Thursday, December 24, 2015

How do you picture yourself in old age?


My sweet ole mother says she imagines her life's twilight in a retirement home, sharing a room with her sister (who has impeccable taste and will make of retirement-home-life oh so exquisite.) All of this is biologically unlikely, as my dad has got far better life-expectancy genes than my mom.

But whatever.

Old age is not something that worries me at 20.

But then, if I could choose

at an old age I would have a bunchload of grandchildren, a beach house, or maybe a country house, I'd still be working but at an easy pace. Hopefully I'll no longer live in Chile.


Honestly, I think I want it to be pretty much the same life I'm going to have at 20, 30, 40, and 50. Sweet, surrounded by people and places I love, and relatively busy.

So there.

What about you?

Monday, December 14, 2015

Creations


These are pictures of scrapbook pages I made in yonder the times of 9th grade. A time of obsession for the stuff.

We all go through said obsessions. The itch to create, to feel that some way or another we are leaving a mark on the world, is almost universal. Some do it through enviable Instagram pages, some through beautifully threaded poems, some through mindfucking academia, some 16 year old Anas do it cutting and pasting paper and pictures into scrapbook pages.

I spent so much time and money on scrapbooking. It can seem ridiculous.

But the obsessed know that there's no such thing.


Anyhow, I've begun a summer journal and apparently my hands have lost the knack of creativity because omg it's looking ugly. I resorted to Tumblr for help and created a page dedicated solely to papery inspiration ( prettyjournaling.tumblr.com ) and all along I feel like I should stop dedicating stupid time to paper things that not even I see and just share shtuff with you guys. <3 br="" nbsp=""> Anyways, if you can redirect me to help or help me yourselves with the journaling thangs I would be thankful.

Love,
Ana

Monday, December 7, 2015

Turkey




Not quite sure why I'd never shared my analogues from the Eurotrip last year. I'll be uploading them by bits as of now I've got no time to blog :( Sadness abounds. But I pinky promise that this madness will soon be over.

Sunday, November 29, 2015

Home is Underrated


Tumblr is a virtual, communal ode to a few things:

Sex.
Aesthetics.
Travelling.

(The list is a lot longer, but, given that I'm of the hipster niche of Tumblr, even if I tried to complete this list it wouldn't be representative. Let's just bump everthing else into aesthetics and move on to the topic of this blog post.)

Travelling is overrated.

Yes, this is coming from the absurdly privileged burgeois girl that has literally been on all continents and on many more than once. I have traipsed a ridiculous number of miles in only 20 years and 20 days, and it has been awesome but honestly all I want right now is to

stay.

My life motto as of late has been the beauty of the microscopic surpasses infintely that of the macroscopic and with that emblem on my chest I am discovering that no longer do I need to find the new, more, different, but rather, I want to dwelve into the comfort of the places I know. More accurately still, I want to rediscover and examine the details of the places I thought I knew and discover that there's beauty still, always, forever.

Thrill < Calm

After too much travelling, all I want to do is stay.

Monday, November 23, 2015

Hi


*Pictures of my trip in April to NYC*



What is thy mouth to me?
A cup of sorrowful incense,
A tree of keen leaves,
An eager high ship,
A quiver of superb arrows.
What is thy breast to me?
A flower of new prayer,
A poem of firm light,
A well of cool birds,
A drawn bow trembling.
What is thy body to me?
A theatre of perfect silence,
A chariot of red speed;
And O, the dim feet
Of white-maned desires!

-ee cummings






Monday, October 26, 2015

Redhead

Me before:



Me now:


I am one happy Anne of Green Gables/Rita Hayworth/Lucile Ball/Jessica Rabbit/Lindsay Lohan in de goode timez.

Loves,
Ana

Sunday, October 18, 2015

It's all so quiet



I've been a bit silent over here. I'm sorry, because ily guys so much. Blogging has been an utterly huge part of my life, and I owe it more gratitude and care.

So here are some pretty pictures I took a few months ago. In compensation.

Lovu blog, lovu blog readers.




Monday, September 7, 2015

For the love of lists: Things that make me happy


Because it's never too harmful to remind oneself that life is full of tiny huge gifts of joy, here are some things that make me happy:

Flowers. Tea. Getting my nails done. Creating a great new outfit. Books (or the idea of 'em, because I have lost all of my reading habits.) Great music as in jazz and Greenday and Fleet Foxes and Chilean folklore and classical and cheap disco music. CHILDREN. Friends that matter. Beautiful days. Trench coats. The smell of old paperbacks. When my room is finally tidy. Pretty houses. The sea. Puppies and kitties and the fact that I can indeed love both at the same time. Getting flirted. Food. Pretty streets. Live music. Art. Fridays. Lipstick. Developing them analogues. Trees. Wind. Rain. Clear blue skies. Laying on the grass with the sun flirting with me. Did I mention flirting? Poetry. Poetry books. Did I mention books?

I am sorry readers but spring has arrived and the grey cloud of moodiness spicing my blog posts has left. I am an existentialist as ever but right now I'm just enjoying the magnolias.

So there, I just created a life motto.

"But right now I'm just enjoying the magnolias."

Love,
Ana

Thursday, September 3, 2015

Sand n Waves


Not quite sure why I hadn't shared these pictures yet, because I find them fascinatingly languorous, somewhat like a perfect jazz song.

(From my trip in February to Dominican Republic.)





Friday, August 28, 2015

10 Steps To Being Fun Again


I have become the epitome of boringness. My Twitter shows it. Life has become a mud-puddle of studying-working-doing, in which I'm splashing around in and where's the fun in dat. (OMG I just turned splashing into something boring.)

How can I make life interesting again? Let's see:

1) Set new challenges.
2) Partaying is important. It gives you thrills.
3) Chase dem boys more.
4) Read pretty books and watch pretty movies <3 font="">
5) Get out of this fucking depressive citay
6) Go back to my lit club <3 font="">
7) Discover new music
8) Go to the theatre more.
9) Break that effing routine.
10) Decide to be happy.

This year has been so freaking hard on me. I am going to get over it, I am going to be happy again. It just needs to get done.

Pardon moi over the depressively barren blog post. It's just a reflection of my depressively barren life.

Toodles.

Sunday, August 2, 2015

Phoney Sunday


I'm going to cheat at Phoney Sunday because I'm the the executive, judicial, and legislative power of this blog therefore I CAN!!!! Muahahahaaaaaa.

Anyways, these pictures are tidbits representing the last few weeks of my life, not just the past week as is the idea of Phoney Sunday. Yolo.







PS. Follow me on instagram @anaruizboogers

Friday, July 31, 2015

beautiful thangs



Sometimes the world seems dreary. Humanity like a lost thing. Your life a predictable unraveling of events, study-work-marry-die. And you bury your face into your pillow and crawl deeper into the huge black hole developing in the center of your chest.

But why?

Why feel like this in a world with

books

and music

and Tumblr

and Rookie.

Why feel like this in a world with

mothers

and babies

,animals of all sorts

and plants that give off shade and colour.

Why feel like this when you can

have sex

or ice cream

or masturbate

or dance

alone, in your room, to your favourite music.




Sometimes, I am startled by beautiful things. As if they hadn't been there, at arms reach, all along. The news and politics aim at our despairing over the world's suckiness, but, honestly, it doesn't really suck.

Friday, July 10, 2015

Lyrics


If you have the privilege of understanding Spanish, please do listen to Jorge Drexler. He's an Uruguayan musician, and perhaps his music is good, but I really just listen to him for the lyricis.



And, as many people before me have said, the charmiest of charms about the Spanish language is its gentle sensuality, its poetic musicality and rich sounds and words. I will never know if my love for Chilean folkloric music comes from the beauty of its lyrics, or from the earthiness of its sounds. Honestly, it's a conflict that doesn't need resolution.



English is a harder deal. There's beautiful lines such as Between the click of the light and the start of a dream to which I owe Arcade Fire eternal gratitude. And, so, so many Fleet Foxes aphorisms that I would tatoo all over my body in order to become a more beautiful human being. And, of course, the immortal Smiths, with their treasure chest full of enigmatic lyrics, and oh, why not quote the most clichéd and gorgeous of 'em all, To die by your side is such a heavenly way to die.


Please, dear readers, do recommend songs that vibrate with the words woven into them. There is nothing I enjoy more than poetry made music.

Thursday, July 9, 2015

An Ode to LM Montgomery


The first "grown-up" book I ever read was Anne of Green Gables, in third grade. Thereupon beginning a new epoque in my life.

Years later, whilst roaming my school library, I stumbled upon a most surreal reality: Anne was not one book, but many.

And so, the "mere epoque" spun out into many years of reading and re-reading, of discovering the Emilys and rebelling against associating the Anne from the movie to the Anne from my dreams. 

The Anne from my dreams became my imaginary friend, the one whom I whispered secrets to at night. And then the Anne transmuted into the recipient of my diary's letters, dear old Anne, because she surely understood.

Understood about dreams and about fairyland and about crazy assaults of the imaginations which make you cringe with the unspeakability of them. Oh, Anne, she was wont to understand how my love for the sea hurt, how flowers had a joy elixir within their petals that I craved all winter long, how the raindrop on the roof was the music that fairies danced to at their balls, and how trees had souls and were infinitely, infinitely wise.




It's been over a year since I last read a truly bewitching book. It was Metaphysics of the Tubes by Amélie Nothomb, in May of 2014. And I was beginning to fear for my reading habits, for my reading needs, when I decided to crack open the Emily books again.

Last night, I read for hours after going to bed. I had almost forgotten that books are stronger than circadian cycles.

After an hour or two of traipsing through Prince Edward Island, I broke into tears and reiterated "Thank you God"s. 

And thank you, LM Montgomery, for letting me discover through the pages of your literary daughters a passion for reading (and a passion for nature, and for learning, and for home sweet homes.)

And thank you, LM Montgomery, for reminding me of this passion for reading when I feared for it the most. (Damn you Law School.)

Sunday, July 5, 2015

More from September


Memories from the forgotten envelope of analogues I found a while back.

September's my favorite month and here's why.




Friend Ships


Friendships are confusing because, as most things, they're things of gloss and sprinkles when first acquired

and full o' flaws when already gone through the washing machine several times.


And after all that wear,

all them flaws you've come across,
you have

to take out the calculator,


and count.


Is the sum o' these flaws just what make it your favourite sweater


or a mere piece of clothing you have to wear less often.







(I have friends who are not perfect, in fact, are far from perfect, friends who live continents away, and friends whom I have to constantly be consoling. But it's worth it.


And I have friends that have not as many flaws, but oh the pointedness of the ones they indeed have, make of them the people whom you would depend on for no more than "hanging."


This is not groundbreaking.


But it's the kind of thing that every so often


needs to be said.)




PS. Clarification: Just as poetry can be written in prose, I sometimes attempt to write prose in verse. I wasn't really trying to write poetry. I just like to press the enter bar.

Sunday, June 21, 2015

Yer Olde Talke Aboute Hesse


Hermann Hesse is probably one of my favourite writers of all time. Which is probably a bit unfair, because I've only read Siddhartha, Steppenwolf, and Demian.

Siddhartha I looooved. Which is also totally unfair, because I really did read it at the perfect moment. I was going back to yoga, eating a lot of fruit, utterly happy about my life, and this book seemed like complete illumination and I just couldn't stop crying.

Demian was fine, but I knew nothing about Hesse's obsession about Eastern thought when I read it and I was like wtf half the time. I think that if I read it again my thriving psychomagicness would do a tribal dance over the cadaver of my dead rationalism.

And I just finished Steppenwolf, which at first made me think "this book really gets me. Fuck burgeouis ethos." But I did not enjoy it much and I don't think any of its profound psychobabble really got through to me.

But still, Hesse's probably one of my favourite authors of all time. GO BEATNIK FEELZ.



Thursday, June 18, 2015

September





The best part about analogues, is that you can forget about their existence until their rediscovery at the back of a drawer.

Pictures from September 2013.
Related Posts Plugin for WordPress, Blogger...