I just absolutely love the simplicity, elegance, and timelessness of this poster which was created by the design legend Armin Hofmann. The poster is for the AUDI 60 which was produced from 1968-1972. Can you believe it? This is pre-photoshop era! The fact that Hofmann was able to achieve such an intriguing visual is incredible especially with the AUDI logotype, which happens to be in of my favorite typefaces Univers, reflecting off the top of the car and appearing through the back window. The off white background is a perfect choice leaving the black car resting nicely in the composition. I would love to get a hold of this poster.

Via AisleOne

Link

So I wanted to make a nostalgic music video entry cause I’ve been diving into my iTunes lately to listen to stuff I used to be super stoked on in middle school or early in highschool.

Okay, that’s enough for now.  Oh, and if you haven’t already, trek over to The Wonder Year’s myspace. They have a new song and the preorders are up for The Upsides, coming out January 26th!

Gabe xoxo

I don’t care about the fact that I look absolutely butters in this photo. It brings up awesome memories.

I want to go camping in the woods again. I remember running and hiding from the police. Walking to Tesco’s five times just to buy candles, lighters and food. Taking about 50 Tesco Direct catologues for the fire and stealing blank receipt rolls. Watching Flushed Away at 3am in the Electronics Aisle. Walking through the car park of the playground only to find people dogging. Streaking through the golf course. Making James and Dean come with me and Alice to pee. Walking Leanna back home at 10pm. ‘Borrowing’ three recycle bins so that we could use the leaves etc. to fuel the fire. Dragging the roof of the bus shelter with James, across the dual carriageway and using it to keep the rain away from the fire. Stuffing our faces with shit. Me and Alice creasing when James ate his popcorn. Dean complaining of the cold and us telling him to just shut up because we were tired and dead and tired. Talking for ages in the tent even when we were tired. Laying in the tent James, me, Alice then Dean. Me sharing a sleeping bag with James, and Alice sharing with Dean so that we could all share foot warmth. All four of us spooning and falling asleep while laughing at something ridiculous. Walking home afterwards like real life zombies.

It all didn’t happen in that order. Something I’ll always look fondly upon. Can’t wait to do it again (:

This will probably be my last post for today so, goodnight.

Love,

Kamalia.

April 6th, 2004 Old Manali, Himachal Pradesh, India.

Tea remedy for sore throats:

-malati (sweet wood)*

-cloves

-cardamon

Bring to a boil & give to a sick loved one 3x per day.

* Malati- 1 piece cuts, chew straight for thoat or cut, mash, and slice to add to tea.

Measurement: 5 rupees of each will make about 10 cups of tea.

———————————————————————————–

Tea Recipes:

Chai

-Black tea

-Milk

-Sugar

-Water

add all to pot, bring to boil, strain and serve to everyone! Guests most!

Masalla Chai

-Black pepper

-Cardamon

-Cinnamon

+ original ingredients for reg. chai

Throw all in bring to boil.

Note:

Manu really likes chai with a little cinnamon.

If you knew me, it wouldn’t take long at all to realise that I’m a hu-uuge Harry Potter fan. The whole series is great ! The action, the magic, Hogwarts, the characters.. it’s brilliant, I think.

Honestly! The worst thing about it is probably the fact that my life seems so blah compared to it. Oh, and that it’s ended. Of course I know that it had to end sometime… but I just wanted it to be sometime near to when I turn gray and senile? I miss being left on a gripping cliffhanger and itching to know what happens next in the fantasy world I love so much. It probably seems like I’m exaggerating, but that’s what it was really like to me. And now it’s not anymore. I also don’t have as much time to read the books anymore. I need to spend a whole day with a hot cup of coffee, curled on my sofa, reading from start to finish. I’m not complaining by the way, but just rambling about how I miss it, s’all :’)

Sometimes, it’d be nice to have a time-turner, invisibility cloak and pensieve. Just so that I could turn back time, go somewhere quiet, wear my invisibility cloak so nobody would see and disturb me (oh! and plus, I wouldn’t want to mess up time by me seeing me D:) and go read in peace. I would then store that memory in a pensieve. That would be pretty awesome for me.

I’m so cheesy, lame and most probably need to get a boyfriend or something.

Leave me alone.

(or I’ll use an unforgivable on you.)

Love,

Kamalia.

I want a record player for Christmas, and I want some Coltrane, and Miles, and Billie Holiday records… and I want to listen to them on a cold morning, snuggled under a blanket with no particular place to be.

Black Friday.

As if it’s trying to live upto the name, Black Friday here in Boston is pretty dreary. It’s been raining all day.

Wet.

Cold.

Dark.

My family and I had brunch at my favorite place in the South End, and the scenery was beautiful in a very New England-y way. As I stared at the rain washing away all the colors of the streets, I felt a pang of nostalgia for my last summer. Frolicking in the never ending luscious green grass fields, driving on a narrow straight road with nothing but grass fields and the clear blue sky, and feeling so liberated

So I decided to search through my yet to be organized 13,546 pictures (remnants of last summer’s wanderlust in european countrysides). I’ve selected quite a few beautiful pieces, and as soon as I’m done editing them and designing the layout, you’ll get to see my summer 2009 photo-journal!

Above is the working cover page. The colors have NOT been tampered with. Isn’t it just great? Oh how I love nature.

Every so often we come across photographs that make us feel. You know what I’m talking about? Photographs that stop you in your track and make you say “Shit.” Photographs that transport you to another place, maybe even another time. Sometimes you can’t even define what you’re feeling, it just seems like a flux of emotions all at one time and one minute you’re here and the next you’re there, and maybe I’m getting a little too poetic with this but what I’m trying to say is that I want to introduce you to Columbus, Ohio native Anna Verlet. Her photographs made me feel this way.

Anna goes about her work with an admirable delicacy and there seems to be something so nostalgic and pure in the air of every shot. The photographs you’re about to see are all film which only serves to reemphasize my point that digital sucks out the beautiful mood that only analogue can provide. I hope you guys get as much out of this collection as I did.

Hop on over to flickr to see more from Anna and give me a shout on twitter or facebook. I’d love to hear from you!

Just when you think you’re prepared for life, it’s decreed you don’t need to be. Just when you think you’re ready to shoulder the world, you’re told you’re not Atlas.

Amongst all the permutations and combinations of situations, I was going through in my head this was something that I didn’t give a thought to. Easy to guess why it has slipped my mind. I’m not relieved, like I’m expected to be, but a kind of sadness is sweeping in. Did I find what I was looking for or did I lose what I found? Wonder if I failed or passed my test. I wonder what the test was, or if at all it was a test.

But the recent happenings did make me look at some things more intricately. Specially the importance of some people in my life, and the lack thereof of some others. Most people reacted the way I expected them to. I wonder if I acted the way I was expected to, in the first place!

I can’t thank everyone enough for being there even if one said she won’t be at my corner because I was making a mistake and another for actually questioning if I could discern the right from the wrong from where I stood, keeping in mind morals seemed to be getting the upper hand over pragmatic existence.

I’m thankful to the people who shed the tears. For they meant a lot to me. For once I knew I wouldn’t be doing it alone. For someone young enough to be my kid to say that she’d help whatever way she can, meant a lot. As did an ex-roomie saying that once his job gets confirmed he would help financially. Or a friend, I haven’t talked to for sometime, offering consultation on Facebook, easing away most of the fears. Also important were all the people who said that they were proud of me for I needed to know that I was doing the right thing. It’s hard to make choices. Specially if you’re not making them all for yourself. And the right is just the one after the wrong – most times.

It brought into perspective my own inscrutable, incorrigible immaturity and how I was in fault of passing it on. Almost.  Also, it opened up to me, how even after my tumultuous relationship with my parents, I vie for their approval. I’m glad I wrote that unsent letter to my parents for it showed me who I was, to me. Yeah, the eternal prodigal son coming back home. Everytime.

But of all everything that passed helped me discover the one person I don’t mind holding on to for the rest of my life. Maybe I’ll get a chance at redemption!
This time I’ll make sure the settings are right.

Today my facebook status said – Just when you thnk you’re prepared, its decreed you don’t need to be. Thanks to all my friends for being there. You can have other plans in December now – but it meant much more than that.

Sometimes things are more than a Facebook status message. They are real. And happening to you. They are life itself. But like all things past and all things future, they too will befriend you, albeit after scaring the living daylights out of you. But later you’ll be sitting together and patting each other’s back. And then someday look back in reminiscence. For in the end, you’ll walk away wiser, learning to see, that bit clearer. And that’s life for you, my child.

On Thanksgiving in 2006, I was reminiscing with my Aunt Pat and Uncle Andy about our frequent outings to New York City when I was little. I was remembering walks in the park, movies in midtown, fancy restaurants. One time I asked for ketchup with my steak…Wasn’t that silly of me? I laughed. Good thing my taste has improved as I have gotten older. Ah, good times.

My aunt and uncle looked at me incredulously, and then my Aunt Pat said, “Jennifer, we only took you to the City twice.”

I was speechless.

Before you say to yourself – here is yet another example of how Jen has created an alternate reality in her head – I will beat you to it. Clearly, my memory of spending time with Pat and Andrew was a bit exaggerated, but with good reason. To a precocious girl of nine years, it was extremely meaningful that a sophisticated couple like Aunt Pat and Uncle Andrew took an interest in me.

I thought their life together was fascinating. They complimented each other perfectly. Pat was fun-loving and Andy had a wicked sense of humor. She laughed frequently and with abandon and he had plenty of material to fuel her outbursts of laughter. They enjoyed each other’s company and spent many afternoons or evenings sitting in their backyard or on their porch, Pat enjoying a cocktail while Andrew smoked his pipe. They enjoyed music, visited museums, read lots of books. They were an intellectual couple, eschewing TV-watching to such a degree that they only had a small black and white television set which was hidden in a closet. As a child, that fact was simultaneously maddening and admirable.

They were also fascinating to me as individuals. Pat made me want to be a working woman. Her life seemed glamorous as she ventured into New York City each day to work at a prestigious company like IBM. Pat’s career achievements were especially notable since she was one of few women in the technology field in the 1970s. I was amazed at her ability and willingness to be a pioneer. Pat showed me that it was worthwhile to strive and it paid off to make your own rules.

My Uncle Andrew was a writer, a career choice I found intriguing. I loved sneaking off to pore over Andrew’s stash of Cracked magazines, and I would spend an hour just skimming old issues for his writing and jokes. I thought it was remarkable that his observations on life were so sharp and witty that someone wanted to publish them in print.  My aunt and uncle were urbane, and I wanted to be like them.

Even in light of these outward achievements, Pat and Andy were extremely accessible people, and their approach to Thanksgiving was embodied how warm and inclusive they were. Each year when I arrived to their house there was someone new: a distant cousin of Pat’s from West Virginia who happened to be in town, a coworker from decades ago, a friend who couldn’t make it home to visit his family, a fellow cyclist who just wanted to join the fun. It never occurred to either Pat or Andrew that they shouldn’t invite more people over, that there might not be enough chairs or enough food. They just embraced everyone and let the rest work itself out. It always did.

As I grew into adulthood our relationship evolved into friendship. Aunt Pat and Uncle Andrew mentored me, encouraging me to follow my instincts, to take calculated risks with my career, and to make the most of the life I have to live. When I contemplated leaving public education for a career in the corporate world, they helped me put aside my doubts and take the leap. That decision was a defining one in my life, and their faith in me was crucial at a time when I was unsure of myself. After twelve years in the corporate world I yearned to start my own consulting firm, and again Pat and Andrew encouraged me to trust in my abilities and in myself. As a result a whole new world of opportunities has become available to me.

I continued to uncover new reasons to appreciate each of them. I noted the depth of my Uncle Andrew’s kindness and generosity toward others. Whether he was visiting my ailing grandparents multiple times per day or spending hours coaching aspiring cyclists who don’t know how to get started, he never expected anything in return. Andrew demonstrated to me how caring for other people makes one’s own life more significant.

As I learned more about my Aunt Pat, it was her bravery that struck me. Pat survived two World Trade Center bombings and helped others to safety both times. She and I spoke over the phone on September 14, 2001 when I was living in Texas, and I was surprised to realize she was comforting me because I was far from our family, even though she was the one who had just had a near-death experience, days before.

Andrew’s caring and Pat’s bravery was the crux of their relationship during their last years together on Earth. Pat was extremely brave during a battle with cancer that lasted over two years, and I know her strength was grounded in how Andy attended to her. Pat needed to be as fun-loving as her body would allow, and Andy facilitated that by enabling her to stay at home and have as close to a “normal” life as possible. Even the day before Pat died, she and I sat on her front porch with her daughter and her sister, telling stories while Pat nursed a martini. It was clear she was losing strength, but she wouldn’t let her spirit be subdued by her fading body. I am appreciative to Pat for being so brave and to Andy for creating an environment in which she could be that way. I am indebted to both of them for leaving me with such an indelible happy memory of her.

I am unbelievably thankful for having had someone like Aunt Pat in my life. I am extremely grateful to still have Uncle Andrew with me now. There is no doubt in my heart that I will be given the opportunity to see them together again, because Pat and Andrew are soulmates. I feel lucky to have witnessed their relationship.

Happy Thanksgiving.

the utah thing started with desert solitaire, edward abbey’s book about wild places and humanity. my ex-partner, the american, gave me a copy when we were first in love, and after we broke up we decided to rendezvous in salt lake city for a week of adventure. our first night in town, someone stole his hunting knife while we cooked dinner in the hostel. we left the next morning, taking the bus to a spot just south of provo and then walking out to the highway. it was sunday: the minivans and suvs flew past us non-stop, but every seat was filled. after spending the night sleeping near a gravel pit, we managed to hitch five good rides (all stories in themselves), and were suddenly in moab.

i love utah.

i’m thinking about the desert, and trying to remember what it felt like to be so hot, to have so much sun that you’d actually avoid it. that first visit to utah, it was november and though the days were warm and sunny, it rained at night and i bought a sweater at the mormon-run version of value village. the second trip, when i drove down with another partner-at-the-time, it was june and we baked to the degree that it actually limited our activities: hiking could only be done from 3 pm to 7 pm, between the lessening of the heat and the arrival of darkness, and anything else had to be in close proximity to either ample water or air conditioning. luckily we found the creek that the bike punks in slc had told us about, and the moab library was not only cool, it has won awards for being an amazing small-town facility.

if you and i are in love with each other, chances are we’ll go to utah at some point or another.

It lied there. Forgotten, caked in the dried blood of what may have been a Russian Cossack, or a British Dragoon. Perhaps, it was the blood of a general or, perhaps, just of a simple infantryman. The soft grey blade rested amongst the stems of grass, it’s grim ornamentation glistening in the noon sun.
I touched the hilt and felt the twisted leather’s rough texture underneath my palm. I pulled it free from it’s prison and raised it above my head. Unlike what I had heard from those who tell stories, it did not shine brilliantly. The only thing that happened was that more light was cast upon the scratched, bloody surface.
I wondered, with some childish excitement, who could have held a sword as fine as this. It could have been a  mounted cavalryman or an officer, perhaps even a general! I lowered it and dragged it’s edge along the grass, watching the grass bending underneath the blade. Holding it in my hand, I could feel the power, the essence of it’s glorious owner overtaking me. I imagined that I was the Emperor himself, riding into battle, the cavalry of the Guard struggling to keep up with me and artillery firing in the distance, the loud explosions frightening man and beast alike. Of course, that’s not how it happens. He doesn’t ride into battle like a suicidally brave soldier. He stays behind the lines and plans, thoughts and strategies swirling in his mind, until he comes up with something so perfect that it cannot fail. And, usually, it doesn’t. He has tasted defeat, of course, but not nearly as much as his enemies.
Slowly dragging the sword behind me, I left the field and stood on the road that led to a city. I imagined that along this road with me walk the grenadiers, fusiliers and many other soldiers, the music of the drummers ringing in my ears, the song of these frightening citizen-soldiers striking fear into the hearts of the enemy.
I sang with them that day. I walked along the dusty dirt road and sang every song I knew, whether it was a marching song I heard from the storytellers or a lullaby my mother taught me.
I could see the ghosts of the past coming back to life in the fields around me. Tens of thousands of soldiers rose from the fields, like armies doomed to fight for an eternity. To my sides stood the fusiliers, the glorious Guard, the cuirassiers  and carabiniers with their shining armour. On the opposite side stood the the vile enemy, who only come to burn the land, steal treasure and enslave us.
As quickly as they appeared, the ghosts vanish. I sit down in the shade of a tree and wait, minutes passing slowly as I lean on the sword, staring at a ditch in front of me. Perhaps, this reality is better than the one I imagined. It is peaceful now. The sea is not far. Birds sing as they soar across the sky and the lazy spring dust settles upon the road I’ve walked since I was born. The snow had already melted and the may sun sends it’s warmth down to us earth dwellers.
I heard something and looked to the skies. It sounded like a dragon, roaring and spitting fire, but there was nothing.
I stood once more and walked into the centre of the road. Dust was  being raised in the distance.
This was something I had not seen before.
Slowly, it was moving towards me – the cloud of dust, so thick I couldn’t see anything. It was frightening, but I held firm the sword and stood my ground. It was closer now and I could make out what was coming.
Barrels jutted like spikes from the cloud as the tanks neared, the black crosses on their sign appearing as the eyes of the beast. Tracks pressed into the dirt, but the war machines moved swiftly.
My father had spoken of them. He saw some, in the War. The roaring returned and I looked up. This time, the sky was filled with dark shapes. Many dark shapes, similar to still birds, their wings extended. Hundreds, maybe.
The dust cloud was now only a few kilometres away and I could see the trucks, the war machines, artillery. I stood on the side of the road, to let them by.
The steel beast passed me, it’s dark grey frame like a monster from ghost stories. They were all grey. The machines, the trucks, the artillery and even the soldiers. A single man broke off the final column and approached me. He asked me what was I doing here and I answered, with unnecessary bravado, that I was watching for the enemy and defending my homeland. He just laughed.
He removed a small blue helmet from his side and placed it on my head. Now, I was a real soldier. With another laugh, he stood back up and appeared much taller than he was before. He grinned down at me and said, with a heavy accent:
“To protect your homeland, you’ll need a lot more than a stick and a helmet.”
And then he left, running after his platoon. I dropped the stick, which until now was a sword, and ran towards home. That day, I learned a lesson. Sometimes, the enemy is far closer thank you think. And sometimes, he is not even my enemy.

Here are a few pictures from the fashion spread Marloes Horst did for Marie Claire Italy’s December issue. I’m really  loving the pictures so much the 80s styling along with the colouring of the shots all has this nostalgic feeling which is crazy!. I’m also pretty sure the only reason I posted this is because it reminds me of my mum’s savvy fashion sense. I loves it!

IMG|SOURCE: Marie Claire

My Rendition of Deliverance

Does my peeling flesh not tell you that I’ve changed?
Does my blood not baptise me in your mould?
My tongue pierced into pieces of songs that you sang,
The dust of my bones shines on our grave,
I’m you as you wanted; discarded and blamed,
Maybe it was me, yeah it was me…you decreed it.
Did I not clothe you in my skin,
Sewn together with my sinews?
Was that not me, was that not you.
Gouged my eyes with your hands,
Yet I see not you.
I’ve failed you tell me, have I not?
I deserved it – you instill into me,
I do, do I not?
For what am I –
Unskinned, unfleshed, baptised in blood…but you.

What happens when the Universe is revealed to you in a single moment, filling you with love, desire, hope, fear, despair, longing, and complete joy? When the full range of human emotion is suddenly conveyed, then gone just as quickly…

With a four week production schedule and a love song of sorts, we travelled back in time to the late seventies and joined a cult of psychonauts to make a video about alien panther love, ontology, and inter-dimensional space travel.

Video by Buck. Check out the website to watch the video at higher quality, check out some stills, and even download the video if you want.

The rain continues to fall
Drowning out all that’s forgotten to the surface
Emotions are numbed by such bitter winds
The sound of droplets falling echoes through the scenery
For a brief moment, the clouds parted
But no light shined through

A parading line of black marched along a familiar road
Suits and ties to the right,
Dresses and lace on the left
Each held a lily, and paid their respect
As if the skies has taken all their pain
No one shed a tear

The rainy season brings forth a nostalgic smell,
As ripples form once more
A smell I do not want to recall
If wishing is not enough, what more must be done
Just a little bit more time, allowing to regain what was taken
Something was missed, yet only a blank is drawn

Leftover is a smile
Promises that binds us each
On frozen time, each year this day
It shall rain; that is written
The group will continue to gather until world’s end
That night, the sky continued to cry for the lost