now that my girlfriend and i are struggling with money, it’s even better time to check out our etsy shop, selling vintage and her amazing handmade jewelry!
thank you so much everybody who shared this, we got one order after posting it and it may not sound much, but it means a lot to us. we have been working on new jewelry since then so i’ll blatantly re-post this, once more with feeling.
I purchased a Joan of Arc necklace and I wear it daily. Check it out!
THE writer John Sedgwick was ruminating about his formidably upper-crust Boston milieu. ”That is not done,” a pet phrase among his uptight clan, ”is the most bone-chilling in the language,” he said. The words resonated with a clang of finality as Mr. Sedgwick, a magazine journalist turned novelist, strolled across the grounds of McLean Hospital in Belmont, Mass., a Boston suburb.
The night attendant, a B.U. sophomore, rouses from the mare’s-nest of his drowsy head propped on The Meaning of Meaning. He catwalks down our corridor. Azure day makes my agonized blue window bleaker. Crows maunder on the petrified fairway. Absence! My heart grows tense as though a harpoon were sparring for the kill. (This is the house for the “mentally ill.”) What use is my sense of humor? I grin at Stanley, now sunk in his sixties, once a Harvard all-American fullback, (if such were possible!) still hoarding the build of a boy in his twenties, as he soaks, a ramrod with a muscle of a seal in his long tub, vaguely urinous from the Victorian plumbing. A kingly granite profile in a crimson gold-cap, worn all day, all night, he thinks only of his figure, of slimming on sherbet and ginger ale-- more cut off from words than a seal. This is the way day breaks in Bowditch Hall at McLean’s; the hooded night lights bring out “Bobbie," Porcellian ‘29, a replica of Louis XVI without the wig-- redolent and roly-poly as a sperm whale, as he swashbuckles about in his birthday suit and horses at chairs. These victorious figures of bravado ossified young. In between the limits of day, hours and hours go by under the crew haircuts and slightly too little nonsensical bachelor twinkle of the Roman Catholic attendants. (There are no Mayflower screwballs in the Catholic Church.) After a hearty New England breakfast, I weigh two hundred pounds this morning. Cock of the walk, I strut in my turtle-necked French sailor’s jersey before the metal shaving mirrors, and see the shaky future grow familiar in the pinched, indigenous faces of these thoroughbred mental cases, twice my age and half my weight. We are all old-timers, each of us holds a locked razor.
When you are old and grey and full of sleep, And nodding by the fire, take down this book, And slowly read, and dream of the soft look Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep; How many loved your moments of glad grace, And loved your beauty with love false or true, But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you, And loved the sorrows of your changing face; And bending down beside the glowing bars, Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled And paced upon the mountains overhead And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.
I frequent 2 kinds of establishments: dive bars & public libraries. I end up accumulating the illnesses circulating at both at the same time & feel mutant.
Stiv Bators at Max’s Kansas City photographed by Nicky L, 1977
Current mood: aggressively concerned about Meg White’s general well being