10 January 2012


Listening to:
Pandora, Jeff Buckley edition. Friends and I hummed/cobbled/crooned a rendition of "Last Goodbye" in my living room the other night and since then, I can't get his trembly, torturous, soul-crammed sound out of my head. And so his style brings me Mazzy Star, Bob Dylan, The Stones, Pete Yorn, Cat Power, Portishead, Cowboy Junkies, Ray Lamontagne, Radiohead -- all perfect for this gloomy yet unseasonably warm January day. He, Buckley, was so beautiful. A true pity he had to go. I wonder what made him walk into the river that night...maybe the moon's reflection was too much to resist.


my skin being the same color as the sienna-hued rocks we climbed in Sedona all those months ago, though now it seems like years. I was shuffling  quickly through some summer pictures in iPhoto and came upon this one -- never noticed how camouflaged I am. The pasty-white shade of my January skin does not agree with my general aesthetic. Oh, to sweat in the pounding Western sun like that once more....yet in those canyons, all I wanted was snow. What's a girl supposed to do?

Really missing:
My sing-songy friends. I and a crew of alumni from the ol' alma mater were in a concert this past weekend (called ArtWorks, at CPA) and we really formed quite the bond -- it was largely unexpected and completely lovely to be a part of. It felt very familial, so I basically miss my brothers and sisters. Once we had adjourned in my little living room after the show, we kicked off shoes, sipped wine and noshed on bowls of salty things. Amanda sat in a potato chip trance and said, "It's like camp, kinda." That's how it feels. I miss the vocal innovation and togetherness, the creative spirit, the raucous laughter, the moonshine toasts, the late nights, the mandolin, the embraces, the pure generosity and affection, the sarcastic shenanigans. I miss it all, so much more than I figured I might. What a nice surprise.

I don't think I can explain it very well, as I've tried before. But I'll try again. It's a cologne called Santal 33 from "Le Labo," one of Barney's exclusive lines, and it filled my head for the first time this summer when I was in NYC. It's crazy-expensive but I ordered a 1.5 ml vial so that I can spritz it from time to time and inhale its manly, woodsy, smoky, spicy notes. Truth? I spray it on my classroom bulletin board -- it's covered in white flannel so it's like a built-in diffuser. If you walk past my door and my nose is on the wall, you'll know why. The following is from the cologne's press release -- see if you can smell it after reading. Ah, the power of descriptors.

Do you remember the old Marlboro ads? A man and his horse in front of the fire on a great plain under tall, blue evening skies – A defining image of the spirit of the American West with all it implied about masculinity and personal freedom.
This man, firelight in his face, leaning on the worn leather saddle, alone with the desert wind, an icon so powerful that every man wanted to be him and every woman wanted to have him…
From this memory is born SANTAL 33: the ambition to create an olfactive form inspired by the great American myth still a source of fantasy for the rest of the world…
A perfume that touches the sensual universality of this icon… that would intoxicate a man as much as a woman… that introduces our use of cardamom, iris, violet, ambrox which crackle in the formula and bring to this smoking wood alloy (Australian sandalwood, papyrus, cedarwood) some spicy, leathery, musky notes, and gives this perfume its unisex signature and addictive comfort.
Here are, in a few words, what SANTAL 33 is… An open fire… The soft drift of smoke… Where sensuality rises after the light has gone.

Bugged by:

stems on pickles. Would it kill the nice people at the pickle packing plant to remove the pesky, fibrous, inedible bits?

Looking forward to:

My walk home. That's right, you heard me. My walk.