I just finished one of my favorite movies (which I own & watch at least once a month)- Into the Wild. It was originally a best-seller written by Jon Krakauer. It’s based on a true story about a runaway, Christopher McCandless (who the beautiful Emile Hirsch plays in the movie<3). He had one goal: Alaska. He destroys his identity, burns his money, and gives in completely to the forces of nature, stripped & pure of everything he’s ever been “taught” to live by. After months of seclusion from society,  McCandless’ body was found in an abandoned bus in Alaska. The true story is told through the journal entries he kept. What captures me most about the film is the beautiful narration & dialogue- a lot of it is spoken by Chris’ sister through agony, frustration, hopelessness-yet understanding-toward her brother’s decision to disappear. So much of the script is thought-provoking, and worth writing down. Props Sean Penn.

For those who haven’t read the book or seen the movie:

Two years he walks the Earth. No phone, no pool, no pets, no cigarettes. Ultimate freedom. An extremist. An aesthetic voyager whose home is the road. Escaped from Atlanta. Thou shalt not return cause “the West is the best”. And now after two rambling years comes the final and greatest adventure. The climatic battle to kill the false being within and victoriously conclude the spiritual pilgrimage. Ten days and nights of freight trains & hitchhiking bring him to the Great White North. No longer to be poisoned by civilization he flees, and walks alone upon the land to become lost in the wild.

The freedom and simple beauty is too good to pass up…

“I will miss you too, but you are wrong if you think that the joy of life comes principally from the joy of human relationships. God’s place is all around us, it is in everything and in anything we can experience. People just need to change the way they look at things. ”

“It should not be denied that being footloose has always exhilarated us. It is associated in our minds with escape from history & oppression & law & irksome obligations. Absolute freedom. And the road has always led West.”

“The sea’s only gifts are harsh blows, and occasionally the chance to feel strong. Now I don’t know much about the sea, but I do know that that’s the way it is here. And I also know how important it is in life not necessarily to be strong but to feel strong. To measure yourself at least once. To find yourself at least once in the most ancient of human conditions. Facing the blind death stone alone, with nothing to help you but your hands and your own head.”

“I’m going to paraphrase Thoreau here… rather than love, than money, than faith, than fame, than fairness… give me truth.”

PS- the soundtrack is awesome too. Most of it is solo stuff by Eddie Vedder from Pearl Jam.

Hard Sun by Eddie Vedder

Title: Eddie Vedder “Society”. Images: WinterLandscapesWildSkiesPhotography, Google, Yayeveryday

Love always,

-Jess

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When we moved over the summer I lost a box of old books. It was mainly just tired only composition notebooks or those cursive templates with two inch bright blue lines and my atrocious kindergarten scrawl all over them, but amongst this pile was one of my most prized possessions as well: a thick notebook with my most recent songs. A composition of lyrics born from a brief period of sudden inspiration last summer, the words were some of my best, probably thirty or so complete pieces scrawled between the binding: a collection of lyrics written on Post-It notes or Starbucks napkins taped onto the excess pages (how very J.K. Rowling of me, I know) coupled with all kinds of inspiring magazine clippings, pressed flowers, and photographs shoved between the pages. The cover was torn and it was water stained but so beautiful to me, and such a loss.

Since then I’ve been hesitant to write because the fragments of those old songs are still stuck in my head, and I know I could never do the original ideas justice. While I’ve forgotten the specific phrases and notes that documented my summer, I remember their inspiration well.

In San Francisco last year I met a boy in the subway who had nothing to his name but the shoes on his feet and guitar in his lap. His dark eyes sparkled so brightly, you could tell he was such a creative soul with out even hearing him speak, and hearing him sing was another story entirely. He must have been only seventeen and obviously homeless, but as I watched  a man stop to offer him money for his guitar playing,  the boy politely refused it. He said that if he needed money he would get a job, and the only thing worth needing in his life was music.

I’ve never been in love before, but I think I was a little in love with him. He had the kind of talent that could have easily taken him places, and he chose to sit in a subway and laugh bemusedly at the mixed reactions of passerbys (the majority of which must have pegged him as some lazy kid who should have been in school and continued on their way). He wasn’t playing his guitar in the hopes of being discovered or paid, he was just enjoying himself. He took their rude stares with a grain of salt, and used the few of us that listened as inspiration. He had turned an awful situation into beautiful music, and he wanted nothing in return; an example of one person where music was truly an escape, and I like to think it saved him.

It bothers me how the music industry today is such a money grab, when this boy knew the point isn’t to make something that sells, it’s just to make something. It’s the whole experience, the swell of inspiration, the moment when you’re racing against the clock to write the words that fill your head faster than they can fill the paper. It’s writing about what you know, not love or lust or hate or money because that’s what people “want to hear.”

To me this means songs about your childhood, innermost thoughts, and random feelings. It’s these silly posts I write about wanting to dance in the rain with no make up on and still feel beautiful. And this random stranger who just seemed to understand me, whose song I’ll remember for the rest of my life.

It’s almost tangible, that song. And that moment. His words have become a blur in my mind but I remember the music: a mix of the rumble of the subway, his guitar, and the hum of his voice. And I can hear his smile, if I close my eyes. For some reason it seems you can always tell when a person’s smiling, even when you can’t see them, because even their words seem to turn up at the corners and shine with excitement. Happiness.

The music is my happiness, writing about these personal experiences that are so beautiful to me it doesn’t matter if the rest of the world won’t understand. I don’t care if my words seem silly: a foreign concept to everyone that ignored us in the subway that day. At first I was devastated to have the lost the song I wrote about this boy, but thinking about him now I don’t think I’m ever going to rewrite it. I think he would have appreciated it that way; if I ever reach an audience with my songs, they won’t be about him.

If I want money, I’ll get a job. But all I really need is the music.

Happy reading Listening,

xoxo Johannah E.

C: ffffound, tumblr, Willa Cather, lookbook.nu (Pascal G.)

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Cowboy boots stomping the concrete jungle of New York, I ventured into the ideal land for people watching. Quiet observation is an inevitable hobby you adopt here. Today for the first time of the year I was engulfed by that “summer” feeling- you know, that aura of puppy love, ocean smells and lightweight hoodies. On these certain days when the wind seems to have rhythm, I sometimes think  in poetry. Here were my observations:

Coffee driven

Taxi hailin’

Far sighted people.

Psalm readin’

Brainwashed ears

Hide under a steeple.

Manipulatin’

Power cravin’

Hierarchy hunger.

Booze beggin’

Bypassin’

Life in a slumber.

Corner hookin’

Keep on lookin’

For some self respect.

Mind racin’

Thought chasin’

Clouded intellect.

FYI, none of these are intended to have a negative connotation. I’m completely intrigued by the diversity I observe every day- none superior, none inferior. Power & status is an illusion, really. We’re all just being. He imagines things I can’t, she believes things I don’t. They’ve been places I’ve never seen, I’ve experienced an emotion you’ve never felt. We all sit on our own level of what makes us, and no 2 levels will ever see perfectly eye-to-eye. Which is why learning from others is a precious thing! Sharing is caring =)  and sharing is daring. We’ve got to get over the fear of “something or someone ” being “new or different”. Dare to step outside your comfort zone, dare to be vulnerable. People want to hear you more than you think. And they want to share more than you think.

The streets keep fighting my beat, rerouting the rhythm under my feet,

But now I’ve got these streets down to a science:

Whether it’s a blue collar or black tie, that you walk by, each vulnerable soul finds there way through the maze.

The scaffolds not here this time, to hold up your spine.

Get lost, get scared. Find hidden treasure when you’re unprepared.

Nothing beats challenging the beat.

The wind keeps blowing me bluffs, illusion has me in handcuffs.

But now I’ve got this wind down to a science:

The whipping mess just knots my hair, tangled perception distorts that mass media view.

Now tell me, what beats daring to peak through, and seeing you?

Nothing beats challenging the wind.

Title: Portugal the Man, Images: flickr, Sally Mann & yayeveryday.

love always,

-Jess

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The last strains of wintertime flu finally caught up with me this week, a dull ache in all my muscles and a pretty vicious cough being the worst of it. Stuck in bed extremely bored for four days, my groggy brain’s reading comprehension has dropped about five grade levels. It’s not quite, “The cat sat on the mat and ate a rat” yet, but oh yes, I’ve now read the book that’s inspired the whole preteen “We love Percy Jackson” trend.

But that was just one of the books I borrowed from my eleven-year-old sister’s closest; another interested me even more. A novel by Paula Morris, Ruined captured my attention because of the history behind the story. The usual elements of preteen subject matter are all there: the gossipy popular crowd, the new girl who just doesn’t fit in, that tall, dark, and handsome stranger. The story is set in New Orleans, post Katrina in the French Quarter where families have lived in the same houses for centuries, girls make their entrance to society at old fashioned debutant balls, and everyone’s father belongs to a krewe (which is like a modern day version of Harry Potter’s death eaters: influential men who gather at secret meetings and wear masks to disguise their identity). There’s a bit of Haitian voodoo magic, some ghost stories, and what turns into a murder mystery at the end as well, and while the content is written for a younger crowd’s comprehension,  these notes of history and dark magic inspired me to do a little research of my own.

1. I absolutely fell in love with the historic architecture in the French Quarter. The homes are three stories (at least) with stone pillars and plaintation shutters, crazy paint jobs on the exterior, towering oak trees in the front yard. Everything is overrrun and deep, shadowy green just the way I love gardens to be! (I grew up in an old brick house in Kentucky with tendrils of ivy that wove their way up the house’s facade. I found these “weeds” so charming and magical, I cried when my parent’s decided to tear them down!)

It’s amazing the ancestral history these houses have as well, with families having lived on the same property for centuries.

2. The main character’s aunt has a background of voodoo; she’s a descendant of the Haition Queens of  dark magic. Today New Orleans is still steeped in the culture of fortune telling, and the art of tarot cards attracts some of the South’s most talented painters.

3. Of course you can’t talk about New Orleans without mentioning Mardi Gras, a series of parades hosted by the most powerful krewes:

4. And then their daughter’s debutant balls:

5. Parts of the city are still in wreckage from Hurricane Katrina. Below is a list of the best organizations to donate to as a contribution to rebuilding New Orleans.

http://www.habitat-nola.org/

http://www.unitedsaints.org/

And in more recent events: Red Cross for Haiti & Red Cross for Chile

Happy reading,

xoxo Johannah E.

C: ffffound, tumblr, weheartit, googleimages

Title quote: Charles Bukowski

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As all high school students do, I am currently reading Romeo and Juliet. Apparently, the good fairy Mab (Veronian fable/bearer of dreams) thinks I don’t do enough analysis of Shakespeare’s play at school and that I need to study during my sleep as well.

For the past few nights I’ve been having dreams of standing on a balcony in the middle of the night, and at first the sky is pitch black. All I can see below me are swaying fields of golden wheat miles away and beyond that a deep blue ocean that seems to melt into the sky. I can see the faint shimmer of Shakespeare’s words etched onto the horizon, as if I’m reading a script.

The words have my name written into the play, but even in this dream state I realize it’s supposed to be the text for Romeo and Juliet and something has gone horribly wrong. Just as I’m about to read the ending, (which at this point I already know won’t fare well for me) a wave comes crashing over the faint text and the letters fall from the sky like a shower of sparks.

I try desperately to leave the balcony, to rewrite what I know is a fatal ending to the play; as I struggle to leave the castle, a thousand stars appear in the sky. I’m aware that my presence is out of place, but as I try to explain myself, my words come out in intricate sonnets that even I can’t understand.  Above the frantic beating of my heart I hear the stars whispering maliciously: they think I’m Juliet.

Angry with Romeo’s words that challenge their beauty against hers, the whispers become louder and more menacing, and the stars swell so brightly that I’m blinded. There’s a ripple in the wheat fields like an earthquake and the sky is consumed by a solar flare of electrifying white light.   I lose all sense of direction and purpose so I lie on the ground and close my eyes.

When I wake up again, I’m lying on cold stone with a knife pierced through my chest though still breathing and perfectly alive. Next to me is Juliet’s lover, Romeo. I touch his hand hesitantly and it’s as cold as the stone we lay on: he’s dead. As I try to make sense of my dream, Juliet walks into the room wearing a necklace of the stars that plagued me on her balcony. She laughs at me, and the stars chime in…

The dream ends there most nights, sometimes returning to the balcony scene again and playing over and over in my mind until I’m fully awake in the morning.  I always have the same  thought when I wake up, though (and that’s really the purpose of relaying this whole story to you): Isn’t it ironic that the reason for finding true love, is to spend the rest of your life devoted to one person?

I find it a little twisted that Shakespeare’s characters realize this love, but their eternity lasts only a few days.

Happy reading,

Johannah E.

Photo Credits: ffffound, title credit: Shakespeare of course

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I love when it rains during the school day because you get a tiny glimpse of who everyone truly is. No matter how water proof your mascara may be, for those of us who choose to brave the rain without an umbrella, our make up will still run. (And our hair will frizz, and our clothes will be wet) and we’ll be human.

Of all of the girls whose pretty little heads are filled with distorted views of perfection, no one will be “beautiful”  and every one will be beautiful. I’ve found, this year especially, that I appreciate humanity’s flaws much more than I appreciate our strengths; I think it’s so interesting to see people for who they are, not the socially acceptable roles we play to protect our insecurities. (It’s the true revolutionaries who are going to change the world anyway, not those who are only concerned with changing their hair colors to fit the latest trend.) So my kind of people are those who always have their noses buried in books, their souls immersed in culture and their hearts devoted to a craft. They might wear glasses,  look like their faces were flicked with a paintbrush of freckles, or have that perpetual “I just ran in P.E. look” of flushed cheeks and wind chapped lips. We’re a little misfit, which usually translates to “old souls,” suggesting we’re too old for our time despite the fact we’re really behind it (our clothes are vintage, our best friends from stories of timeless literature). We know the forecast but choose to “forget” our umbrellas anyway and know the only way to waste a perfect rainy day is to stay inside. In our world climbing trees is a hobby, raindrops on your shoulders a must, and crazy beach hair is perfection.

My new years resolution was to find more of these people; the beautiful souls who are comfortable enough to look like they’ve been dancing in the rain even on a sunny Californian afternoon. In a time where our looks “define us” and our possessions determine our wealth, forgive for me being a brooding teenager, but I really am starting to think I was born in the wrong century: an era of spray tans and Barbie dolls where our enjoyment comes from reality TV where we watch people’s lives fall apart. Instead, I should be in a 19th century English pub right now, writing real poetry and letters (as opposed to texting), composing stories to fill the nights, and spending my days wandering through town in the rain.

And I almost forgot, to keep this little ramble literature related I’m currently reading Gathering Blue, a Lois Lowry novel that I highly recommend! (It was always one of my absolute favorite books growing up and I recently found an old copy in my garage and rediscovered how much I’m still in love with the story!)

Happy reading,

Johannah E.

C: all photos from ffffound except for the last two, which are mine

The quote is from Les Miserables

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We all (myself included) are constantly engulfing ourselves in conception, music, history, stories, movies- and anything else we can find, to show us something new. But even passion can become exhausting. Which is why I keep one single book (that a wonderful friend gave me) on my nightstand. Jim Henson’s Doodle Dreams; Inspiration for Living Outside the Lines.

Each page has a simple one-liner with a Henson doodle. Just little reminders that you don’t have to go to astronomical measures to smile. Sometimes less is more, simplicity is refreshing. “Enjoy music, people…or just gazing at the stars. This is the opposite of ambition but just as important. It gives life balance”. Take it from a guy who’s mind grew younger, not older. Here’s a few of his lovely guidelines:

Creativity. Taking something enormously strange and somehow making it strangely familiar.

Every once in a while, stop and look around. It doesn’t matter where you are; there’s usually something right there in front of you that will surprise and inspire you.

Being afraid isn’t always a bad thing. Sometimes you need that trembling feeling to remind you how exciting it is to be doing something new.

Try to instigate silliness.

A sense of wonder is the most incredible gift you can share.

It’s our duty to encourage those who come after us to appreciate and understand the past.

Kids think anything is possible. Be a kid again.

When you say you’ve come to a conclusion about something, you’re only saying you’ve stopped thinking about it.

A good laugh, the kind that just bursts out. You know, the kind that comes from who-knows-where. When it happens, that’s the best. HA!

If you listen too closely to the sound you may miss the music.

Be curious. If you’re always wondering what’s going to happen next, you’ll never lose your passion.

Some of us birds are made to fly, To flap our wings and reach up to the sky, And soar around so gracefully That all the world looks up to see And say: “How do they fly?” Oh me! Oh my!

If you find a place where people look happy, stick around… and invite some friends.

You can be a better leader if you’re not shouting all the time. Shouting only makes people cover their ears, and pretty soon nobody is listening.

love always,

Jess

images: yayeveryday, LIFE, The Jim Henson Co., Ted Neuhoff

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School closings were a perfect excuse to curl up next to my 14th story window and watch the Hudson get erased with white. Seems like Fashion Week in New York City has been slightly hushed by snow.

The city has become a Dreamsicle. (My personal definition of Dreamsicle being: A commercial dreamland that’s been silenced & trapped in an icicle. A mixture of twinkling light pollution & reflective snowflakes bouncing off of one another.) So who better to curl up with other than Frost?

The west was getting out of gold,

The breath of air had died of cold,

When shoeing home across the white,

I thought I saw a bird alight.

In summer when I passed the place

I had to stop and lift my face;

A bird with an angelic gift

Was singing in it sweet and swift.

No bird was singing in it now.

A single leaf was on a bough,

And that was all there was to see

In going twice around the tree.

From my advantage on a hill

I judged that such a crystal chill

Was only adding frost to snow

As gilt to gold that wouldn’t show.

A brush had left a crooked stroke

Of what was either cloud or smoke

From north to south across the blue;

A piercing little star was through.

Looking For a Sunset Bird in Winter -Robert Frost

love always,

Jess.

Images: fashionising, flickr

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A stranger has come
To share my room in the house not right in the head,
A girl mad as birds
Bolting the night of the door with her arm her plume.
Strait in the mazed bed
She deludes the heaven-proof house with entering clouds
Yet she deludes with walking the nightmarish room,
At large as the dead,
Or rides the imagined oceans of the male wards.
She has come possessed
Who admits the delusive light through the bouncing wall,
Possessed by the skies
She sleeps in the narrow trough yet she walks the dust
Yet raves at her will
On the madhouse boards worn thin by my walking tears.
And taken by light in her arms at long and dear last
I may without fail
Suffer the first vision that set fire to the stars.
Love in the Asylum - Dylan Thomas

I think I would have been in love with Dylan Thomas if we had lived at the same point in history.

Dylan Thomas was a Welsh poet and writer who wrote exclusively in English. In addition to poetry, he wrote short stories and scripts for film and radio, which he often performed himself. His public readings, particularly in America, won him great acclaim; his sonorous voice with a subtle Welsh lilt became almost as famous as his works.

xo,
S

PC: Wikipedia, Flickr

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…

Rest in peace, Lee McQueen. You will be missed!!
I had meaning to post about one of my favorite fashion books anyway (a truly beautiful collection of photography and stories by the lovely miss Caroline Evans) and with respect for McQueen’s passing it seems like now is the perfect time.

In regards to McQueen’s deepest concerns, when his mother interviewed him for a newspaper in 2004 “she asked: ‘What is your most terrifying fear?’, to which he replied ‘Dying before you.’

And she said, ‘Thank you, son.’”

RIP Armadillo Shoes.... now what will Gaga wear? :(

Johannah E.

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