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Tag Archives: dreams

summer ta-da! list;

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listen to cape cod kwassa kwassa while at cape cod.

take millie, the bike, down to the cape.

buzz my head. oh whoops. did that.

plan epic road trip.  (any good books i should download on my kindle for the trip? is it sad that this is my main concern?)**

concerts concerts concerts. regina spektor. the kooks. cake. two door cinema club. santigold. jukebox the ghost. laura marling.

take trapeze classes.

more swing and contra dancing.

rock climbing at m.i.t.

visit vermont= i’ve officially been to all of the northeastern states. and caused mayhem in all of them.
(that time i fell off crotched mountain in new hampshire. that time i bought chocolate wine at a quidditch retreat in maine. that time i pretended i dated someone who went to brown in rhode island. that time i forged an unlikely friendship with a boston squirrel.)

lavender lemonade + sangria drinking on the stoop. on the beach. on the curb. in a boat. in a house. in a tree. sam i am, i love sangria and lemonade. yeah.

decaffeinate myself (lolwhoops @ my iced turkish coffee + tweaking out hardcore at wired puppy).

pet all the bostonian puppies. all of them.  i think i’ve said “sorry to interrupt you, but i have to pet this dog really quick” to a friend at least 12 times. i even did that in the middle of a date. so, this is a very possible goal.

*ta-da! lists, like to-do lists but without all the dread! trademark mackenzie filson 2007-2012.

** also, if you’d like to do a guest post while i am in the midst of my travels down the east coast it would be much appreciated! email me at mackenzie{dot}filson{at}gmail{dot}com for info.

it’s official;

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yes, lady-friends and man-friends, it is true.

on june 28th, i will be embarking on a trip of my dreamz~*

no lie, only i would find it dreamy to travel for three weeks on a bus (said my mother, to me, on the phone last night as i spoke to her about the prospects of taking baby-wipe showers on the train).

but haters gonna hate,  from massachusetts to florida i shall go. with my mustard-colored boots, a go-get-’em attitude, and (most likely) a frightening case of bus ride-induced  b.o.

the itinerary is as follows:

new york city:
june 28th-july 1st.= pretty libraries. street-performers. lush grasses to prance on and pet city puppies.

philly:
july 1st-4th= brewskis with my broskis, and smothering my little nephew with keeses.

washington, d.c.:
july 4th-10th= my two friends are subletting a place above georgetown cupcakes (score), and prancing abouts the district with maya.

durham, n.c.:
july 10th-13th= seeing my old homeland, exploring duke gardens (haven’t been there since i was a wee-little kenzie.)

charleston, s.c.:
july 13th-july 17th= drinking all the mimosas and wearing straw hats on the beach with staceface.

atlanta, ga:
july 18th-20th= no idea! which is the best part of any road trip. most likely eating peachy things.

gainesville, fl.:
july 20th-22nd= swing dancing ’til the early morning with my platonic soul mate, kelli +causing a general amount of ruckus.

orlando.:
until the end of august! yay! homeland! gonna swim in all the lakes and  eat all the oranges!

any advice? playlists? friendly truck/bus-drivers i could befriend along the way? people to eat things with? things to do in these cities? ways to make me smell like a flower at all times?

{berets and bongos} 64;

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“one grand boulevard with trees
with one grand cafe in sun
with strong black coffee in very small cups.

one not necessarily very beautiful
man or woman who loves you.

one fine day.”

-lawrence ferlinghetti, recipe for happiness in khaborovsk or anyplace.

goodbye girl, a playlist;

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it’s that time of the year again. or rather, time of the week for me.

i get that itch to get going. i’ve gotten to the point that i check bus fares before i check my phone or facebook notifications ($5 trips to nyc?! free rides to montreal?!) my head spins and my duffel bag (that i asked for for christmas. yes, i asked for a heavy duty luggage for christmas) peers at me in fear.

daydreaming about prospectively taking a two-week road trip by bus down the east coast (75% sure at this point! eep!). about what items in my apartment i could sell off to pay for bus tickets.  about the fact that my friend canceled on our plans for tonight and i immediately checked to see when the next train to rockport/manchester/gloucester/anywhere-by-the-ocean at all was for today.

i’ve primed myself for a disgusting amount of  bus-travel and baby-wipe showers by cutting even more hair off and by making this playlist for those of us who find wanderlust to be a daily concern.

whose friends usually preface any conversation with a “so, where are you exactly right now?”

who get giddy by the sight of a well-packed suitcase (rolled shirts to save space + a full kindle + mustard boots + johnson &  johnson’s lavender lotion).

who love dramatically and thoughtfully and wistfully peering out of the windows of buses/trains/cars/airplanes.

for those of us who still don’t know how to sit still.

dear boston;

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dear my beloved boston/broston,

it is may.

you should not be 48 degrees outside . weather that is overcast, gloomy, and not conducive to bike rides over the charles is a major bummer.

i should not have to wear thick socks around my apartment. or daydream about hot showers. or still have to use my electric blanket.

i am begging you. please warm up soon?

you’re making me so homesick that i’ve spent many nights sitting in my college’s gym sauna that mocks my homeland’s warmth. and buying anything that is orange scented or flavored.

i’ve been waiting since last july to wear my bright green swimsuit.

and have sassy dance beach parties listening to bridgitte bardot.

and drink sangria on my stoop with friends. because stoop sangria is the best kind of sangria.

get your act together, okay?

sincerely,

me.

i must be a mermaid;

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“i must be a mermaid, rango. i have no fear of depths and a great fear of shallow living.”

-anais nin.

{berets and bongos} 59;

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“fairy tales are full of impossible tasks:
gather the chin hairs of a man-eating goat,
or cross a sulphuric lake in a leaky boat,
select the prince from a row of identical masks,
tiptoe up to a dragon where it basks
and snatch its bone; count dust specks, mote by mote,
or learn the phone directory by rote.
always it’s impossible what someone asks—
you have to fight magic with magic. you have to believe
that you have something impossible up your sleeve,
the language of snakes, perhaps, an invisible cloak,
an army of ants at your beck, or a lethal joke,
the will to do whatever must be done:
marry a monster. hand over your firstborn son.”
-a.e. stallings, “fairy tale logic”.

nerd alert;

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things i’ve thought this week:

“you know what, i really should do that optional seven page paper on renaissance drama. it doesn’t hurt, right?”

“man, i’m so pumped for my new glasses to come in the mail!”

“i need to watch season four of ‘gilmore girls’ this week. rory gilmore is the bomb, and i need some study inspiration anyways.”

“only eight more months until grad school deadlines! i should start courting my recommenders now.”

“i’m gonna get my ‘james und der riesenpfirsich’ on sooooooo good this weekend.”

“man, this poetry foundation app is so bomb.”

“fall 2012 is going to be the best academic semester ever.”

“oh god. this is going to be the first lesson i teach my future children.”

“…but…when am i going to study this weekend…?”

how have i not been stuffed into a trash can? riddle me this.

a seaside dance;

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                                                                    {sarasota, january 2012}

“my dream is to walk around the world.a smallish backpack, all essentials neatly in place. a camera. a notebook. a traveling paint set. a hat. good shoes. a nice pleated (green?) skirt for the occasional seaside hotel afternoon dance.”

-maira kalman.

{8 year old self project};

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it happens. we all do it. we get further and further away from our glue-eating selves.

the version of us who would stick up to their bullies if they ripped your penguin costume (true story. i hit the chump with my pencil, repeatedly). who dreamed of living in houses with trampoline floors. who thought mastering her barbie veterinarian computer game and watching “emergency vets” was equivalent to a college degree. who couldn’t be held back from jumping into puddles. skating down steep hills with almost definite skinned knees in sight. sending complicated, colorful to the point-of-inducing-seizures love notes with no shame lingering within the composition notebook pages.

and i’m glad i am 20.9 years old. i get to run around the city past my bedtime. sleep in a full sized bed with as many pillows as i want. blast my music. go to concerts by my self. know how to put on mascara correctly (at least, i think so?) boys no longer have cooties. coffee tastes good to me, instead of black sludge my dad would always put in his thermos before heading out for the day. i’ve thankfully grown out of my phase of putting ranch dressing on everything, but i still miss the vestiges of my 8 year old self. in a way, i feel like she was the most authentic me. in a way, i still feel like i have clutched little pieces of that little girl’s spunk in my hand, even at 20.9 years old. i mean, i still adamantly wear dresses over my pants. if that doesn’t show that i am still 8 years old, i don’t know what will.

thus, my eight year old self project. these will be little tasks i think the 8 year old girl that still lives in me would be proud of. i mean, what’s the point of the freedom of adulthood if i can’t live out the dreams of a wee little mackenzie?

that means taking those ballet classes. and going to a place that has trampoline floors (more places than you might expect!) go ice-skating all the time. send a love letter, or three. sing in public. and volunteering with an animal shelter, so my obsession to animal planet was not done in vain. go see chincoteague island and the cherry blossoms.

and i encourage you all to do the same. i think we owe it to the eight year old little girls we once were, don’t you? what did your eight year old self want to do more than anything?

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