of a week.
A lot happens in seven days. This week I:
- Broke up with my boyfriend of 364 days
- Discovered I got a First Class degree at my university
- Moved in back home with the family after four years of study
This summer I face the daunting concept of having absolutely no plans. Therefore, I am embarking upon mission ‘Sort My Life Out’. In the coming days / weeks / months I will be applying for every job vacancy under the sun in an attempt to carve a career-shaped niche for myself in the world.
Wish me luck!
This list will be added to over time. If you have any suggestions don’t hesitate to let me know!
Parisian night life is divine.
My friend’s mother designs and produces some of the most beautiful creations I’ve ever seen.
I love my students, really don’t want to stop working with them.
My attempt at translating Les fleurs by the wonderful Stéphane Mallarmé.
Golden avalanches of old skies,
the first day of the eternal snowing of stars.
A long time ago, you untied the large sepals
for the young, pure earth. Free from disasters.
The wild sword lilies, with their fine swanlike collars
And this divine ruby-red laurel of banished souls
Like the pure toes of the seraphs
That delicately blush at already explored dawns.
Hyacinth, Myrtle of beautiful lightning
And like a woman’s flesh,
Herodias blossoming in the fair garden,
Cruel pink like that of untamed blood and dazzling water.
You bloodied the pure whiteness of lilies
That float on oceans of sighs, that skim
Across the blue incense of paling horizons,
Ascending wistfully towards the crying moon.
Hosannah playing mandolin in the censers,
Our Lady Hosannah of the garden of Limbo!
And so finishes the echo of heavenly evenings
Ecstasy of looks, fluttering of halos.
Oh Mother who created in your fair, strong bosom,
Sword lilies swaying, the coming bronze.
Large flowers which bring death
For the weary poet, wilted by life.
Dis-moi, pendant que nous nous posons sous ce feuillage luisant
Que je suis la seule, que c’est que moi qui te fais frissonner en touchant ta peau.
Ne mens pas, j’suis habituee aux mensonges et aux promesses fausses.
Ecoutes les fleurs, parce qu’ils ricanent toujours a moi.
Cette terre connait mes secrets.
Les canards songeurs
Couldn’t agree more!