Tag Archives: lovely

{berets and bongos} 99;

f2cf96ce732611e2912322000a1f933e_7

“i’ve got to tell you
how i love you always
i think of it on grey
mornings with death

in my mouth the tea
is never hot enough
then and the cigarette
dry the maroon robe

chills me i need you
and look out the window
at the noiseless snow

at night on the dock
the buses glow like
clouds and i am lonely
thinking of flutes

i miss you always
when i go to the beach
the sand is wet with
tears that seem mine

although i never weep
and hold you in my
heart with a very real
humor you’d be proud of

the parking lot is
crowded and i stand
rattling my keys the car
is empty as a bicycle

what are you doing now
where did you eat your
lunch and were there
lots of anchovies it

is difficult to think
of you without me in
the sentence you depress
me when you are alone

last night the stars
were numerous and today
snow is their calling
card i’ll not be cordial

there is nothing that
distracts me music is
only a crossword puzzle
do you know how it is

when you are the only
passenger if there is a
place further from me
i beg you do not go”

-frank o’hara.

a february playlist {a-side};

IMG_0573

{click image for playlist!}

this may or may not be a shock, but i’m really not a romantic.

don’t get me wrong; i love love. i just don’t like the notion that love has to be this compartment that we have to fill with this sounds-like-love, looks-like-love, smells-like-love, feels-like-love-so-it-must-be-love-kind-of-thing. that it must be from someone who is romantically entangled with you for it to be legitimate. that is has to be someone who makes out with you under yellow-lit light posts, or in the middle of a crowded sidewalk, or in the rain, or any other taylor swift-ized notion of romantic love.

love, for me, is how much i spread my appreciation towards the things that have decorated my last 21.9 years on this earth. the cinnamon rolls my grandma forced me out of my fold-out-couch bed every year on christmas even to make, that took three agonizing-yet-delicious hours. my grandfather inviting me to pick corn in the backyard, picking out special ears of corn for each family member.

it’s the tattered old vhs tape of the b-rated, non-disney version of peter pan, which i still think of as the best (can someone pleeeease help me find it).  the elementary school boys who ripped up my gel-pen-decorated love notes (complete with cover letter…wish i was joking) on the bus as i stood and watched them do it (i’m looking at you, hunter, i’m looking at  you and your stupid gelled-back hair.)

the mayonnaise my mother attempts to put in her famous broccoli casserole each new year’s day, that i lovingly pretend not to notice, gets my adoration. it’s your roommate, who chimes in when you pen a katy perry parody song about turkey slices when you really should be sleeping. it’s the moment when you really  made your brother, the funniest person in your small world, really sit back and laugh.

these are the songs that aren’t of the sound-like-love, feel-like-love, taste-like-love, look-like-love, must-be-love sort. they’re the love from your family when you still pick all the dried blueberries out of the box of “blueberry morning” cereal, and the moment when you found a dear friend who did the same thing growing up. mouthing the words to billy madison with your older brother. the matching set of skinned knees you and your best friend got from roller-blading into mailboxes because you still didn’t know how to stop. sure, the ooh-yay-i-just-got-kissed-in-the-rain-by-a-really-big-dream-boat kind are sprinkled in there, but they also deserve a spot in that definition, don’t they?

 what it boils down to is this: hunter the love-note-ripper gets my love. mayonnaise gets my love. i think approaching the world, this world of long-lost-hair-gelled crushes of fifth grade, with all kinds of love is the only way to approach it. i think of valentine’s day under this lens. i think of most special days with this lens. i remember when i was thirteen i read that ronald reagan called his mother-in-law each year on his wife’s birthday to thank her for giving birth to his wife. that sort of love, stretching out of something bigger, is the kind of love i’m trying to hit upon. to love all the things that surround the little moments, the little quirks, the little essences of all your favorite people and memories.
that’s what i’d call love.

photo (3)
{tune in next week for the b-side!}

{berets and bongos} 96;

IMG_0170

{buddy brews. tampa, fl. january 2012}

“i woke in a gold dress
you in jeans.

morning filled
wine bottles

in the kitchen
ashine with

fine mica glitter
of fish scales and salt.

it was quiet.

we coiled in scarves
outside –

me sugar, you milk.

you said: that went well,
don’t you think?

sun behind you

i kissed the hole in the light
and said, yes.”

-rebecca lindenberg, “aubade”.

a winter’s tale;

IMG_0051

{click above for playlist!}

winter, in my eyes, is kind of the best. it’s a time of upheaval. of paring things down. there’s always a certain case of giddiness i get when winter rolls around, and that’s not even because of christmas or the holidays. i love the dead cold of january. i even love the brand of post-january 1st dreariness that only merits a bag full of $1 books and a new kind of cookie. maybe this shows the floridian in me, but summer dulls me down while winter perks me up like a shot of espresso to the brain.

it’s a built-in recharge button. a season of snooze-ing alarm clocks and basking in the warmth of your space heater because you have #anemicgirlproblems. whistling tea kettles. dust-covered hello kitty house slippers. late-night bananagrams. it’s crusty bread and soup and apple cake and mulled cider and buckeyes.

winter is a kind of music that sounds like drinking whiskey. it’s paradoxically warm and biting. it’s staying up later than you reckoned because it’s dark all the time and you can’t tell the difference between 4am and 4pm. winter is clean and bright and shiny. winter is going out dancing until midnight because you know it’s a cheap way to stay warm. winter is pretend “smoking” with the cold air and a fake cigarette between your hands, like a seven year old. winter is basically permission to be seven years old.  i don’t think people really appreciate winter past january 1st, and i think that’s a shame.

because like, best of all, no need to shave. that’s really the best part about winter, amiright?

a bejeweled giveaway;

guys, i’d like to introduce you to someone who is very near and dear to my little white girl heart.

her name is alex and to say she is talented is an understatement.

i’ve known alex since i was in 10th grade and she was in 8th; our friendship based off of the wonders of mutual friends, aol instant messenger, and bar graphs on the silliest of things.

alex is a rising sophomore at scad hong kong, which is to say she is an artistic badass.

and she also makes some of the prettiest jewelry in all the inter webs. 



that being said, i’ll be giving away two of alex’s pieces this week!

Heart Bracelet

giveaway #1: this adorbs heart bracelet 
Orchid Earrings

giveaway #2: a pair of gorgeous orchid earrings

how to enter (you have until next friday, the 10th) :
for one entry= visit alex’s etsy page and let me know what piece is your favorite (i’m currently gawking over the octopus bracelet)
for another entry= tweet this giveaway (remember to tag me @machensiee)
for yet another entry= like whatever, gatsby on facebook
aaaaaaand another entry= like alex’s jewelry  facebook page!

(make sure to let me know in the comments so i can count your entries!)

yay!

{berets and bongos} 70;

Pinned Image

“sometimes i know i love you better
than all the others i kiss it’s funny

but it’s true and i wouldn’t roll
from one to the next so fast if you

hadn’t knocked them all down like
ninepins when you roared by my bed

i keep trying to race ahead and catch
you at the newest station or whistle

stop but you are flighty about
schedules and always soar away just

as leaning from my taxicab my breath
reaches for the back of your neck.”

-frank o’hara, travel.


dear boston;

Pinned Image

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.

{berets and bongos} 62;

Pinned Image
“you give me flowers resembling chinese lanterns.
you give me hale, for yellow. you give me vex.
you give me lemons softened in brine and you give me cuttlefish ink.
you give me all 463 stairs of brunelleschi’s dome.
you give me seduction and you let me give it back to you.
you give me you.
you give me an apartment full of morning smells—toasted bagel and black
coffee and the freckled lilies in the vase on the windowsill.
you give me 24-across.
you give me flowers resembling moths’ wings.
you give me the first bird of morning alighting on a wire.
you give me the sidewalk café with plastic furniture and the boys
with their feet on the chairs.
you give me the swoop of homemade kites in the park on Sunday.
you give me afternoon-colored beer with lemons in it.
you give me d.h. lawrence,
and he gives me pomegranates and sorb-apples.
you give me the loose tooth of california, the broken jaw of new york city.
you give me the blue sky of wyoming, and the blue wind through it.
you give me an ancient city where the language is a secret
everyone is keeping.
you give me a t-shirt that says all you gave me was this t-shirt.
you give me pictures with yourself cut out.
you give me lime blossoms, but not for what they symbolize.
you give me yes. You give me no.
you give me midnight apples in a car with the windows down.
you give me the flashbulbs of an electrical storm.
you give me thunder and the suddenly green underbellies of clouds.
you give me the careening of trains.
you give me the scent of bruised mint.
you give me the smell of black hair, of blond hair.
you give me apollo and daphne, pan and syrinx.
you give me echo.
you give me hyacinths and narcissus. you give me foxgloves
and soft fists of peony.
you give me the filthy carpet of an east village apartment.
you give me seeming not to notice.
you give me an unfinished argument, begun on the manhattan-bound f train.”
-rebecca lindenberg, dispatches from an unfinished world.