wonderland | wanderlust

alice. south african but has spent the past several years between cape town, paris, florence, and new york. 21 years old. likes musical instruments made of wood, a single ginger cat, rooibos tea, scones, and figs. francophile interested in poetry, literature, food, photography, theatre, film, music, and people who make/do all those things. sometimes likes to run in fields and forests. currently figuring out how art can make an impact in the world. lover of sundays and breakfast. despiser of the sensation of cotton balls pulling apart. hoarder of note due to overdramatic tendencies and an extreme fear of forgetting. still learning.
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Summer for prose and lemons, for nakedness and languor,
for the eternal idleness of the imagined return,
for rare flutes and bare feet, and the August bedroom
of tangled sheets and the Sunday salt, ah violin!

When I press summer dusks together, it is
a month of street accordions and sprinklers
laying the dust, small shadows running from me.

It is music opening and closing, Italia mia, on Bleecker,
ciao, Antonio, and the water-cries of children
tearing the rose-coloured sky in streams of paper;
it is dusk in the nostrils and the smell of water
down littered streets that lead you to no water,
and gathering islands and lemons in the mind.

There is the Hudson, like the sea aflame.
I would undress you in the summer heat,
and laugh and dry your damp flesh if you came.

"Bleecker Street, Summer," Derek Walcott (via commovente)

since feeling is first
who pays any attention
to the syntax of things
will never wholly kiss you;
wholly to be a fool
while Spring is in the world

my blood approves,
and kisses are a better fate
than wisdom
lady i swear by all flowers. Don’t cry
—the best gesture of my brain is less than
your eyelids’ flutter which says

we are for each other: then
laugh, leaning back in my arms
for life’s not a paragraph

And death i think is no parenthesis

E. E. Cummings, Since Feeling Is First (via colporteur)

one last thing before I leave (on a more humorous note)
found this picture of my mother trying to find out what I’d look like with hair (bald until age three. that’s right)
little did she know I’d sprout paper white hair, but more importantly, I look like I’m rocking out to some really good music

one last thing before I leave (on a more humorous note)

found this picture of my mother trying to find out what I’d look like with hair (bald until age three. that’s right)

little did she know I’d sprout paper white hair, but more importantly, I look like I’m rocking out to some really good music


Paulo Coelho, Adultery


Paulo Coelho, Adultery

also shoutout to jaime for letting me sleep in her dorm while I’m homeless for the next three days!!!!!!!!!

and again I find myself on the brink - the warm, summer cusp of a new beginning. I leave this cape town winter for new york’s end of summer in the next couple of minutes, and though my head is spinning a bit what with having ferociously packed my suitcase with things I don’t really need that much in a massive hurry (simultaneously eating strawberries), I still want to just write this down quickly. because I feel like all the characters in this four-year story of mine are coming back on for an encore before the final bow. this is the year of college where I’m not just going somewhere new - I’m coming back. back to something familiar, to streets I’ve already got to know, where I know favourite spots and am ready to make new ones. and most of my friends from paris and florence and sophomore year in new york and even a few surprising (and incredible) few from cape town will be there. some of my favourite people on this whole planet are now no longer living across seas. the furthest they are is brooklyn.

new york always tore me apart and spat me out all cold and sleepy, but it also gave me this silvery slice of magic, because even on the shittiest days there’s this taste in the air of an unknowable future where anything can happen at anytime. and when it doesn’t feel like that, it teaches you to relish simple things like the taste of cold coffee on a warm summer’s evening in a park where the sky is this deep, purply blue and you are floating in anonymity like a cloud forever on the cusp of the skyline where blue meets sun orange

I woke up this morning to a rainstorm and the scent of jasmine. I will miss looking at the mountain, but I am in no rush anymore. I can only see as far as september 1st 2015, and that’s enough for now. I can only see as far as new york city


Berlin to Bulawayo: In Conversation with South African artist Thabiso Sekgala

In his photographs, Thabiso Sekgala explores the relationship between geography and social identity. He gives his series allusive, meditative titles, and his formal approach to composition is quiet but precise. Working consistently with square-framed, medium format film, he displays a sharpened consideration of geometry, illustrated by aspects in the landscape such as shadows, the painted guidelines on a street, architectural structures, and repetitive details.

Read the interview.


Images courtesy of Thabiso Sekgala and The Goodman Gallery, Johannesburg and Cape Town. All rights reserved.


“There are roughly three New Yorks. There is, first, the New York of the man or woman who was born here, who takes the city for granted and accepts its size and its turbulence as natural and inevitable. Second, there is the New York of the commuter — the city that is devoured by locusts each day and spat out each night. Third, there is the New York of the person who was born somewhere else and came to New York in quest of something. Of these three trembling cities the greatest is the last — the city of final destination, the city that is a goal. It is this third city that accounts for New York’s high-strung disposition, its poetical deportment, its dedication to the arts, and its incomparable achievements. Commuters give the city its tidal restlessness; natives give it solidity and continuity; but the settlers give it passion. And whether it is a farmer arriving from Italy to set up a small grocery store in slum, or a young girl arriving from a small town in Mississippi to escape the indignity of being observed by her neighbors, or a boy arriving from the Corn Belt with a manuscript in his suitcase and a pain in his heart, it makes no difference: each embraces New York with the intense excitement of first love, each absorbs New York with the fresh eyes of an adventurer, each generates heat and light to dwarf the Consolidated Edison Company.”

E.B. White, from "Here is New York" (via paradoxicalsentiments)

suitcase packed again, and I am still tired of missing people and places. life is this beautiful mess that I got myself into

I’m in a restaurant right now with a wall of bricks made from Himalayan salt, and my friend and I are waiting on juices and veggie burgers looking at the fingerprints on our drivers licenses. fingerprints are incredible. this is important