tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33356432011-04-21T17:18:05.432-07:00the heart of a poet" . . . seek those which your own everyday life offers you; describe your sorrows and desires, passing thoughts, and the belief in some sort of beauty-- describe all these with a loving, quiet, humble sincerity. . ."Camillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07321984205886700102noreply@blogger.comBlogger2891100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3335643.post-1071978703893982262003-12-20T19:51:00.000-08:002003-12-20T19:52:39.606-08:00And I sang holy holyCamillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07321984205886700102noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3335643.post-1071978604010335302003-12-20T19:49:00.000-08:002003-12-20T19:50:59.403-08:00My heart is sick of being in chains.Camillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07321984205886700102noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3335643.post-1071978480444348402003-12-20T19:47:00.000-08:002003-12-20T19:48:55.873-08:00ARGH.Camillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07321984205886700102noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3335643.post-1071978304134835662003-12-20T19:44:00.000-08:002003-12-20T19:45:59.593-08:00STUPID!Camillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07321984205886700102noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3335643.post-1065208444868439072003-10-03T12:14:00.000-07:002003-10-03T12:14:04.793-07:00Thanks for the help, everyone. :) It turns out I am taking next semester off-- I'll drive myself through French, since it's an all-or-nothing tuition matter at my university.
Also, I am determined to write frequently in here, as I think it does me good. Consquently, I shall bore you all stupid with my pretensious attempts at book reviewing. (Seriously, I've always wanted to muse about booksCamillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07321984205886700102noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3335643.post-1064522794429746772003-09-25T13:46:00.000-07:002003-09-25T13:46:33.943-07:00I'd like some advice/opinions, because I'm really torn about what to do. (Cross posted with my live journal.)
Two nights ago, my dad suggested that I not go to school next semester. There are certainly several reasons not to go. One, I'm transferring to a different university (U of U, a public school) in fall 2004 and the requirements for major/graduation are different from BYU's. Two, I came Camillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07321984205886700102noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3335643.post-1063916890494846602003-09-18T13:28:00.000-07:002003-09-18T13:28:10.270-07:00I've got my trial by jury coming up in an hour-- I volunteered to be one of the first to have his/her (double pronouns) short story workshopped, and I'm so nervous. It's not as good as it ought to be-- I spent only 12 or so hours on it, but it could be decent if I had a few more rewrites.
But details, I don't want to put out my little monkey before critical eyes. I remember when I was littleCamillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07321984205886700102noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3335643.post-1063681092364098042003-09-15T19:46:00.000-07:002003-09-15T20:06:07.466-07:00I'm standing in my basement, playing the Bend It Like Beckham soundtrack on my brother's discman (mine is perenially out of battery power) and listening to Jind Mahi. And I start remembering what it was like to dance all the time, to stand in the halls with my feet in third position. I was never much good, but I loved dancing. On stage. In my basement, with the dirty window for a mirror. Camillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07321984205886700102noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3335643.post-1063392341195791372003-09-12T11:45:00.000-07:002003-09-12T11:45:41.100-07:00I want to start this again.
I had to stop, just for a little (a long?) while, because things were spinning out of control. Other people can't make you feel like this.
Like the rain and the apple juice?
I was going to wait for my own domain, but that'll be a little while in coming. I have to build things slowly.
I write in a scribbler a lot these days. Ostensibly for creative writing.Camillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07321984205886700102noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3335643.post-1058568435604563372003-07-18T15:47:00.000-07:002003-07-18T15:47:15.476-07:00When I drive, I get lost too much. I used to think because I never was much of a window-watcher. Even when my eyes are half-focused, trained absently on the melting blur of houses and cars and sidewalks, I'm thinking about something else. I daydream too much. As a consequence my brain fragments everyday images for nighttime. I'm too accustomed to the fantastic, I say tongue-in-cheek, but I'mCamillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07321984205886700102noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3335643.post-1058222559947412102003-07-14T15:42:00.000-07:002003-07-14T15:42:39.950-07:00I want to get on a bus and ride across America. I'll take just a knapsack and a series of notebooks, one blue-veined sheet stacked onto another. I think I'd write poetry in New York and Tennessee. I could listen to Tori Amos and Miles Davis where I'm supposed to, you know, somewhere "up north." I could take in movies on a dusty summer afternoon, stop in little independent bookshops, and walk Camillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07321984205886700102noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3335643.post-1057703305119364302003-07-08T15:28:00.000-07:002003-07-08T15:28:25.066-07:00In the way of things, I've been cleaning up my old live journal and refurbishing it with a few sticks of old furniture. I've been wanting a cozy little alcove where I can just ramble on incessently about fanfic, about clothes, and all the rest of the silly trifles that I love. I'll still be updating this, but I want this to be more of a "writer's journal," something thoughtful (or at least Camillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07321984205886700102noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3335643.post-1057028089342786792003-06-30T19:54:00.000-07:002003-06-30T19:54:49.376-07:00When July slams head-on into Utah, I get sleepy all the time. Riding the bus, the way the automobiles carry me, gently swaying to and fro like some mechanical hammock, I feel my chin sink, nodding off as I listen to Order of the Phoenix on CD. It's funny, because when I wake up at the transfer station, I find myself borrowing a British accent. Blimey, I said, look at the size of that. Then I Camillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07321984205886700102noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3335643.post-1056759752904355662003-06-27T17:22:00.000-07:002003-06-27T17:22:32.906-07:00Even contemporary desert people have a fierce love for water. Or maybe it's a fascination, a disbelief built from arid air. It's the year two-thousand-and-three, and some segemented part of my mind watches suburban grass with widened eyes. Or when I drive past the white pipes stitched across the cornfields up north, it feels like that. So when I stop by the reservoir that sparkles cleanly in Camillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07321984205886700102noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3335643.post-1056648821980032792003-06-26T10:33:00.000-07:002003-06-26T10:33:42.043-07:00Going on a minibreak until tomorrow evening.
Have packed scarf in manner of Grace Kelly; unfortunately, hair seems to dictate that I won't arrive in similiar fashion.
Camillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07321984205886700102noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3335643.post-1056223189227186832003-06-21T12:19:00.000-07:002003-06-22T00:53:33.740-07:00I've just finished reading Order of the Phoenix.
For my thoughts/reactions to it, go here. It contains MAJOR SPOILERS, people, so I will not be responsible for anyone who accidentally sees it.
Camillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07321984205886700102noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3335643.post-1056115250583695882003-06-20T06:20:00.000-07:002003-06-20T06:20:50.606-07:0016 hours until Order of the Phoenix.
Fangirl or not, I am so, so excited.
Camillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07321984205886700102noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3335643.post-1055995948645079432003-06-18T21:12:00.000-07:002003-06-18T21:12:28.770-07:00Don't peek over the painted screen-- my blog is slipping into something a little more comfortable. Excuse any clothes tossed about the room, a girl has to put her slippers somewhere.Camillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07321984205886700102noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3335643.post-1055975292693316902003-06-18T15:28:00.000-07:002003-06-18T15:28:12.446-07:00I went to Nordstroms the other day, in between catching the 830 and the 811, because nobody at the bus platform smokes in the designated area and I like the way the mall smells. I also like wandering from shop to shop. I don’t buy anything, half because I don’t want to spend the money. The other half of the reason is because I like the way things look on shelves. I like to go to the perfume Camillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07321984205886700102noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3335643.post-1055542173070078232003-06-13T15:09:00.000-07:002003-06-13T20:01:18.816-07:00This is my sister and I. No exaggeration.
Voicemail: You have one new message.
Message: Hi, Camie, it's Katie. Is Clarissa real? Did Virginia write a book about Laura?
Me (picking up and dialing phone at work): Katie, Clarissa is from the book Mrs. Dalloway, and the original title of that book was The Hours. Michael Cunningham created the character of Laura. Who on earth has been telling Camillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07321984205886700102noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3335643.post-1055476272742769222003-06-12T20:51:00.000-07:002003-06-12T20:51:12.690-07:00I know I haven't said much lately, but everything is so cram-packed together. Getting up, walking, lifting weights in my basement. Toast and lemonade for breakfast while I watch bits of The Nanny. I read- I read a lot, even for me, and my room is filled to bursting with books. Three bags from my university library. I'm watching movies and the telly in between meals. I write little scraps ofCamillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07321984205886700102noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3335643.post-954893952003-06-09T20:45:00.000-07:002003-06-09T20:45:31.060-07:00I've been so tired lately.Camillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07321984205886700102noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3335643.post-953135462003-06-04T20:32:00.000-07:002003-06-04T20:32:15.413-07:00Okay, before I turn in for the night (pointedly ignoring e-mails, letters, stories, and sundry conversations), I just have to say one thing.
Mr. Darcy I get, but James Bond? Superman? Puh-leeze. Where's my Brandon? A certain grey-streaked Broadway producer, anyone? Or perhaps a starry-eyed Bohemian poet?
If we're going to go for the man of our dreams, don't give me that Heathcliff nonsenseCamillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07321984205886700102noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3335643.post-952203462003-06-02T20:32:00.000-07:002003-06-02T20:32:13.693-07:00I was in my first accident today.
I wasn't driving-- I wasn't even in a car. And it was just a sharp, shuddering movement that threw me forward in the bus, my hands flying out in a reflex I didn't even know I had. Dropping White Oleander on the floor, my mind abruptly jerked out of crushed diamonds and turquoise dust, and I couldn't even imagine where I was.
It wasn't anything big, really, Camillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07321984205886700102noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3335643.post-950634532003-05-29T20:23:00.000-07:002003-05-29T20:23:19.193-07:00And they hold you like I want to
And they give you what I want to
And they take it like I want to
And they make it and they break it
Why must you reject me
Why can't you protect me
And so I write love letters that I tear up and won't send, because you don't want to hear it and I'm not quite sure I want to say it, but. . .
I didn't know how much I would miss you until I realized that you were Camillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07321984205886700102noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3335643.post-950226322003-05-28T21:46:00.000-07:002003-05-29T08:36:11.000-07:00As a sort of addendum to this post of Norah's, never, ever listen to '97 Bonnie and Clyde (Tori Amos cover) when the lights are out, because it will scare the hell out of you.Camillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07321984205886700102noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3335643.post-950208202003-05-28T20:54:00.000-07:002003-05-29T08:33:51.000-07:00It's too hot, I can't think straight. Instead I think in curvy little lines that spring off the page like haute couture poetry. All of a sudden I'm all about antique pink parasols and bright silk scarves, and I'm forgetting what (little) modesty I had to lie around in ivory satin mules and an oversized tangerine shirt. Everything is about the heat now, and I honestly can say it's sweltering Camillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07321984205886700102noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3335643.post-949094172003-05-26T13:41:00.000-07:002003-05-26T13:41:04.866-07:00I was outside in the hammock. Cool, pale grey evening around me. Everything faintly moist and fuzzy, like the sky was veiled. I lay outside on the faded blue and purple knit hammock, my toes curled around the thick nylon rope. I felt like a Lo-lee-ta grown out of her own skin, although I'd never had the unconcious perfection even when I was twelve. I've always been painfully conscious of Camillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07321984205886700102noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3335643.post-946678452003-05-20T20:55:00.000-07:002003-05-20T20:55:37.210-07:00And this is why I love Cordelia.
Camille: Honestly, MSN hates me.
Cordelia: It's not personal- it hates us all. And yet we rely upon it. . . . so sad.
Camille: Yeah- sounds kinda like my last relationship.Camillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07321984205886700102noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3335643.post-946202702003-05-19T23:09:00.000-07:002003-05-19T23:09:35.000-07:00So, using this new toy I burned myself a super-sexy, Milla-special CD.
Track 1: Possession: Sarah McLachlan
Track 2: Raspberry Swirl, by Tori Amos
Track 3: You Set Me Free, by Michelle Branch
Track 4: Bitch, by Meredith Brooks
Track 5: Cornflake Girl, by Tori Amos
Track 6: Paint it Black, by Vanessa Carlton
Track 7: Playboy Mommy, by Tori Amos
Track 8: Angels Would Fall, by Melissa Etheridge
Camillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07321984205886700102noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3335643.post-945137902003-05-17T15:39:00.000-07:002003-05-17T15:39:53.970-07:00
Down With Love! Oh! Ewan! Darling! Fly me to the moon, I'm tired of sex, I just want to be married! Red fringed tango dress and swingin' bachelor pad! You're the best friend a girl from Maine who wrote a book and came to New York could have! Renée is ad-or-a-ble. I want to put Ewan in my pocket and take him home.
Camillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07321984205886700102noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3335643.post-942381592003-05-12T18:38:00.000-07:002003-05-12T18:39:16.000-07:00Look.
Down With Love. Friday morning. You, me, and a large Sprite. Norah and Tiffa. You come too. (Yes, I will call)
P.S. Oh, don't even pull that scene about how much you luuuuuuuv Down With Love, because I have been waiting at least six months for the movie to come out. I have prior claims on Mr. McGregor's pants and Miss Zellweger's wardrobe. So don't even go there, okay?Camillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07321984205886700102noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3335643.post-941839392003-05-11T21:24:00.000-07:002003-05-11T21:24:10.930-07:00One of the essential tragedies of this world is that I will never be able to read all the books in it.
Being in a bookstore is torture, like trying to take a breath that will fill your lungs and not succeeding. You can't charge money for books, I think, but they exchange food for dollar bills, so I guess it's about the same. At least for me. I think of books and I can't explain it to anyone Camillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07321984205886700102noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3335643.post-939336222003-05-07T09:02:00.000-07:002003-05-07T20:35:50.000-07:00Okay, I am in rapture.
Norah! Get your pretty face down here, we're going shopping!
Repeat to self: Paycheck (mostly) is for sensible things like tuition, and not for gorgeous things like polka-dot sandals and summer-y pink dresses. Well, y'know, maybe the odd pair of knickers.
P.S. I just really had to quote Confessions of a Shopaholic in this entry. It wouldn't have been the same Camillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07321984205886700102noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3335643.post-939095282003-05-06T22:05:00.000-07:002003-05-06T22:05:44.753-07:00Spring's rolled round, and again I'm hopelessly infatuated with the world. Open the windows, feel the air rush in past the dingy curtains. Put on pretty, happy songs and dance around in a pair of secretary-shoes too tight. I love my glitter-white-bead ankle braclets, my old green gloves, the way the bus surges up the road like water around rocks. I can wear bright red cropped pants (with Camillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07321984205886700102noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3335643.post-937327552003-05-03T20:57:00.000-07:002003-05-03T20:57:03.623-07:00All my thoughts are jumbled up like puzzle pieces on the floor, so I'll try and find the corners. Make a little sense.
I've been dealing with (as if it's some kind of merchant, and I guess it is) clinical depression for the past couple of weeks. Do the things behavioral therapy tells me to once again, which means I have to stop hiding my face in the laundry. So unoriginal, but it works. I Camillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07321984205886700102noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3335643.post-935691022003-04-30T19:22:00.000-07:002003-04-30T19:22:17.433-07:00You know when someone else is gluing something (or this could be an experience unique to me) and you're standing there, holding the pieces in place while the glue sets, and shifts into something hard. Solid. Meanwhile, your arms are starting to burn from holding it up. The glue sticks to you, white tack painted onto your fingertips.
I'm rubber and you're glue--
You're holding it so they can Camillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07321984205886700102noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3335643.post-935109262003-04-29T21:19:00.000-07:002003-04-29T21:19:25.000-07:00I feel infinite.
That, my friends, is the best thing ever.Camillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07321984205886700102noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3335643.post-933281772003-04-26T21:40:00.000-07:002003-04-26T21:40:57.083-07:00I started to cry today when the waiter popped the cork from a wine bottle.
The lights swirled tightly around me, little pin-pricks of illumination. Laughter, voices, humming in my ears, and I'm so afraid and trapped. Fragmenting. He slid the bottle back, almost tenderly, funnelling pale gold wine-- liquid gold-- into the goblet. I stared in fascination, tears sliding, undoing me, loosing my Camillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07321984205886700102noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3335643.post-932752632003-04-25T19:39:00.000-07:002003-04-25T19:39:37.000-07:00Today’s suitably eccentric dialogue on the bus, between me and Massage Therapist Boy. Who, incidentally wore a blue grease-monkey suit and looked like he needed to form a speaking acquaintance with cleaning under his nails before he became “a chiiirooopractoor for a beeg sports team.”
Massage Therapist Boy: So tell me ‘bout this outfit. [gestures at my navy blue skirt, pleated, plain blue Camillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07321984205886700102noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3335643.post-932234062003-04-24T22:18:00.000-07:002003-04-24T22:18:10.476-07:00I sat on the hard concrete bench waiting for the bus to rattle in. A new issue of Vogue, perfume floating up to me as I turned the pages. The Eyre Affair in my enormous black bag, my little poetry notebook in my hand. You can tell the university students, we all hold our I.D. cards nervously. We're all waiting, I think, for someone to deny us transport so we can be vindicated for our fears.Camillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07321984205886700102noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3335643.post-930775162003-04-22T16:49:00.000-07:002003-04-22T16:49:09.853-07:00I have to write (one) (mere) essay on the Scarlet Letter, and then I am done, done, done, done. . . and I'm going to read. Read and work and sleep and clean. . . and it will be beautiful.
(I bought a 9 3/4 Platform journal today. On discount. For writing fanfic ideas in, you know?)Camillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07321984205886700102noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3335643.post-929055842003-04-19T15:20:00.000-07:002003-04-19T15:22:21.000-07:00I just thought I'd tell you that I hate exams, and sometimes I think that group presentations and written finals are going to swallow me whole.
And to put the veil on the hat, I'm sick.
I'm tired more than anything, I think. That sorta soul-tiredness that nothing cures but a good book or a good cry, but oh, I have exams to go to.Camillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07321984205886700102noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3335643.post-927775242003-04-17T07:03:00.000-07:002003-04-17T08:04:21.000-07:00The real problem, I think, is that I don't know how to say "you've lost me," or "i miss you," or even "i love you," because this is the sort of thing that they should've taught in school. But they wasted all those years slaving me to trigonometry and osmosis, and now I can't calculate how to deal with either people or numbers, and I don't think the knowledge will sink in.
I want to matter Camillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07321984205886700102noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3335643.post-927388132003-04-16T14:33:00.000-07:002003-04-16T14:35:23.000-07:00I sat down by a stream this morning. You know, the one that ripples around the back of the Big House of the neighborhood along a bank crowded with weeds and pebbles. The grass was frosted over but the ground's thawed. I picked up a flat stone and tried to be Amélie, but I guess my red fleece pants and old tie-dyed nightshirt gave me away. My little brother grows taller and lankier every day Camillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07321984205886700102noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3335643.post-926439082003-04-15T04:44:00.000-07:002003-04-15T04:45:52.000-07:00I'm going a little stir-crazy in my soul. Yesterday after work I walked out on a patch of grass, feeling the scratch and the dirt under my feet. I untied my hair, felt it blow and tangle and wrap around wind currents. Sometimes I think that all I'm moving towards is the sea. Wet sand on my face, on my arms, on my belly. I'll roll down in my torn jeans and unbuttoned thrift store blouse, my Camillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07321984205886700102noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3335643.post-925473742003-04-13T16:07:00.000-07:002003-04-13T16:07:30.530-07:00in the end the world comes down to just a few people
but for you it comes down to one
but no one ever asked me if i thought i could be
everything to someone
there's a crowd of people harbored in every person
there are so many roles that we play
and you've decided to love me for eternity
i'm still deciding who i want to be today
Ani Difranco, how, how, how, is it that you can say everything for Camillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07321984205886700102noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3335643.post-923540622003-04-10T04:49:00.000-07:002003-04-10T04:49:12.090-07:00We interrupt your regularly scheduled bobbing. . . er, I mean, blogging for a War Update:
1) Cordelia has written the one of the most hilarious Harry Potter, S/S stories ever for my birthday, and I demand that you all go read it here, especially if you regularly read my blog.
2) Nita and I stumbled across even more evidence for S/S last night. Auriga (JKR's original name for Sinistra) is Camillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07321984205886700102noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3335643.post-922480362003-04-08T15:05:00.000-07:002003-04-08T18:08:08.000-07:00The sky is blue, so blue, almost the colour of pale violets at someone's throat. I see it better reflected onto the long window panes than with my own eyes. I am nineteen-- nineteen. A girl caught in the act of middling, wearing a pleated navy blue skirt, pale blue turtleneck, navy tights, and white-navy-yellow sneakers. Listening to Ewan McGregor sing, I'm supposedly studying French verbs, Camillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07321984205886700102noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3335643.post-921612392003-04-07T10:37:00.000-07:002003-04-07T10:43:58.000-07:00Look. I know I'm supposed to be studying, but I had to tell you this.
I just saw Sinistra. I'm not joking. Unkempt auburn hair (a bit shorter than what I might have expected), whispy bangs (did you know she had bangs, Nita? I didn't), and the determined chin and spectacles (Not horn-rimmed, though! She must have just gotten new ones). She was reading a newspaper and listening to some music onCamillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07321984205886700102noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3335643.post-921602972003-04-07T10:20:00.000-07:002003-04-07T10:20:05.983-07:00I need a good afternoon in an art museum, or I will start tearing my hair out. Do you hear me, exams? Tear my hair out.
Camillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07321984205886700102noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3335643.post-920730172003-04-05T20:49:00.000-08:002003-04-07T10:11:17.000-07:00Something strange has come into my blood these days. I’m finding myself doing things like dancing barefooted against the kitchen floor (dance is joy personified, I think) to the soundtrack from Sliding Doors, and writing love letters to myself in form of verse, reading Alice Munro over and over, baking lemon cake and swirling icing childishly. Happybirthday, I sing, skinny candles that droop ofCamillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07321984205886700102noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3335643.post-919806872003-04-04T05:45:00.000-08:002003-04-04T05:45:00.530-08:00A strange scrap of verse I wrote this morning. The first version was generic and pretty, and I wonder if the second is any better. Somehow, I feel like dancing in patent leather shoes today. Give me a title for the poem and I’ll leave you your choice in adjectives.
You wanted to paint me.
Spring me whole from your brush.
Minerva turned Venus--
Stop a minute, let me ask.
Is it me, or do Camillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07321984205886700102noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3335643.post-919493632003-04-03T17:10:00.000-08:002003-04-03T17:10:49.186-08:00Well, I'm back. With a new layout and a Harry Potter survey, no less!
Q: How did you get into Harry Potter?
A: It was lying about my house and I picked it up and read it almost absent-mindedly. I didn’t really become obsessed until just a few months ago when it just hit me-- it was horrible. Just like that.
Q: Read the books?
A: Do not ask, because the answer will be pathetic. Suffice to Camillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07321984205886700102noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3335643.post-917227802003-03-31T10:39:00.000-08:002003-03-31T10:39:53.686-08:00Guess who got the job of a secretary/receptionist for spring/summer terms?
Yeah, because I'm just that cool.Camillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07321984205886700102noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3335643.post-914939422003-03-27T10:30:00.000-08:002003-03-27T10:35:23.000-08:00Going to write a Kara-style entry today, because I miss that girl like summertime skies.
I had a meatball sandwich and a large Sprite for lunch, because my interview went well (meaning she looked pleased with the frantic typing and the letter and I hope to high heaven that I get this job, because $6.65 an hour for being all businesslike and such is just too beautiful a prospect to contemplate).Camillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07321984205886700102noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3335643.post-914542362003-03-26T19:22:00.000-08:002003-03-26T19:22:00.780-08:00Writing my resume, I think that this all seems so distant and fragile, this girl who types 63 words a minute and is experienced with Corel, HTML, Microsoft Word, and customer service. It belongs to the dark red blouse and pencil skirt I will wear tomorrow, to those black secretary shoes, and something in me just watches bemusedly as I scramble to apply just the right amount of makeup. I want a Camillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07321984205886700102noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3335643.post-913917122003-03-25T20:45:00.000-08:002003-03-25T20:45:24.576-08:00If I had my druthers I'd do things like wearing polka dot dresses and open-toed square red heels, and I would tie strings of enormous fake pearls round my neck. I'd eat lunch every day at Einstein's, tomato soup and a toasted plain bagel with honey butter, lemon-glazed pound cake and ice-cold water. I would wear floppy hats with huge ribbons and ask how are you, dahling? just marvelous today, Camillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07321984205886700102noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3335643.post-912610502003-03-23T21:01:00.000-08:002003-03-23T21:17:59.000-08:00CHICAGO WON BEST PICTURE.
I am insanely happy about this.
Michael Moore, you are my hero.
And Nita, say it with me-- Adrien Brody, where have you been all my life?Camillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07321984205886700102noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3335643.post-912555612003-03-23T19:12:00.000-08:002003-03-23T21:04:16.000-08:00Am watching Oscars and typing frantically with my online girls.
Renee's dress is darling.
Richard is wonderfully handsome and charming. (Cue dreamy sigh). Catherine Zeta-Jones is marvelous, as is Queen Latifah.
Chicago has won four awards!
Hurrah!
Ah, I'm just another squealing fangirl.
Camillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07321984205886700102noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3335643.post-912428032003-03-23T14:35:00.000-08:002003-03-23T14:42:39.000-08:00I know all my entries lately have been links to somewhere else, but somehow pictures these days say more than I can. I feel like all my words are wrapped up in little, unpolished stories or scraps of verse, and there's nothing left for me to become. Everything I am begs to be made flesh, like photography and web design or stringing tiny glass beads on curled white string. I want to be a Camillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07321984205886700102noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3335643.post-912067032003-03-22T19:09:00.000-08:002003-03-22T19:10:19.000-08:00Is this not the sweetest thing you've ever seen? Ever?
Camillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07321984205886700102noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3335643.post-911256012003-03-21T06:54:00.000-08:002003-03-21T06:55:23.000-08:00I guess all we can do is see through it, and there's no point in making ourselves sick, because it's the way it's going to be,and I can't change it. I can make the protest, but it's really just for history's sake, for saying that I said it and didn't watch it go by.
And yet, just like a little girl, I want to say very quietly, with my hands folded in my lap, that it's not right, and that I wishCamillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07321984205886700102noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3335643.post-910558412003-03-20T05:11:00.000-08:002003-03-20T05:11:24.076-08:00I don't like to be overtly political in my blog (and I'm usually not), but I'm going to say this because it has to be said.
This war is wrong. It goes against common, decent values of humankind. The Pope himself has condemned the war as immoral. It will kill not only our troops, but innocent Iraqis. It will take billions of dollars away from education, health care, the arts, etc. If you Camillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07321984205886700102noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3335643.post-910154542003-03-19T13:43:00.000-08:002003-03-19T13:43:35.280-08:00The proverbial things that make me happy list:
~Big, fat Vogues
~British issues of Victoria
~Perfume samples from Nordstroms
~Jane Austen novels
~Learning that A.S. Byatt adores Iris Murdoch (Don't ask. I have this weird groupie mentality toward writers)
~Snape/Sinistra (You knew it was coming)
~Dancing to the soundtrack to Chicago
~Reading poetry on a Sunday afternoon
~Violet Crumble and Camillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07321984205886700102noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3335643.post-909679232003-03-18T19:51:00.000-08:002003-03-18T20:06:04.000-08:00As Nita would say, I feel compelled to remind myself that Snape and Sinistra are not real people.
Because they're not.
But really, I can't help myself. I love the snarky romance. I love the fact that Sinistra's hair sticks out every way from Friday, and that her glasses fall down her nose, and that she blushes scarlet when Snape looks at her funny. I love the fact that he was a Death Eater, Camillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07321984205886700102noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3335643.post-908413112003-03-16T22:31:00.000-08:002003-03-16T22:32:38.000-08:00Run, don't walk to read my latest (and thoroughly inane) Snape/Sinistra vignette. Find it here.
I place all blame on Nita and Storm.Camillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07321984205886700102noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3335643.post-908115462003-03-16T10:27:00.000-08:002003-03-16T10:29:18.000-08:00The streets are cold and the sky is clouded over, and everything feels white and grey and black, like we're living in some 50's movie. I want to nab a ciagarette (I don't smoke, but I would if Audrey Hepburn played me) and sit around in my shabby, half-broken flat in a men's striped shirt and a pair of slacks. There's a hole in my left sock, and my typewriter sits motionless, reminding me that Camillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07321984205886700102noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3335643.post-907072922003-03-14T05:26:00.000-08:002003-03-14T07:17:02.000-08:00Pilfered this from Nita.
Stunning Movies (no order)
1. Chicago
2. Moulin Rouge
3. Pride and Prejudice
4. Sense and Sensibility
5. Bridget Jones' Diary
6. Cabaret
7. Pretty Woman
8. Breakfast at Tiffany's
9. Gentlemen Prefer Blondes
8 Great Actresses (no order)
1. Kate Winslet
2. Renee Zellweger
3. Nicole Kidman
4. Catherine Zeta-Jones
5. Audrey Hepburn
6. Marilyn Monore
7. Cate Blanchett
8. Camillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07321984205886700102noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3335643.post-906449292003-03-13T04:45:00.000-08:002003-03-13T04:45:28.420-08:00I really am going to finish my research paper-- it's only been a peculiar combination of involuntary sleep, compulsive procrastination, and furious chugging of Dasani water that has prevented me thus far. But I must say, I'm a little worried about turning it in. Especially when last class period, I lamblasted a fellow (idiot, really-- women working outside the home was non-traditional in the Camillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07321984205886700102noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3335643.post-905505132003-03-11T15:25:00.000-08:002003-03-11T15:25:24.793-08:00There are few pleasures more instinctive than good books-- I can't help but feel terribly mournful on behalf of those who don't know what it's like to have the love of type in your blood. I read, my neck bent so that it cramps, the sun hot on my skin, the muscles in my shoulders tight and cramped, and think that there's nothing more beautiful than stories, than words. I hate to assign politics Camillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07321984205886700102noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3335643.post-904574782003-03-10T06:35:00.000-08:002003-03-10T06:37:15.000-08:00Took (stole) a leaf from Lady C's book and gave audblog a shot. Now you can hear my lovely voice read you a poem!
audblog audio postCamillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07321984205886700102noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3335643.post-904339372003-03-09T19:33:00.000-08:002003-03-09T20:20:18.000-08:00Cordelia is one of the sweetest people I know. Love her. I demand it of you.
That is all.
P.S. Have added Crystal to my links, who is otherwise known as Finding Beauty, who inspired a not inconsiderable amount of my Moulin Rouge stories. I realize this postcript makes me rather verbose, but I trust this is not wholly unexpected. Camillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07321984205886700102noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3335643.post-904209002003-03-09T14:53:00.000-08:002003-03-10T10:51:24.000-08:00Sometimes, in between the quiet moments of sitting alone and drawing faint lines on paper with watercolour crayons, I look up at the sky. Pale grey, pale blue, and I think that heaven's been washed out with someone else's brush. I feel wrung out and dead-tired of everything, and I want to rest. To be reassured that yes, I am important to somebody else, enough to ask how I am today.
Ask me Camillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07321984205886700102noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3335643.post-903852122003-03-08T20:30:00.000-08:002003-03-08T21:05:16.000-08:00Oscar and Lucinda, how could you do this to me?
You were such a sweet love story before the resident-married-whore got it on with an effectively unconcious Ralph Fiennes and sent him to go drown in a church! (Don't ask. You don't want to see this horrid movie)
Look, film, I am not amused. This sort of thing doesn't work with me.
Unhappy endings leave me really quite wretched.
Camillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07321984205886700102noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3335643.post-903394542003-03-07T20:18:00.000-08:002003-03-07T20:18:48.856-08:00Every Friday and Saturday at 3:00 p.m., I tutor a sixty-year old woman in how to read.
I don't mean what you might think, dear readers-- Austen and Bronte never darken our conversations. Instead we begin Green Eggs and Ham tomorrow, and meander through phonics-- rat, cat, cab, mat, map become exquisitely important as her trembly, half-broken voice scratches and stumbles over words that come Camillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07321984205886700102noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3335643.post-902469162003-03-06T09:13:00.000-08:002003-03-06T09:38:38.000-08:00I left myself a note on a scrap of blue-veined paper. Typed. On my Underwood No. 5, the bars striking and melding letters, black ink on white skins, type so kinetic that I couldn't breathe as it click-clack-clicked its way through a darkened room. Soft, swirled jazz in the background. Books, papers, old magazines (Vogue and Victoria, we believe in equal reading rights here). Spritzing Camillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07321984205886700102noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3335643.post-902361482003-03-06T05:30:00.000-08:002003-03-06T05:30:42.840-08:00Why isn't the new template showing?Camillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07321984205886700102noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3335643.post-901947912003-03-05T13:09:00.000-08:002003-03-05T19:18:11.000-08:00Blogger, I despise you with every fiber of my being.
Will run damage control later.Camillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07321984205886700102noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3335643.post-899353422003-02-28T19:01:00.000-08:002003-03-05T16:05:13.000-08:00Everybody ought to have a poem, penned by another's hand, that speaks for them.
And just because I'm a chronic overachiever, I'll give you two. So, do share-- what are your signature poems?
Alone, I whet my soul against the keen
Unwrinkled sky, with its long stretching blue
I polish it with sunlight and pale dew
And damascene it with young, blowing leaves
Into the handle of my life I set
Camillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07321984205886700102noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3335643.post-898528352003-02-27T11:01:00.000-08:002003-02-27T11:01:30.920-08:00Mr. Rogers died today.
Goodbye, Fred. I hope the trolley ride into the Land of Make Believe is an easy one for you.
P.S. Meow meow's favorite was Henrietta Pussycat. Camillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07321984205886700102noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3335643.post-898122092003-02-26T18:46:00.000-08:002003-03-05T16:07:24.000-08:00Kara made this up.
What celebrity does your dad look like? I’m not telling. Two people know already, and it’s too scary for words. (Damn that picture. Damn it to Jane-Austen-Sequel-Land)
Do you like doughnuts? Rarely.
Do you hate when businesses replace 'C's' with 'K's' like 'Krispy Kreme'? Yes. Those who do it can DIE.
What are you singing? "I am out of my mind, I am out of control, full of Camillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07321984205886700102noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3335643.post-897868792003-02-26T10:41:00.000-08:002003-03-05T16:05:58.000-08:00Outside it's just little pin-pricks of cold on my hands, and everything is washed out with slush and pale beige-grey ice, like God is feeling particularly melancholy today. People turn different when it's snowing. They huddle inside themselves, and push angrily at heavy glass doors, greedily tucking slivers of warmth into wool-lined pockets. And I, with my tired eyes that stream hot tears and Camillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07321984205886700102noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3335643.post-897390732003-02-25T15:05:00.000-08:002003-02-25T15:05:43.966-08:00Excerpted from a conversation with Nita.
Me: Why does everyone I know have a boyfriend except me?
Nita: . . . I don't know?
Nita: At least you've got. . . Snape.
Me: . . . .
Me: Thanks.
Camillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07321984205886700102noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3335643.post-896230442003-02-23T16:30:00.000-08:002003-02-23T16:30:09.893-08:00I don't know if I've mentioned this lately, but I really love Chicago.Camillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07321984205886700102noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3335643.post-895545082003-02-22T08:24:00.000-08:002003-02-22T08:24:57.693-08:00I want to be the sort of girl that is always in love.
It's a chronic, wonderful condition, this perpetual fever that leads the blood to sway in unconditioned means. I want to sip champagne because the doctor's ordered fluids, and feed the infection by sharing poached pairs in a little French restuarant. I'll walk barefooted to make sure that I'm diseased again, on grass beaded with the fringe Camillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07321984205886700102noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3335643.post-895291992003-02-21T17:50:00.000-08:002003-02-21T17:50:37.076-08:00By the way, I know this is an awfully fangirl-ish sort of thing to do, but happy birthday to Alan Rickman.Camillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07321984205886700102noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3335643.post-895204222003-02-21T14:18:00.000-08:002003-02-26T10:27:28.000-08:00"Oh, by the way-- you'e a good writer. I expect you to be published."
I stood, suddenly rooted to the ground. My hand remained poised on the doorknob, ready to escape into the rows and rows of books outside. My lips automatically curved up in a smile and my cheekbones shaded themselves with a faint pink.
"Thanks," I said numbly, my traitorous heart skipping as it never does for any person.Camillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07321984205886700102noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3335643.post-893182722003-02-18T10:17:00.000-08:002003-02-18T10:17:14.000-08:00I've just a few things to say.
I love fuzzy sweaters and frosty mornings; my favorite movies in the world right now are French ones (Amelie and My Wife Is An Actress). Ginny Weasley is my Harry-Potter twin child, because I just know that if I went to Hogwarts I'd been writing poems to the Boy-Who-Lived. Right now I'm wearing an enormous silver heart on a chain around my neck, and I have a Camillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07321984205886700102noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3335643.post-891126272003-02-14T13:39:00.000-08:002003-02-14T13:39:56.000-08:00You'd think that people would have had enough of silly love songs
I look around me and see it isn't so, no
Some people want to fill the world with silly love songs
Well, what's wrong with that. . . I'd like to know.
Camillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07321984205886700102noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3335643.post-891120702003-02-14T13:28:00.000-08:002003-02-14T13:28:07.020-08:00So it's St. Valentine's Day. The day of ribboned boxes of chocolates and couples laughing and kissing on the sidewalks. Commerical exploitation of cheap sentiments.
Well, I refuse to give into this mad, patriarchal holiday any longer. I refuse to even ponder the thought of writing a long, introspective essay on love. I refuse to be bitter. I refuse to let society get me down.
Instead, I Camillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07321984205886700102noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3335643.post-890616082003-02-13T16:30:00.000-08:002003-02-13T16:30:06.383-08:00If today's issues of BYU's paper has taught me anything, it's that boyfriends exist for the sole purpose of buying girls nonsense (like 3/4 carat diamond rings and stuffed bears), so, To Whom It May Concern, for a simple $12.95 you may have my affection for a day.
It's all so easy, you see. There is a collectible I Dream of Jeannie lunch tin in the bookstore, and I want one. I need one. Camillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07321984205886700102noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3335643.post-890607392003-02-13T16:12:00.000-08:002003-02-13T16:30:47.000-08:00I am as lazy as hot summer afternoon, sticky with honey and cotton candy, swaying loosely like a hammock casting shadows on the ground. So let's play a game, children– indulge me, won't you? I post the lyrics (ones that describe me best, of course), and you tell me where they come from. Winner gets something lovely when I can create coloured pixels of poetry again. (unless you'd rather have a Camillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07321984205886700102noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3335643.post-888741172003-02-10T14:24:00.000-08:002003-02-10T14:24:14.326-08:00No, I'm no one's wife
But I love my life!
And all. . . that. . . jazz!
Take it from me, it's deadly dangerous to listen to Chicago in the computer lab.
Camillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07321984205886700102noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3335643.post-888703992003-02-10T13:15:00.000-08:002003-02-10T13:26:44.000-08:00I know it's horribly sexist and rampantly cliched, but I really, really like romantic comedies. It's the sort of thing I ought to hate. I know. But I adore too many of them, and I've got to give into this whispering little whim that's prodding me to reveal my favorites. Don't tell the critics, please. It's just too awful to admit that I coo senselessly at the screen at the ending kiss.
Camillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07321984205886700102noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3335643.post-884501522003-02-02T19:01:00.000-08:002003-02-02T19:01:10.653-08:00Sometimes all a girl really needs is a long, inane conversation with Nita, a cup of lemon-chamomile tea flavoured with a few drops of honey, a new story that she absolutely loves by said Nita, and a finished chapter of her own beloved Family Matters.
Camillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07321984205886700102noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3335643.post-882939002003-01-30T15:21:00.000-08:002003-01-30T15:21:35.956-08:00and maybe the most we can do
is just to see each other through it
hour follows hour like water in a river
and from one to the next
we don't know what each hour will deliver
we just call it like we see it
call it out loud as we can
and then afterwards we call it all water over the dam
maybe the moral higher ground
ain't as high as it seems
maybe we are both good people
done some bad things
i Camillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07321984205886700102noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3335643.post-881988802003-01-28T21:01:00.000-08:002003-01-28T21:01:12.136-08:00They (they being the occasionally evil gods of computer repair) are taking my laptop for at least a week (perhaps two or three-- we won't think past that). So I won't be able to blog as often, or come on MSN very much-- but I promise to update Family Matters for Nitzers, and to stare aimlessly at the wall the rest of the time.
. . . this warrants profanity. I will deal with this in a mature Camillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07321984205886700102noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3335643.post-881562012003-01-28T06:32:00.000-08:002003-01-28T06:32:03.333-08:00I was going to complain that I never got any eccentric referrals, that all the search engines ever sent hapless seekers for was Jane Austen and Moulin Rouge fanfiction, and multiple requests for Alan Rickman tangoing-- and-- lo and behold:
snog+bridget+jones
(I can't quite wrap my mind around this one. It's logical, but there's something not quite right about it)
pre-raphelite poetry
(I raise Camillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07321984205886700102noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3335643.post-881226422003-01-27T15:25:00.000-08:002003-01-27T15:27:47.000-08:00I'm carrying on a love affair with hats.
This isn't secretive-- it's full-blown charcoal grey wool with a velvet ribbon on Mondays, 30's-esque camel-coloured on Tuesday. Enormous satin bows and utilitarian cloches (pink and blue-- we do equal opportunity for gender-typing here), tawny whole-hair-covered caps, leather newsboy from the 60's, and white flannel berets. A Breakfast at Tiffany's Camillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07321984205886700102noreply@blogger.com