Wednesday, July 2, 2014



A dreamy addition to a stark white room. 

Monday, June 30, 2014


What to Wear: All black, with a splash of red so you can be recognized.
What to Drink: Champagne.

Let's just get this out of the way: THIS IS THE BEST BOOK I'VE READ IN YEARS. It hit all my notes. I got lost in the story, finishing the book in two days, and I still miss it in a very real way. I usually wait awhile to reread novels, but this could be an exception. It's literary magic. From the detailed descriptions of everything within reach to the truly imaginative and tangible circus tents, I fell headlong into the world of The Night Circus. I am a true reveur. 

The Night Circus tells the stories of Celia Bowen and Marcus, two students of enchantment who have been trained in vastly different ways. Celia is practiced in discipline and showmanship, with a natural aptitude for magic (her shifty father is Prospero the Enchanter, after all), while Marcus, an orphan, learned his manipulations through books and the cryptic words of his benefactor, the mysterious Mr. A. H.— The two are preparing for a duel, set up buy their guardians, the details of which they are not privy.

The star of this story is the stage where said duel is meant to be carried out—The Night Circus itself, which appears with no warning, opening at sunset and closing at dawn. The tents are crowded with mazes made of clouds, frozen gardens, story-filled jars, perfect candied apples, a cast of captivating characters and enough dreamery to make any disbeliever blink rapidly, all contained behind a clock that morphs and moves to tell stories along with the time. Everyone who crosses the threshold (including the reader) is transported into a world so packed with fantasy and fascination, some refuse to forget it. Bailey is one such visitor, and his love of the black and white striped tents leads him down a path he could never have drawn without the pens of the circus' colorful players. 

Go pick up this book immediately. A movie version is undoubtedly in the works, and for once I'm excited to see what the cinematic minds can create from its bones, because Erin Morgenstern's visuals are made impossibly rich through words alone. Buy a ticket, peeking into as many tents as possible, or simply select a favorite and pass the hours within its confines. Become a reveur. Marvel at the Illusionist, whose tricks seem so seamless you are forced to wonder if you've left the earthly sphere. But don't ask too many questions. Some things are loved best as mysteries, and some mysteries are nothing short of magic.

Monday, June 2, 2014


I came across a brief passage by Thoreau this morning which brought to mind a favorite music video. I love when two seemingly unrelated pieces of art intersect. 

"I saw Brooks Clark, who is now about eighty and bent like a bow, hastening along the road, barefooted, as usual, with an axe in his hand; was in haste perhaps on account of the cold wind on his bare feet. When he got up to me, I saw that besides the axe in one hand, he had his shoes in the other, filled with knurly apples and a dead robin. He stopped and talked with me a few moments; said that we had had a noble autumn and might now expect some cold weather. I asked if he had found the robin dead. No, he said, he found it with its wing broken and killed it. He also added that he had found some apples in the woods, and as he hadn’t anything to carry them in, he put ’em in his shoes. They were queer-looking trays to carry fruit in. How many he got in along toward the toes, I don’t know. I noticed, too, that his pockets were stuffed with them. His old tattered frock coat was hanging in strips about the skirts, as were his pantaloons about his naked feet. He appeared to have been out on a scout this gusty afternoon, to see what he could find, as the youngest boy might. It pleased me to see this cheery old man, with such a feeble hold on life, bent almost double, thus enjoying the evening of his days. Far be it from me to call it avarice or penury, this childlike delight in finding something in the woods or fields and carrying it home in the October evening, as a trophy to be added to his winter’s store. Oh, no; he was happy to be Nature’s pensioner still, and birdlike to pick up his living. Better his robin than your turkey, his shoes full of apples than your barrels full; they will be sweeter and suggest a better tale." 

— Henry David Thoreau