Me in my dream house of books!
Listening to Fleetwood Mac in a small, intimate venue. 🙏💕✨#stevieistwirling
Light leaking through the trees in a secret forest. ✨
Stevie Nicks invited the band Haim over to her house for an interview with the New York Times. They touched her hair (because the photographer told them to, of course he did), and talked, and she gave them gold moon necklaces, and told them they were “sisters of the moon.” How they must have been changed by that afternoon. What they must have said to each other in the aftermath. How they must be smiling now, wise smiles, thinking about this day, knowing they will one day tell their daughters about it, knowing that they will remember it forever. The things that were said, that nobody else will ever know, whispered away from the reporter.
It’s so good to have secrets, touchstones, and odd tokens, things that bring comfort and that transcend the every day. There is a short but perfect love story I read nearly every day at lunch now, so the words echo in my head through the long, boring, lonely afternoons in a cube, bringing me comfort and whisking me away, albeit briefly, from everything else I’m used to that lacks the charm of the surreal. The book is so light and small, I can carry it with me everywhere in my bag. Sometimes I forget I have it until I see it’s still there, and I feel better already.
A secret hideaway in the woods.
Vogue Book of Quotations, September 2014
"She looked like the apsara, celestial nymphs in Buddhist mythology that dance in stone around Cambodia’s ancient temples."
"She runs her fingers across the dress’s bateau neckline, exposing the seven-carat, ethically mined emerald-cut diamond that hovers like a Chiclet-size spaceship over the fourth finger of her left hand."
"She grew up in Mississippi, reading Tolstoy and Faulkner and writing stories on her father’s typewriter."
"Looking incredible does take time—Gwyneth Paltrow has been known to exercise two hours a day, six days a week."
“Look, aging is better than dying.”
The Pitchfork review of the new Julian Casablancas album is a great example of how music criticism has devolved into a pointless, parasitic Internet tantrum.
Today I turned down the full-time job that I moved back to New York to eventually get, in order to stick it out as a freelancer and finish my
Word Document novel.
I am out of my mind, and it feels fantastic, actually.
My look for fall 2014 is British school girl with a French mom who may or may not be a witch.
It’s gotten to the point where I feel like living outside the anxious constraints of social media—a conscious decision made over the last few months—has taken on a kind of strange magic, almost as if I am shrouded, constantly, in secrets, except it’s not a secret, it’s just my life.
Golden Gate Park Super Rose
"People get so paranoid about fashion,” she said. “Everyone thinks it has to be chaos everywhere. We’re only making dresses. If it doesn’t work, we’ll make another one."
Dream house at Rainbow Lake