KB

SHE JUST MAKES IT LOOK SO EFFORTLESS.

WhipIt

Good things achieved today: Went to the gym. 

Bad things achieved today: Went on a rambling blog-walk, and got so disheartened at all these amazing new blogs I discovered. Seriously, I would like to come across just one blog to look at, and decide it is not worth my time following. For my sake, and the sake of my blogroll/google reader/blogger list/tabs opened.

Anyhoo, saw Whip It the other day. Directed by the ever-amazing Drew Barrymore, who absolutely killed it in this Alexander McQueen dress at a premiere for the film:

I adored the film. A lot because I think Ellen Page kicks ass. But also because of:

Underwater kissing scenes

Dip dyed hair

Juliette Lewis looking hot and bad ass and wearing the best leather backless bodysuit

Sitting in the sun on the hood of a car

Freckles and best friends

Boys in bands

Love heart fridge magnets

I Want The Good Wine

How's this for a statement?

via the lovely Sandi, writer and go-getter extraordinaire at In The Thick Of It.

Working with Julie Andrews is like being hit over the head with a Valentine.

 - Christopher Plummer (aka Captain dreamy Von Trapp)

blogg-eh

There are lots of reasons why people start blogs: 

* They've got something to say

* Everyone else is doing it, so they'll find something to say

* To have a little project on the side, to ease the realisation that post-school and post-uni, no one actually gives a rats what you think about anything, outside of giving '110%' to what's listed beneath your job description 

*Insert a trillion other reasons here. There are some freaking weird blogs out there on the net

Most blogs, I find, start with some sort of a manifesto. A justification for being so self-indulgent and narcissistic as to actually self-publish one's own maudling/inspiring thoughts. I kept the start of my blog quiet for a long time, and then gradually mentioned it to a few people, who always wanted to look at it while I backpedalled trying to claim I'd forgotten my own url. Then one day I decided to fuck it, and put a link up on my facebook. The positive response (for the most part) was just lovely. There were a few people who still didn't understand, and that's fine. I posted this diatribe about that. 

Then meh... inspiration-shmashion. Blogged off and on. This started out as a bit of a style blog, but I didn't have a proper camera. Then I bought a proper camera, and every now and then would balance it precariously on a bookshelf, or a chair on top of a table, and take those bloggy photos of outfits. Then I roped my little sister into it, lacking the artistic boyfriend so necessary. Then I moved to London and felt silly posing in other people's houses. I decided I'd take it back up again when I bought a tripod and a remote. Then I put on a whole bunch of weight, and to say I was uninspired by my wardrobe (yes, even in the land of topshop) is an understatement - when nothing fits, clothes are hell. 

Besides, all those blogs I'd been following for years? Well, most of them are now semi-professional or professional bloggers/stylists/superstars. And it feels so intimidating to pretend I know about clothes. Which I've never claimed to.  My tastes in blogs are changing too. Sure, I love dipping into the old favourites, admiring their amazing clothes, and shoes, and wondering how they can afford it all. My twitter feed is completely clogged with London Fashion Week postings. But I'm starting to really love blogs with more narrative strength behind them - I follow a few book blogs now, and am completely obsessed with anyone who cooks and takes pretty pictures of their kitchen adventures. I think what I love about these narrative style blogs is the sense of an insight into other lives being lived. Other accessible lives. Of people daring to put themselves out there on the big wide web for something they love to do - be it writing or photography, or being a mother, or craft. Because I don't (and probably won't) ever get around in 5inch heels all day. I'm sitting here in tracksuit pants, pink fluffy slippers, and an old red cardigan for heaven's sake. Distinctly unglamorous.

So here are a few of my (mostly) non-fashion related, new favourite blogs and sites, and some of them I'm even proud to know in person.

The Hairpin

The Amanda Diary

Ivy League Insecurities

Enjoying the Small Things

The NookBook

The Coveteur - which was The-Coveted for a wee bit of a furore there.

Fizzle Out

Make Bright the Sparrows

Reading, Fuelled by Tea

Thought Catalog

All different sorts of blogs/websites. And this is only the teeniest sample of the trillion amazing and different ones out there. I really have like a billion more favourites too. I should really update my links section.

Would love to hear what your favourite blogs are! 

And the odd-er the better (odd as in, can't figure out why you like it).

Monki

This summer, when it arrives: floppy hats, sheer oversize mini dresses, button shirts to tuck into shorts. Denim bras to double as swimmers. Oddly-lengthened hems.

www.monki.com

This Swedish brand doesn't sell online, to my frustration. May just have to plan a trip to Stockholm with an empty suitcase. I love the playful way they style their clothes in Monki-world. They take what at first seem like really practical separate pieces, and layer and puff and combine them into a very cool outfit:

Mmmm, Sweden.

David Koma

He's killing it at London Fashion Week today. Here's a little reminder of what he's doing for Topshop in his capsule collection.

Amaze.

David Koma for Topshop.

Yes:

 And please:

Will update with pics from his show when they come out.

Kinda wish I'd gotten through winter rugged up like a Jedi shepherd, in patched up woollen leather and hoods and oversized draping.

Alessandra Marchi

star-eyed girl

Frida Gustavsson

Vogue UK 2010

Of things.

I think I have lost my camera charger. Again. What is wrong with me? It's all this moving house I guess...

In the meantime, here are a few things that have gotten me through this long British winter:

Walks in parks, and slipping fingers out of mittens long enough to snap photos of frosty ground.

Tea sets in a pattern that I hope is willow-ware, because I have always wanted to drink tea out of a set that I'm sure Anne Shirley would have felt a reverence for in her freckled 12-year old heart.

Pastel-lolly houses in rambling Notting Hill streets.

Cocktails, on fire.

Red wine and candlelight in Shoreditch pubs, with antipasto plates, and conversations about poverty, hipster boys, and blogging.

Planning on getting back to Paris.

Dreaming of sunshine, and afternoons spent in Alice-in-Wonderland-esque chairs.

xx

Adele

I have tea, I have grey skies, I see buildings shrouded in the mist that is also rain.

And I have this on repeat.

But I'm not unhappy.

Lonely rain.

While thinking about whether to scrap or keep this blog, change the name, start again, give up altogether (oh, no more guilt!), I took a little trip through my own archives, and came across this poem I posted about here and I thought I would re-post it, because I now know what February rain is. 

It's lonely.

The Rain

All night the sound had

come back again,

and again falls

this quiet, persistent rain.

What am I to myself

that must be remembered,

insisted upon

so often? Is it

that never the ease,

even the hardness,

of rain falling

will have for me

something other than this,

something not so insistent - 

am I to be locked in this

final uneasiness.

Love, if you love me,

lie next to me.

Be for me, like rain,

the getting out

Robert Creeley (b. 1926)

Listening… to Ellie Goulding. She reminds me of my darling friend Marion, whose sunshine and optimism, and absolutely irrepressible sense of fun always lifts me up. Also new friends in London: bonding over chats about boys and clothes and diets, while creaming scones and cutting breadrolls in a little cafe in Putney. 

Reading… Oh! Everything! Middlemarch, by George Eliot. I have a lot more time for Dorothea this time around. The first time I read this, I just thought she was mad. I've also recently finished 'White Teeth' by Zadie Smith (excellent), 'The Birth of Venus' by Sarah Dunant (really quite good), and 'The Virgin Suicides'. Actually, I didn't finish that last one... I don't have the heart at the moment.

Watching… The Good Wife. Boardwalk Empire. Gossip Girl. The Princess Bride. 

Buying… AsosAsosAsos. Damn their next day delivery, and my weakness for post-lunch online shopping. 

Wearing... Crochet knit tops beneath pinafores. Brogues. Tights.

Wanting… To fit into my jeans. Seriously, I've gotten through this entire British winter in tights. Brrrr.

Trying… to relax and go with the flow.

Loving…  not Valentine's day, I'll tell you that much.

Writing… Not much, to be honest.

Inspired by… I'm not, at the moment. How's that for brutal honesty.

Dion Lee for Cue

I was sitting in a bar in Covent Garden last week with some friends. We'd had some ridiculously amazing Mexican (seriously Chipotle, you blew my mind) on Charing Cross Rd, and we wandered around til we found a little bar, grabbed a bottle of rose, and as usual began to talktalktalktalk. We started talking about Australian designers, and how the blogosphere is starting to really really appreciate the stuff coming out of Australia: Stylestalker, One Teaspoon, Stolen Girlfriend Club, The Cassette Society, Evil Twin and MinkPink are popping up everywhere, though I think it will be a while until the shops here catch up with online stores like Nasty Gal and Pixie Market. 

Anyhoo a few days later I stumbled across the lookbook for Dion Lee's collaboration with Cue. 

H&M and Lanvin, eat your heart out.

From the man that brought you colours and shapes and light and texture like this:

Comes this: Understated slashing, muted grey felt (felt!), hintings of warrior skirts, trenches with sharp edges that also fold and scrunch like all good trenches should. Cut outs, and leather, and strong feminine lines. 

(don't you think Leighton Meester would love this?)

Love.

A name

I named this blog at a time I happened to be studying Shakespearean sonnets. 

Romeo and Juliet. Act III. Scene II.

Gallop apace, you fiery-footed steeds,

Towards Phoebus' lodging: such a wagoner

As Phaethon would whip you to the west,

And bring in cloudy night immediately.

Spread thy close curtain, love-performing night,

That runaway's eyes may wink and Romeo

Leap to these arms, untalk'd of and unseen.

Lovers can see to do their amorous rites

By their own beauties; or, if love be blind,

It best agrees with night. Come, civil night,

Thou sober-suited matron, all in black,

And learn me how to lose a winning match,

Play'd for a pair of stainless maidenhoods:

Hood my unmann'd blood, bating in my cheeks,

With thy black mantle; till strange love, grown bold,

Think true love acted simple modesty.

Come, night; come, Romeo; come, thou day in night;

For thou wilt lie upon the wings of night

Whiter than new snow on a raven's back.

Come, gentle night, come, loving, black-brow'd night,

Give me my Romeo; and, when he shall die,

Take him and cut him out in little stars,

And he will make the face of heaven so fine

That all the world will be in love with night

And pay no worship to the garish sun.

O, I have bought the mansion of a love,

But not possess'd it, and, though I am sold,

Not yet enjoy'd: so tedious is this day

As is the night before some festival

To an impatient child that hath new robes

And may not wear them. O, here comes my nurse,

And she brings news; and every tongue that speaks

But Romeo's name speaks heavenly eloquence.

My rather less cannibalistic (is that sacrilegious?) interpretation was some vague notion of taking what I loved to see and think about and write and throw it at the internet. Meh, I don't know. I also just liked it. 

But I don't really like the name anymore. It just seems ... silly. But then, most blog names are silly. Or trite. Or odd-sounding. Cut Out The Stars just doesn't seem to reflect where I am, what I'm thinking about, what I peruse on the internet these days. I'd rather write beneath a banner of 'Life in Draft' or something (and I might still change it). But does it matter? The name? Or is Shakespeare right elsewhere, when he says that a rose by any other name would smell as sweet?

Success!

Haha, can you tell where I am on the productivity scale? 

Still one of the best comics out there - Hyperbole and a Half

Shivering Leaves Hanging On To Their Trees

 I haven’t been feeling very inspired lately. Crazy, isn’t it, to feel that way in a city like London? In a place where you can see views like this, just as you walk to meet friends?

The last few months I’ve experienced my first snow, my first Christmas away from home.

 My first New Year’s beneath the London Bridge rather than the Harbour Bridge.

I shifted on out of cafe work (bliss!) with my first job in the publishing world. Even if it is in web production and not editing the next big novel, it's a start!

There were plenty of not-my-first-time-times too (great wordplay, that). I cried from sheer homesickness and loneliness, and the sight of the same four walls. I wondered how the English were ever industrious beneath such closed-in gloomy skies – until I realized that impending or unending poverty can drive you to be very industrious indeed. I swore I wouldn’t leave the house, until I didn’t, and then stared at my phone, imploring it for a reason to pile on the scarves and layers.

In the last few weeks (or is it months now? Never ending, unceasing grey winter chill) my mental checklist before running out the door is now: phonekeyswalletmittensearwarmersscarves. Cos mittens are the bomb. They keep your fingers warm, and you still get to use your iphone = WIN. Cold = boo.

But you do get to see last little leaves hanging on before shivering down to the ground, when you wear mittens.

Oh, I’ve done lots of fun things too. Somehow though, I never seem to want to write about them, because to me, those things are natural and obvious and easy to do. I’ve been to a roller disco, an experience constituting the most vividly fabulous nightmare of my entire life. I ran around the Christmas tree at Trafalgar Square on Christmas Eve. I trudged over the Chelsea Bridge with one handle of a tote bag full of alcohol, the other held by a brand new friend, laughing fit to burst both ourselves and the bag of alcohol. I’ve gone on rambling walks from North to South for Christmas markets and sticks of donut dipped in steaming chocolate. I’ve walked from West to East to sit in dodgy pubs and watch football… and take photos of little streams.

I’ve done wildly inappropriate online ordering in the name of ‘investment shopping’. 

I’m selling more shoes (want ‘em?).

 I’ve joined a thing called bookmooch, which is  like some kind of cyber library. 

I read Pride and Prejudice for the billionth time, but this time on my Kindle for iphone app, while struggling to keep my balance on the tube because I’m too squished to reach the rails.

I watched Boardwalk Empire, and loved it. Also Glee, Mad Men, The Good Wife ... it's cold out, ok?

I’ve realized it’s kind of hard to take some people seriously because their particular English accent happens to be the exact accent I use to mock people at home for being dumb (innit? You alright? Geezer? People actually talk like that).

I’ve wanted to take on new projects and felt that paralyzing sense of failure that comes with calculating the amount of time I’ve been in London x the amount of time I’ve been out of uni x the amounts of job I’ve applied for x the amount of jobs I haven’t applied for x the amount of blog posts I’ve not done x the amount of crappy tv show series I’ve watched … and yeah, add all that up, convert the number into a huge pile of self-doubt, and there you have what I call the London-February feeling. Blergh – aren’t I a whinger?!

But anyway, London forgot about it's February feeling enough to show a little blue sky the other day (saucy minx). And I've written a blog post (ta-dah!), so maybe spring is on its way!

xx