
The first designer was the American Nevada Couture, a great example of chic city girl outfits, perfect for a spontaneous yet ultra modern and sophisticated look. Garments were a simple elegance: soft pink tops with silk white shorts and ankle strap stilettos, ballerina skirts. I loved…
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IF YOU DON’T SHARE YOU DON’T CARE.
I’ve just started recommending a few of my wordpress pals, and their writings. I still resist the word blogging because it sounds like slobbing. Web writers are amazingly talented, from all over the world, and all ages. I’ve learned about the cultures through their stories from: India, Russia, Brazil, Ireland, Scotland, Europe, and the Middle East.
Interesting facts about the life and work of Dylan Thomas
1. Dylan Thomas was born in Dylan Marlais Thomas, in Swansea, in 1914. His middle name was Marlais, which was a nod to his great-uncle, William Thomas, who was also a poet. William Thomas’s bardic name was Gwilym Marles.
2. One of Thomas’s first published poems was apparently plagiarised. Thomas took the poem, ‘His Requiem’, from a magazine called the Boy’s Own Paper and, er, republished it in the Western Mail under his own name four years later. This act of literary theft wasn’t discovered for 40 years. As Jeff Towns writes on the blog site of the Dylan Thomas Society, ‘It was some 40 years later that the theft came to light when his friend Daniel Jones included the poem in his new edition of Thomas’ Poems [Dent 1971]. The daughter of the true author – Lilian Gard, happened to…
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Oscar Wilde was born on this day in 1854, so we’ve looked through the literary library here at Interesting Literature to bring you our ten favourite Wildean one-liners!
I am so clever that sometimes I don’t understand a single word of what I am saying. – ‘The Remarkable Rocket’
The books that the world calls immoral are the books that show the world its own shame. – The Picture of Dorian Gray
To be really medieval one should have no body. To be really modern one should have no soul. To be really Greek one should have no clothes. – ‘A Few Maxims for the Instruction of the Over-Educated’
Hard work is simply the refuge of people who have nothing whatever to do. – ‘The Remarkable Rocket’
The final mystery is oneself. When one has weighed the sun in the balance, and measured the steps of the moon, and mapped…
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Audrey. Photograph By Edward Quinn
I asked the sky to send the Thinker. Then it rained in southwest furry, small white knots of hail and dark feuding winds. The thinker heard and whistled to me. It was a sweet flutist tone, and he appeared in black and grey, the silver lining of his head like a crown of light. Flashing the boyish grin, he opened his wrestling toned-warm fins to my goose bumpy arms, and I swam along side tentatively. Even though it was my chime, I was unsteady, unwilling to climb on his back, so we swam on our toes, around my house, and the Plaza. We battled sharks from Beverly Hills, whose fins were frozen from love and kindness; we faced one of our own school, who would not lend a dollar on good faith and loyalty for their Merlot Cabernet fish oil, and we strung pearls around each other necks, with a clasp that is easily unhooked. The current drove us through three more days of rowing backward, sleeping quietly without intertwinement, and meeting as friends instead of lovers.
The absence of touch, struck like a lightning storm. I didn’t see it coming, and I may be wrong. To read the Thinker is to understand his language; a circumcision of predictability, logic, or reasoning. Like a tsunami, uncharitable waves of enlightenment he doesn’t even understand drown his soul.
I understood that he airbrushed my appearance, and dropped deep into my eyes as they widened for him. I blushed before he engulfed me, and pressed my undertow.
If tonight was the last swim because of a storm I didn’t see coming, or understand. It is because my eyes blurred by his presence.
The tide goes out, but it always come back. Sometimes it touches where we left off.
On shore the land felt liquefied and unfamiliar without the sensual spark swimming along side me. The leaves glistened above my head, like golden gems you’d wear on a necklace. The Santa Fe river sang its song over rocks, branches and brush, while white butterflies and birds fluttered an awakening. I passed cafes, watched couples and families luxuriating in the sunlight, Canyon road art hawkers snapped photos, gallery owners chatted on the courtyards.
The stage of comfort as picturesque as a postcard. I was outside the activity. I rushed home, passing people who walked as if lost, and shoes stuck in tar. Thoughts trotted like ponies all going in different directions. No path had an answer, or a reason, or an understanding of our endearment.
The Thinker swims close by. Sometimes I feel him soaring past me, glancing for a moment, then he’s gone. The house is quiet, doors and shades closed. My nakedness is wrapped in blankets and the aroma of pumpkin spice from a candle. My stage is empty, no audience of any sort. These are the moments when examination of behavior, discipline, and self-honesty rise above the solitude. A woman of lovers rather than husbands, beckons my heart to open to the odyssey of love.
I appreciate all the new followers from the THE THINKER story. Thank you for
your comments and hope you return for more.
The throw of the dice this week lands on the tip of the diving board. The pool was serene and powdery blue and I was enticed by the sensual shift of waves and sunlight. I took a leaping dive off and swam for eight weeks.
Beneath the surface glaze I held my breath and when I opened my eyes there was a man sitting on a rock, posed as The thinker. I asked him what he was thinking and he said, ‘the universe brought me to you.
I shimmied at this rhetoric of mysticism and then suddenly, he swam towards me and wrapped me around his back. I held on to strong neck and ran my fingers through his mane of hair. We floated away beneath the weight of reality, beyond limits and caution. We swam towards the underbelly of Santa Fe. All kinds of sharks, sweet dolphins, brainy lobsters, wondrous whales and tasty little shrimps. We swam with them in a pack and chided their gossip and questions. Swimming with the underworld fascinated me and I hung on as we passed through darkness and luring beasts of prey.
Soon we were alone again and fondling; almost one from head to toe. My breath sieged into his and we swam through layers of fantasia. Suddenly he leaped forward and couldn’t hold on. I was dropped off on a rock that splintered my skin. I watched as he soared above me and waited for his return. I was so cold that my eyes blurred and shut. When I opened them a lazer like light appeared in the distance and pulled me up to the surface. My arms wrapped around the raft and familiar hands took hold of mine. Friends paddled me to the shore. I can’t see the Thinker anymore but I see him in the memory; swimming towards uncertain adventures in livingness.
Bob and Baez-JIM MARSHALL
He was going to keep me warm this winter. Toggle behind me in his overcoat and boots, making sure I didn’t slip on ice, or chop my hair when my anger meets my self destructiveness. He would plow the snow, keep the fire going, trim the roses that bloomed when we met, and hatch chilies in the kitchen. A boy, a man, and a girlfriend. He’s wrapped in primitive sensuality, gifted with athletic stamina, viscerally intelligent. There is the other side; a squadron of pointy fingers, family feuds, gossip, and the spark of emotional self-contentedness. He admits to it; and studies masters of consciousness every day. He strives for breath unscented, unencumbered childlike weightlessness. My star is dropping, the dream girl of adventures in livingness. Taking men in that hold impossible odds, the long shot that shoot you to the moon or dump you on a dirty bench.
I found someone once who held up all the right que cards; now we are best friends thirty years later. If
lovers are true friends than I don’t lock them out when they stumble on the script. Relationships between men and woman are unsolvable allegory poems. I read them over and over and never understand the meaning if I hold on to the wound. If I let the abrasion heal, I am still in love with them.