my stars

THIS post by Elizabeth of White Lightning is incredible. Read it, ogle the pictures, and die a million little deaths from all the awe and jealousy and inspiration coursing through your veins. And note the variety of ages, genders, races, and aesthetics amalgamated in that little room...the times they are a changin'.

insight.

I'm not sure when the people around me will realize that when I get up in the morning and pick out my outfit and do my makeup and blowdry my hair, it is solely for my own benefit. I'm not even attempting to attract or impress anyone with the way I present myself. My chosen form of expression is my style. I wear "weird" things sometimes. So what?

the view from where i sit is rather grey

In drear-nighted December,

Too happy, happy tree,

Thy branches ne'er remember

Their green felicity:

The north cannot undo them

With a sleety whistle through them;

Nor frozen thawings glue them

From budding at the prime.

In drear-nighted December,

Too happy, happy brook,

Thy bubblings ne'er remember

Apollo's summer look;

But with a sweet forgetting,

They stay their crystal fretting,

Never, never petting

About the frozen time.

Ah! would 'twere so with many

A gentle girl and boy!

But were there ever any

Writhed not at passed joy?

The feel of not to feel it,

When there is none to heal it

Nor numbed sense to steel it,

Was never said in rhyme.

Seattle winters could crush you with their interminable grey-ness. Poem: In drear-nighted December, John Keats. Photos: vi.sualize, Pringle of Scotland Pre-Fall, Rag and Bone.