monicamendal

[monicamendal]

finding her light

She lied there naked on his bed, deliberately stretching her body to its most attractive form. With her stomach rooting deeply into the mattress and the small of her back lifted, she was able to create that irresistible feminine curve she knew he adored.  He sat hunched in a chair on the other side of the room peering out the window overlooking Driggs Avenue. Some obscure African funk record from the ‘70s spun on the wooden dresser between them. He took a drag from his cigarette. She looked at him hoping that their eyes might meet. When they didn’t, she turned towards the window at the edge of the bed, making subtle movements in an effort to attract his attention while still maintaining the alignment of her body with conscious control. His gaze remained fixed out the window. 

It was a hot August day with no breeze. The street on which he lived was quiet and residential– nothing so much as people walking in and out of the brick apartment building across the street was worth much observation.  He took another drag. She surveyed the room. He hadn’t collected much during his decade of travels and soul searching so it was relatively bare, save for the bookshelf that spanned the front wall. Along side a large and probably impressive collection of records rested literature by Dostoyevsky, Tolstoy, Miller and Hesse. And the bible – this one surprised her; it seemed inconsistent with the free-spirited and cynical nature of his character, though the mere discrepancy of his being both free-spirited and cynical was not lost on her. The record met its final song. She looked back at him realizing she had not felt his eyes land on her. She opened her mouth to say something for if she didn’t, she worried that their silence would fill the room for the remainder of the day. Though when she realized she had nothing to say, she swallowed her impulse to speak. They remained anchored to their silence. 

When he finally turned to look at her, his gaze burned her as if the sun from the window had just cast a shadow on the side of her face. She turned towards him to meet it. His stare stirred her insides with an electrifying amalgamation of her own sexual desire and the longing to be desired. Though as she stared deeper into his gaze, she noticed that he was watching her with the same dazed intensity with which he watched the people walking in and out of the brick apartment building across the street. It was a vastly empty gaze. She wasn’t the focused target in his depth of field; his vision was entirely blurred inhibiting his ability to truly see her. In this moment, the vapid nature of his stare was unfamiliar; it was as though he had entirely withdrawn from her. She turned away quickly as if she had been starring into the sun too long.  

Turning back towards the window, he took his last long drag. A drop of sweat rolled down his chest to the floor. He dropped his cigarette into the ashtray and walked over to the record player to switch vinyls. He lied on the bed next to her, though palpably distant, they listened to an old man’s voice recount the story of the peace pipe in an indigenous language. He read the story that was written in English off of the record sleeve and offered his interpretation. She remained silent.

Before he entered her life, there was an air of lightness that perpetually surrounded her. She was an energetic young thing with a free spirit, conquering the world that belonged to her because no other world existed. Perhaps she was naïve before she met him, but she never questioned her worth.  It was her self-assurance that initially drew him to her. Though the closer she got to him, the sooner her sparkle began to dissolve. She quickly lost herself in his darkness. His insecurities and cynicism suffocated her in a stoic cloud of self-doubt and a brooding image of herself. Her lightness stifled. 

He interrupted the silence, “Are you hungry? Do you want me to make some French toast?” 

She said she had to go. 

He walked her downstairs. It was a goodbye that felt to her more significant than others. As she walked out of his building and onto Driggs Avenue, she realized quickly without having to let the complete thought enter her stream of consciousness that this would be the last goodbye they exchanged. Neither of them had to say it and she wasn’t quite convinced that he knew it too, but she was certain that this would be the last time she saw him so she proceeded back into the light.

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jw anderson resort 15. mic drop. 

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dream girl sandals. thanks tomas maier

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Carlotta and @imbehrens in a @rosamosario_official dream world

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If the evening went on late enough, he might just say, let's go to London. And he would call his pilot, and next thing, we'd be in an airplane. I learned to bring my passport to dinner.

Mia Farrow on Frank Sinatra

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The people on this road see the moments of suffering as pieces of a larger narrative. They are not really living for happiness, as it is conventionally defined. They see life as a moral drama and feel fulfilled only when they are enmeshed in a struggle on behalf of some ideal.... The stumbler doesn’t build her life by being better than others, but by being better than she used to be. Unexpectedly, there are transcendent moments of deep tranquillity. For most of their lives their inner and outer ambitions are strong and in balance. But eventually, at moments of rare joy, career ambitions pause, the ego rests, the stumbler looks out at a picnic or dinner or a valley and is overwhelmed by a feeling of limitless gratitude, and an acceptance of the fact that life has treated her much better than she deserves. Those are the people we want to be.

http://www.nytimes.com/2015/04/12/opinion/sunday/david-brooks-the-moral-bucket-list.html?_r=0

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celine pre fall of my dreams

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tgif, let's dance.

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I interrupt your regular fashion week programming to bring you the prettiest #tbt on your instagram feed. Mom in tahiti 1980 💙

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mom in cartagena, 1980 somethin'

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more spring trends on this qt @phoebecollingsjames in the march issue @glamourmag

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I would go to parties with Robert just to check out the dames. They were good material and knew how to dress. Ponytails and silk shirtwaist dresses.

Patti Smith, Just Kids

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sheer perfection.

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"God, I'm just a fat bald guy, 60 years old, singing the blues, you know?" in memory of a legend... rip

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sometimes a curtis mayfield lullaby is the only kind (at home)