< Back to all posts
  • to be sorted later » "the smell of her L'Air du Temps perfume"

    to be sorted later » "the smell of her L'Air du Temps perfume"

    July is here, and my horoscopes rule right now. Thanks, new moon in Cancer!

    Maybe you pooh-pooh at horoscopes. That’s fine. But still, you might consider this, whether you’re my fellow Aries or not:

    There are different ways to open up your world and bring clean air into your life. Some weeks bring new sights; this week brings new ways of seeing what’s always been here. There’s just too much in the world for us to see it all at once. This week, try letting your eyes adjust to the light. How lucky you are — there’s so much left to surprise you. There’s so much left to learn. (via The Cut) 

    And what about this?

    Don’t wait for anyone to behave the way you want them to behave. Don’t try to convince anyone of anything. Let go of other people’s reactions entirely. There’s an army of people inside you. Like, seriously, there’s a posse. If this sounds woo-woo, fine. But if you find yourself alone this month, I want to remind you that you aren’t doing anything wrong. (via Lenny Letter

    Does that sound “woo-woo” to you? If so, pooh-pooh on you. 

    Now, what am I sorting through in July, besides the relative positions of the stars and planets? 

    Sorting through sumthin' sumthin'

    Maxwell. So much Maxwell. BlackSUMMERS'night is here (not to be confused with BLACKsummers'night from 2009) and it appears I am still Maxwell's target demographic. Yes, it's true: I am an adult woman. (The NY Times cleared this up for me.) And while I am 100% serious about my love of Maxwell and his new album, I am also 100% laughing over the following excerpt from said NY Times article:

    So he retreated for a second time, filling his days with “a lot of Netflix, listening to music, traveling, days on the beach,” Maxwell said. “Sex is awesome, too, when you throw it in here and there.” All served as fuel for songwriting.

    Maxwell is living everyone's dream life, basically. Netflix, the beach, and sex (here and there)! All while speaking "in an intimate, low murmur" and maintaining "a movie-star aura." I still can't fully wrap my brain around the idea of his lake by the ocean, but that's okay. It's just right, it's just left.

    Sorting through the stacks

    The Girls. Read this book, please. Never have I ever read something that so perfectly captured the inner longings of a teenage girl in such a terrifying and unfamiliar yet familiar way. I swear, I wasn't in a cult as a teen, and my parents were rad. But I still get Evie Boyd. Her loneliness and longing, power and helplessness. I remember being 14. Oh, I remember. 

    There are many paragraphs and lines to quote from this gorgeous debut novel, but I'll give you this one:

    "I unwrapped two cloudy sticks from their silver jackets. Feeling something adjacent to love, next to Tamar, thighs scudding on the vinyl seat. Girls are the only ones who can really give each other close attention, the kind we equate with being loved. They noticed what we want noticed. And that's what I did for Tamar—I responded to her symbols, to the style of her hair and clothes and the smell of her L'Air du Temps perfume, like this was data that mattered, signs that reflected something of her inner self. I took her beauty personally." 

    Now I'm reading Homegoing, which so far is proving to be yet another incredibly impressive debut novel. I'm on a winning streak with my summer reading right now. My summer reading is UNAPOLOGETICALLY FLY right now. (I emailed myself a note last week to "be unapologetically fly," plus the Queen emoji, for reasons that are now a mystery to me. But I feel unapologetically fly every time I look at it.)

    Sorting through the miscellany

    In India, Arundhati Roy is on the cover of Elle. She goes to the gym every day; she's "part of a very wonderful and strange community of people who all live alone"; and writing fiction is her form of prayer. I think I'm in love with her. 

    Now, read this poem, put on Freetown Sound, and get outta here. 


    Previously: gobblefunking around