Mount Moments 09…

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12.06.18

Meditation. Focus on breath and body, those two components as a unity. A gentle practice but with unruly, forced intentions. I urge it to fix me. When it gets to the moment when my guide suggests I allow my mind to wander where it likes, I’m taken to a green meadow scattered with blossoms, an array of colours against a healthy green. It isn’t a tame lawn but a wild garden. I’m younger here, sprawled on my back in the midst of it all, all alone but content in the solitude, bathed in the warmth of the setting sun.

So this is where my mind wishes to reside? A reprieve from the hurricane thoughts I subject it to, soaking up the serenity I deprive it of. It doesn’t matter how much I push for that control I just cannot attain it, and the realisation of that swells in my chest, my careful breathing falls erratic and tears emerge from some shuttered space inside. It hurts me some, that I’m the one damaging myself whilst being the only one who can save myself.

15.06.18

Another adventure with El. A bundle of laughs but a lot of heart opening too. I need to get a handle on that, I’m anxious I’m becoming a bit of a burden to be around. But these people, just strangers three months ago, can’t even begin to understand the security I feel, admitting my darkness and catching a sweet glimpse of release. People hold so much power, even when they don’t realise it.

17.06.18

Paula retells her engagement with the sweetest of indulgence. There’s something timid about it, like it takes a lot for her to share this precious moment and I hang on every word she says. She’s sun kissed from her time on the island sure, but the blissful expression is something else entirely. A fraction more warmth, a little bit subdued. Paula is a romantic. gentle and kind and someone maybe a little too good for most people in this world. But it’s that tenderness that makes you triumphant that good things are happening for her, she deserves all of the pleasures in life.

18.06.18

We discuss energy and presence and manifesting your dreams like it’s small talk. I’ve known Paige for barely anytime at all, yet we discuss elements of life I barely even touch upon with life long friends. It’s odd to me that Paige doesn’t see the world as a ruthless place arranged by obstacles but instead a challenge of a platform from which we can communicate strength to mend each other in unity and conjure some kind of equilibrium. She’s a careful and grounded structure to my restless flighty one, a beacon of wisdom in this riot of obscurity.

Light & Love, N x

Mount Moments 07

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05.05.18

How do people make time to settle? Months clip by like meagre days and there’s no second-guessing when your life is passing you by, no settling for a job you hate, a place you can’t grow, people who don’t inspire you. How can you even begin to feel contentment if you don’t give yourself the fundamentals? Surely a basis to bloom, create, go mad with passion and love for all elements of your day to day life, that is the most important ingredient to self-love?

‘If we were meant to stay in one place, we would have roots instead of feet.’

08.05.18

Deep chats with empathetic souls. El feels trapped too, wants more than whatever the present has to give. We grab drinks up the road and I chat her ear off, it’s all about idea’s and feelings, the topics that make me think and leave me feeling renewed: politics, feminism, youth, travel, work, philosophy. El is a refreshing change. She’s intelligent, self-aware and she just gets it. I don’t feel pessimistic when we discuss things, more contemplative. It’s the same for all the ladies surrounding me right now. At work, they’re all a force to be reckoned with.

12.05.18

Barred, enclosed in this paracosm,

grey world ignited in rose illusion,

tinted scenes from a novel land

embraced in a fairer story.

14.05.18

You are HERE, in THIS place, with THESE people and THESE opportunities. You have THIS face and THIS body. THESE are your words and your thoughts. NOW is where life is and I hope so ardently that you won’t waste too much more of your life away in that hopeless yearning for another self, time and place.

18.05.18

They approved my second-year work visa, I met the news with no such excitement. Everyone around me is overjoyed, they know how much effort and money went into the application, how daunting the six week wait was to find out the result. But it obviously isn’t what I want. This proves that. But where to next? Home? What’s there?

 

Light and love, N x

 

Noceur…

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“Go where you feel most alive” You advise? Well, that’s a bar with broken souls housed in sodden bodies. Sticky floors and dense air. Watered down liquor, keen hands on bared skin. Cigarette smoke and clustered curses in packed out courtyards. Young, old, ageless for a night. Heady on the promise of losing our minds. Distorted beats and stuttered memories of a careless night. And it sounds like tales of useless debauchery, immature and reckless. But these are the nights when the voices cease and there is room for being. When our tongues loosen and twine with others. Quick quips, thoughts run, common in the need for companionship, just for tonight we revel in the lunacy.

N x

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Moods, Rhythms, Prose…

into the wildinto the wild-2into the wild-3

As always the pictures featured in my moodboard are collected over on Pinterest, Tumblr and instagram. I don’t know a lot of the origins but a couple are saved from Izobel over on instagram. I’ve followed her for a long while and adore her feed, honestly there are some stunning pictures and a very unique collection of style, music and reads.

You, a fiesty vessel between bloated suits on streets that crack under the pressure of the men that built them. You’re not weary from the shadows cast by vast pillars that crowd you in but you gnaw at the already broken skin at your fingertips in regards to a more cosmic anxiety. Limitless guitar riffs and lyrics echo in the chasm of dreary life surrounding you, a comfort against the otherwise hallow sirens and cacophony of morbid conversation. Heavy black boots clomp between the shoddy tap of designer stilettos and patter of a “gentleman’s” best brogues. That “gentleman” tosses you a sleazy quirk of withering lips, the stare you know he holds is hidden from view, sunglasses shielding the privilege of that male gaze. You sneer with red painted lips, no haste as you saunter past him.

You’re late for work…again. But the coffee’s will flow regardless, you’re sure. Your lack of enthusiasm already has you on the bosses blacklist anyways. It’s a matter of time before he tells you to “Do one” and you know in your heart of hearts you won’t be mad about it. Your very existence is an expletive in his well routined life. He forgot what youthful hunger was years ago, let that pressing control of an ordinary life seep in. You do well to hold onto your daydreams, reliving that acoustic set in a grotty bar in Camden a few evenings ago. The less than stellar turn out and your muck up on the first chorus smoothed out in your visions of music video’s and sell out arena shows, all on lock somewhere in your dreamers mind for when he tells you you’re useless for the third time. But work exists only in those four walls, when closing arrives you lock the door, with all it’s demeaning shut in behind you, and head into the still festering city streets for a while. Used record stores and the irony of more cafes, like the one you slave in, occupy the hours before “home” time.

‘Home’ is a small closet room, the closest to affordable you can get in this rich mans city. A single bed from childhood, a diy clothing rail and second hand chest of drawers overfill the space. But there’s a lock on the door and a huge window to let in the daylight, and a shabby little corner where your crosley lives, a magazine turned record stand beside it. You’ll plug in your headphones to appease your neighbour Benji and his complacency with the meagre sounds of drunk yells and busy clattering of pots and pans, you zone into the melodies and pick apart poetry well into the night. If the mood strikes you pluck your own riffs and settle your chaos into the scribbles of a song. Patience young thing, your struggle is your soundcheck and your encore is rising.

This mini mix features some of my most favourited artists (The Horrors, Slowdive, The Jesus and Mary Chain) and grazes over the shoegaze genre without being too overwhelming. Pretty sounds, dreamy sounds, resonating sounds. All of the sound play with beautiful lyrics to boot. A lot of the tracks remind me of my later teen years when I was never without my headphones, completely devoted to my record collection and writing god awful lyrics. 

Light and Love, N x

Moods, Rhythms, Prose…

Sip with MeSip with Me-2Sip with Me-3

Again all of these images are collected over on my Pinterest and Tumblr and what not. I’ve also featured one of my favourite instagram accounts @gabimulder which you should for sure check out. As well as beautiful summer scenes, she shoots some wistful feminine portraits too. 

Embrace that messy head and scribble your art on life. Tongue tied you may be but I will give you the ink to honour that explosive gift for written truths. Cursive and print, legible and cluttered. Give me the letters, the words, that common language that wraps itself around my daily deeds and string them together anew with mastery and imagination. Give me all you have in your heart, write me your desires, your secrets, your emotions. Let me in, write me a window, write me a passage through those whirlwind thoughts. I’m here for you, for all that you can design and create for me. I’m hungry for your foreign lines and lofty scripts. Give me verse and prose, novels, just a simple phrase. Give me the puzzle, that is you, prettily packaged on pages of type. Give me the grit and the horror of the world that surrounds us, on the back of a supermarket receipt. A poem on a napkin, the corner tarnished, used to wipe up your brew. Give me the racing action dancing in your eyes through the coffee shop window. Give me myself remastered by your divulging fingers. That elevation of observation you master so well. Give me spills of soul and the jagged, dragged out pain of your denial. Give me rhyme or bland simplicity but just give and give and give, despite that self doubt. I’ll smooth out the crinkles in that bunched up wad of a masterpiece and frame it for the world to see. What you have? It matters. So stop where you have to and write with the tools you grab, be flighty and blunt and dismissive of all that gets in your way.

My little mini mix here is a compilation of some of my favourite lyrics. It’s a bit mish mashy and I just grabbed at the ones that popped into my head first so I definitely left out some of my favourites but nevertheless I hope you enjoy!

Light and Love, N x

Moods, Rhythms, Prose…

into the wildinto the wild-2into the wild-4

Oh, to be the colour yellow. Honey smiled, iridescent thing. A riot of personality. A loud, present, lively disposition. The ambiguity of her! So meek but ferocious, so calm but elated, so subtle but so effervescent. Oh, yellow, she’d be a demanding creature. Would you dare the lightning of an embrace? Or stumble back lest you wither in her sweetness? All of that golden giving is a wild woman’s prerogative. She’d be so busy being that she’d risk being stretched out on life’s palette, her vigour swept up by the brushes of the masses. No. Yellow, she’d have to be a sacred thing, reigned in lest the world’s murky vendors should ensnare her.

This mini mix is a a lot of dream pop and tinkering guitar riffs. I’m currently residing in a seaside town so the whole surfy, summer sound is sort of my soundtrack. 

Check out my Spotify for more musical goodness

Love and Light, N x

Moods, Rhythms, Prose…

Sip with Me-5Sip with Me-6

Sip with Me-7
I find all of my moodpboard images on Pinterest, Instagram and Tumblr so props to the original artists. One person to mention here is Orion Carloto, always a style and writing influence to me for a solid couple years now. Her instagram @orionvanessa is a little bit lovely too.

“What are you reading?” He asks, but it’s something too sacred to tell. These pages are mine and to share them is sacrilege.

“Oh, you know, just a classic.” I shrug absentmindedly hoping he’ll leave me alone with the words and the world in my head that has captured me so. The characters, my friends, my enemies, mine. And this isn’t my first visit to this vast paper plane, it could be my fourth, my fifth, my sixth.

“Oh, Which one? Maybe I’ve read it.” Maybe you have but you wouldn’t have read it like me, nobody reads them the same. I don’t want you to tell me your opinions, your interpretations, your critiques. I want this to be my own world for this time and the time after. A retreat untainted by reality, by your words.

But I don’t want to be rude, or seem weird, or make myself uncomfortable. So I close the pages gently, reluctantly and place the paperback in the sanctuary of my lap. “The Great Gatsby.” It’s a blunt response, I hold back my enthusiasm, the despair, the elatedness, the devotion. They are mine too.

“Ah, Read it back in school. Gatsby’s a bit of a melt isn’t he? Never really understood him. It’s all lovey dovey crap. And the end…” He stops himself with a quirk to the lips “…well I won’t ruin that disappointment for you.”

“I’ve read it before, I know the end, I admire the end. I admire the whole story actually, despite the ugly characters. If you read deeper you’ll uncover a whole lot more than a love story.” The worlds trip over themselves in my haste and the burning in my cheeks betrays me so loudly. He’s laughing softly now and I can feel the eye roll he’s holding back. My heart is in my throat and there’s a nagging behind my eyes. The confrontation was uncharacteristic of me but I’d been riled by the ignorance. Critique of anything is just blatant self indulgence. There was no counter argument here, just his word against mine, superior to mine.

I walk away from the challenge, from the battle he is so obviously keen to muster. Instead I calm myself and retreat to my world, hurt by the anger tainting the words now, loathing the way I let them in when I knew what was coming and should have prepared against it. It’s a lonely thing to read so heavily, to rely so much on a world beyond this. But I’m elevated by the reward of it. The places I see, the people I meet, the suffering I share and the victories too. My emotions are in the hands of the author, susceptible to his manipulations and sorcery.  And I hand myself over to the escape of it all, willingly and desperately ready for the turmoil.

I’m really digging these little projects, they’ve become my favourite to write and I hope you enjoyed reading it too. Especially my enchanting little bookworms out there. I compiled a list of my favourite classics too. I find so many of them boring (sacrilege I know!) but this list boasts all of the literary works that have really gotten to me. All of the tears and tantrums and that awful lost feeling as I turn the final page. Any recommendations?

N x

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