life in pink Tweet

At Marylebone Farmers' Market today, I couldn't resist these huge pink, fragrant roses, though a bunch was eight pounds, and we normally bring home a lot more bloom for around ten. Only downloading the photos this evening did I notice that my adored stripy jumper could've programmed me slightly to pick the pink. I am so fond of this garment, a pricey gift from myself (to myself) on my birthday in Bucharest years back, that a bit of my heart dies each time the jumper gets washed and thins out a tad more. And however desperately I look, I cannot find a replacement. So, as I often do when such thoughts cloud my mind, I focused on making someone else happy, as that was possible: one of my roses went home with an old lady in a terrible, terrible state. She was dressed in old furs, like one imagines a once-beautiful, once-rich, once-loved Russian grandma. Her fingernails were enormous, twisted like claws, and I noticed them for how she grabbed walls and pub tables for support, slowly shuffling alongside Marylebone High Street. Needless to say, I felt terribly proud to have dropped a rose in her shopper, picturing how she'd get home and put it in a simple glass, and tried not to spend too much time thinking about where I could very quickly, very cheaply buy a walking cane of sorts.

namas pamos: vai vai vai Tweet

Felix introduced me to Namas Pamos some ten years ago by putting a weirdly shaped, painted thick paper art cover on my desk and saying whatever was the equivalent of that's the shiznat back in the days. Fascinated by the music, language, and philosophy of a band that needed to invent a country in order to belong (the album is the country is Lipomgalie), I spent many a novel-writing Sunday energized and amused by their tracks. The other day, something Ben played in the office brought all that flavor back to me, and I headed to YouTube in no time. Sure enough, Namas Pamos were there, so here goes notable and representative Vai Vai Vai, from above mentioned album. I last fished it out of my CD black hole a couple of years ago when we had the misfortune to invite two extremely boring people for dinner and watch them overstay their welcome... until 3 am! On a week day! Nothing (but rudeness) works as good as a strong taste of quirky music to get loitering guests off one's sofa. If you doubt that, go ahead and try it on co-workers, commuters, flatmates and neighbors that have tried your patience lately.

one family for street photography Tweet

My mother calls this generations. Taken by my father, it features my cousin, his partner, his son and my mother in the colorful streets of Sighisoara, a rather famous Romanian city I've yet to see.



My sister captured this somewhere in London. I know the city wears this face at times, but it's so unfortunately rare that, next to a smile, I immediately thought damn, wish I was there.



And here's a little something from my first camera phone years back, when the largess photoblog was on. I'd do well to channel that mojo again, so cheers to my family for reminding me.

deep in the morning Tweet

There was a faint autumn fragrance on the terrace this morning. By the time I grabbed my coffee and a cigarette it fleeted. My first thought had been that it smelled like Bucharest in September, but then, sniffing the air with a puzzlement that I still think of summer dresses and a longing for dead leaves in the continental sun, I knew the truth was different. We can't miss places, though we think we do. We only miss ourselves in those places, what we made of them, what we chose to store in a tiny drawer of sparsely documented happiness and elevated subjectivity. And that's why recreated circumstances, however perfect, can only bring back a fleeting feeling of deja vu. Because we moved on.



My cousin brought these roses from Lewisham Market when she joined us for lunch yesterday. She knew they were real roses because they looked and smelled like her grandmother's garden back in Bucharest. My cousin hadn't started school before her family moved to Budapest. But no one could take that garden away from her, squirreled in a tiny magic drawer. On a different note, it's rather strange to have two members of my family in London.

test your sunday happinness levels with this easy multiple choice Tweet

1. Have as many as 5 strangers pass through your flat.
2. Have your camera vanish while 5 strangers pass through your flat.
3. Learn that bedroom windows will be patched, but not lounge windows.
4. Hear that a cracked glass stove top might be just fine by deploying duct tape.
5. Hear the tragic crash of the tiny chest of drawers that contains all your jewelry.
6. See the only pair of (previously unused) badminton rackets fall apart in less than five minutes.
7. Discover that not even the cleaner got rid of the mold in the powder drawer of your washing machine.
8. See the toilet nearly overflow again two weeks after being 'fixed' and sorting it yourself, right after cleaning up mold.
9. Certify by means of three pairs of eyes and shrieks of disbelief that, indeed, you share the flat with a strolling mouse again.
10. All of the above.

Next time you can't explain my ray of sunshine je ne sais quoi, or the fairly high density of posts about flowers, foods, and finds... it's time you take the test once more.

something old, and something new Tweet

I've seen this music video last weekend (or was it two weekends ago? weeks blend a bit too much of late) and cannot stop thinking about its balls and simplicity ever since. It may be old news to many, but I'm just happy to have seen it at all and keen that it travels the internets some more.

not aiming for the queen's english, but wtf? Tweet

Of late, I've been welcomed on a daily basis with the jovial: You alright? In more than one place. Awesome, no? I'm finally assimilated! For fuck's sake, would it be so hard to say: And how have you been, darling? Would it be that much to ask that we speak some sort of London English, rather than lazy irreverent yocal? Myself, I persevere in being glorious and all manner of posh, decisive things. Who's right to be alright? People who've been through something tough, are recovering, and actively choose to see the bright side. Who's wrong to be alright? People with a healthy mind in a healthy body. You know who you are, so get this: I can gloss over your bad English, but spare me the bad karma of being alright as sole ambition. And while at it, ditto for the not bad lot!

freudian slips or irrrational lisps Tweet

This morning: I'll have a smoke and a cigarette.

Last night: I'd like a pack of Smoking Kills.