| laneway (sans images) |
[Thu 4 Feb / 4:45pm] |
yes, i should be in class, but my stomach disagrees. so too do two reasonably late nights in a row.
late nights! you say. briar, what shenanigans have you been up to?
oh, you know, just festivals and things.
laneway was on monday (which was auckland anniversary day and therefore a public holiday, so there was no uni) and it was excellent. i took many many photos, but there is little little space on my hard drive, so uploading them is going to be tricky. i'll do it as soon as possible, though. what i will do in the meantime is give a brief synopsis of each band i saw/glimpsed/heard-from-the-bar.
( here we go )
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| thinking |
[Sat 23 Jan / 1:05am] |
hypothetical travel arrangements, post-midnight wonderings. why/where/when/how. the who is obvious.
(me, and people i love)
because if i got the money together, why should i not go? even though my mother and probably half my compatriots would deem it foolish, why not? i miss briar of canada and the states, briar who adventured, who traversed coasts and borders and continents.
my adventures here are far less frequent, and less adventurous.
but a whirlwind two week hug-as-many-people-as-possible trip in april would be just the ticket. i have possible itineraries. i know how much money i'd need. i know where i'd go. i know who i'd see.
why does money have to get in the way of these things? because $3500 (nzd) to get to nyc, vancouver, portland, san francisco, indio... it's a lot of money. and best-selling novels don't write themselves, nor do papers write themselves and classes passed of their own accord.
but i'll still hold onto that hope, because i need those hugs, and i hope that other people need them too.
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[Fri 18 Dec / 11:28am] |
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music |
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teeth - lady gaga |
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I want a villa, white weatherboards and blue porch, with a seat in a bay window to look out into the world, an interesting letterbox, a garden that is a wild place where hibiscus and frangipani try to grow among flax and kowhai, where tui dart and dive. I want wood floors, dusty with sand from the treads of sneakers worn to the beach, and Indian hangings on the walls, a kitchen that smells like bread and hokey pokey and coffee. I want a lazy summer, papers strewn over a desk and a thousand stories trying to make their way onto them, deck chairs and typewriters, guitar serenades at dusk. I want trees to climb and grass clippings to get all over my clothes, I want roller skates to slip and slide around cul-de-sacs in.
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briarlaboheme's journal