Your Highness, Freda Bego

Freda Bego, in Karl Lagerfield for this Novembers Harpers Bazar;

 

 

Latino Lime

Lisa Candila: for pure sexy, for frivolous authenticity and warmth, to her I go. These photo's emulate "it's five o'clock somewhere," well its still warm somewhere,  maybe, I hope, for Candila, and she's shooting away, sweating, glistening and so is her art.

Natasha Poly: MUSE

 

 

N. Poly skirting the pages of MUSE, baring all, I am Woman, here me roar!
Shot by David Hamilton.

United Bamboo, YUMMY

United Bamboo remains one of my first loves for the classic bold silk patterns, every pattern I see, anywhere else, well they scream: Spring RW 10' United Bamboo. That's it.
Yum, but then those colors, well they screen before my eyes: Mochino, spring ready to wear line, ready to leap, with bounds, into my bursting heart of a palate.

 

  

 

Oh, but I have saved the best for last.
Tsumori Chisato.
Where have you been all of my life?

 

  

  

  

  

  

My intimate imagined self is wearing these shoes, all of these shoes, I am an octopus royal blue, decked out in lilac suede, silk lace frills and mocha wood; no the Easter Bunny did not throw up on me, he blew me a gentle, sizzling kiss. Why thank you, very much!

Sonny Photos 09'

"But the real fierceness of desire, the real heat of a passion long continued and withering up the soul of a man, is the craving for identity with the woman that he loves. He desires to see with the same eyes, to touch with the same sense of touch, to hear with the same ears, to lose his identity, to be enveloped, to be supported," Ford M. Ford, The Good Soldier.

 

How amusing, he looks like a total duf.

Fr. Feeney, my current English prof. for 20th Century British & Irish Novels, has us winding down on our path through the Good Soldier; this novel was a total teaser, I thought I was really loving it until the end when the narrator turned out to be a total a**hole. Just as cruddy a character as the lot of them. Once I really get to thinking he is this stand out guy, top shelf, once he is beyond well developed, even though through the plot of other characters, Ford throws you a fastball, a total ducky. Humph. Turns out I forgot that the narrator was a real active human being in the whole plot, and Ford held out 'til the end to cue me in on this development.

I know I am being completely vague, and this is not even a decient review of this book, a fare glimpse or teaser, but I am P.O.'d. So there.
Marvelous quote though, huh? Sexy.

A Farewell To Arms

I have completed my first Hemmingway, though I am not sure it was the perfect choice for a first read - fell rather flat - it was a love story so blah, blah, blah - yes, I am a woman - so yes, I found a soft spot in my limber soul for A Farewell To Arms. My absolute favorite quote, which I fear despite how underdeveloped felt the novel was I will carry with me forever: "What you tell me about in the nights. That is not love. That is only passion and lust. When you love you wish to do things for. You wish to sacrifice for. You wish to serve," Ernest Hemingway.

I reach to my father for the most meaningful, awe-inspiring conversation, a few years ago he, in simpler words, voiced the same thing, "when you are utterly selfless, you become a man." This in its absolute entirety, is my father, and the only love I care to understand. I may now thank Hemingway for at least giving my father's words their dutiful, intentioned, poetic twist.

A Farewell To Arms, in the cinema Sigrid Gurie and Gary Cooper (I know she is not his lover, but a lustful beauty and I adore this photo):

Rip

Adam DeWolfe: a spectacular photographer; came across him today in an aimless search for ocean views. This man's photos are basking beauties.

Reggae Night

I swayed just below Shenanigans’ front stage; Budweiser in one hand, another's fingers intertwined in my own as my arms reached for the far. Reggae was alive in my movements, and I, in love with the moment.

I found every verse unique in the lean of my hip, roll of my head or clap of my hands. And we performed in unison. My partner’s lead was the greatest melody. With his touch, I was electrified. The shimmering ruby red and green lights, their fallen golden embers, couldn’t lay into my body and engulf me quite as his hand could mold to my waist, cheek to my shoulder, lips to my neck. I spun, eyes wild. Our fingers tiptoed for seconds, only to collide again, and once united with his grasp my gaze was locked to his smile, the motions of a laugh. I mimed his tongue and we sang. As the words poured we splashed in their puddles to all rhythms; the rhythm of my pounding chest, clanking bottles, echoed whispers. And the ground shook! So I reveled in this new euphony.

Then, all melodies subsided, the red and green rubies were stomped, and the last of light’s embers sizzled on the floorboards. I minded myself to ditch the glass on the exit’s deck base. It tilted, the disk spun and toppled, rolling to the gutter with the rest of them to be soured in stench and abandoned. He led me down. We descended from the high to shake off sweat in the ocean air.