The Good Ones: 2012

Montag, 10. Dezember 2012

The Monsters of Templeton by Lauren Groff

a good book and some quiet time- :)

Montag, 29. Oktober 2012

Freitag, 26. Oktober 2012

Freitag, 19. Oktober 2012

D.I.Y. Blumenschuhe

how to turn this pair of rather plain gray ballerinas (above and left) into your favourite pair of summer shoes!

make some flowers out of old tee´s, fabric and beads

(look here for further instruction)

and look how they look on the ballerinas....

the sky is the limit...;)

and the winner is:

there! it's as simple as that! :)

Samstag, 7. Juli 2012

heute habe ich meine alte "schmucksammlung" durchgesehen und sortiert. dabei fielen mir mehrere ketten & armreife in die hände, die zwar im einzeln sehr schön sind, die ich aber sehr selten trage. so wurden die ketten "auseinander genommen"und die einzelteile zunächst einmal gründlichst gereinigt.

dabei waren hauptsächlich muschenpartikel, geschliffene steinchen und steinperlen dabei, so wie ein kleiner skarabäus aus ägypten.

...und dann wurden sie in neuer formation zusammengesetzt !

das ist schließlich dabei rausgekommen. ich weiß nicht ob ich es für immer bei der kombination belassen werde, denn sie kann sehr schnell sehr ....hja..."barock", sprich kitschig aussehen wenn man nicht aufpasst (lieber nur auf monochrome kombis und klare linien tragen.) aber fürs erste gefällt sie mir sehr. :)

das schöne an "upcycled jewelry" ist schließlich, dass man sich beliebig oft genau das zusammenstellen kann, was man schön findet & die stücke immer wieder zu neuen kombinationen zusammensetzten kann! :)

Montag, 18. Juni 2012

Shakespeare knows best.

"...a heart to love,

and in that heart courage,

to make´s love known."

Freitag, 1. Juni 2012

Happy Birthday MM

Marilyn Monroe blowing out the candle on her 30th birthday cake, 1956
by Otto L. Betterman

Samstag, 26. Mai 2012

Adrienne Rich

‘I refuse these givens’: Embracing Multiplicity of Identity

in the Poetry of Adrienne Rich

by Özlem Görey

First having read the book of myths,
and loaded the camera
and checked the edge of the knife-blade,
I put on
the body-armor of black rubber
the absurd flippers
the grave and awkward mask.
I am having to do this
not like Cousteau with his
assiduous team
aboard the sun-flooded schooner
but here alone.

There is a ladder.
The ladder is always there
hanging innocently
close to the side of the schooner.
We know what it is for,
we who have used it.
Otherwise
it is a piece of maritime floss
some sundry equipment.

I go down.
Rung after rung and still
the oxygen immerses me
the blue light
the clear atoms
of our human air.
I go down.
My flippers cripple me,
I crawl like an insect down the ladder
and there is no one
to tell me when the ocean
will begin.

First the air is blue and then
it is bluer and then green and then
black I am blacking out and yet
my mask is powerful
it pumps my blood with power
the sea is another story
the sea is not a question of power
I have to learn alone
to turn my body without force
in the deep element.

And now: it is easy to forget
what I came for
among so many who have always
lived here
swaying their crenellated fans
between the reefs
and besides
you breathe differently down here.

I came to explore the wreck.
The words are purposes.
The words are maps.
I came to see the damage that was done
and the treasures that prevail.
I stroke the beam of my lamp
slowly along the flank
of something more permanent
than fish or weed

the thing I came for:
the wreck and not the story of the wreck
the thing itself and not the myth
the drowned face always staring
toward the sun
the evidence of damage
worn by salt and sway into this threadbare beauty
the ribs of the disaster
curving their assertion
among the tentative haunters.

This is the place.
And I am here, the mermaid whose dark hair
streams black, the merman in his armored body.
We circle silently
about the wreck
we dive into the hold.
I am she: I am he

whose drowned face sleeps with open eyes
whose breasts still bear the stress
whose silver, copper, vermeil cargo lies
obscurely inside barrels
half-wedged and left to rot
we are the half-destroyed instruments
that once held to a course
the water-eaten log
the fouled compass

We are, I am, you are
by cowardice or courage
the one who find our way
back to this scene
carrying a knife, a camera
a book of myths
in which
our names do not appear.

Adrienne Rich

"Diving into the Wreck"
Diving into the Wreck: Poems 1971–1972 (1973)