Jessica Brannen.
Halifax, Nova Scotia.

Lately: September, my yearly crush on you. Though you're confusing and moody you're fascinating. There is a lot swirling around in your days and dawns and slanting light and dusks and winds and downpours. It is not like dust particles floating in sunlight at all.

Listening to: The Radio Dept., New Order, LCD Soundsystem, The Drums, Max Richter, Four Tet, John Maus, Purity Ring,
Darkstar, Maya Jane Coles

Reading: Emily Dickinson, Pablo Neruda, Virginia Woolf, Tove Jansson, Alain de Botton- Essays in Love, Mary Oliver, short stories by Haruki Murakami

Watching: Pippi Longstocking

Scotch tape, play doh, book pages and freshly cut grass on top ranking smells list.

Persnickety yet easy-going?
And no more naturally austere than you are naturally vicious. (Charlotte Brontë)

Middle child.

You can make me a Mexican feast and bring me tulips or cosmos.

Bookish, journal-writin' type.

Grew up in the country, playing on the beach and in the woods. Still spend a lot of time there. You can hear roosters.

Lived in Sweden for many years and speak Swedish. Love Sweden and Finland. Visit every year.

Hollyhocks and delphiniums.

Studied art, photo, film and textiles. Have a love of all things arts and crafty. Also gardening, sewing, and writing.

Remember rolling down the hill?

Remember picking Fool's Gold out of the road with butter knives?

Remember that time we sneaked into that white abandoned house and saw a wedding dress in the closet?

Let's go swimming in the ocean.

And go thriftin'.

I can peel carrots really fast.
I'm left handed.
I wish to find secret letters or notes hidden in old walls.
I love good old-fashioned letters.
I love quilts.
I love scraps.
I make a mean pancake.
Collective nouns are funny.

Over and out.
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But your eyes, Susan, full of turnips and cornfields, disturb me.

— Virginia Woolf, The Waves

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Willard Metcalf, Summer Night (No. 2) (1914), oil on canvas, 74.3 x 66.7 cm. Via WikiPaintings.

Willard Metcalf, Summer Night (No. 2) (1914), oil on canvas, 74.3 x 66.7 cm. Via WikiPaintings.

(Source: transistoradio, via iloverainandcoffee)

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Fear is inevitable, I have to accept that, but I cannot allow it to paralyze me.

— Isabel Allende, The Sum of Our Days: A Memoir (via observando)

(via largerloves)

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Henri Matisse, The Path in the Bois de Boulogne, 1902

Henri Matisse, The Path in the Bois de Boulogne, 1902

(Source: urgetocreate, via johnmaus)

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A little later, remembering man’s earthly origin, ‘dust thou art and to dust thou shalt return,’ they liked to fancy themselves bubbles of earth. When alone in the fields, with no one to see them, they would hop, skip, and jump, touching the ground as lightly as possible and crying ‘We are bubbles of earth! Bubbles of earth! Bubbles of earth!’

— Flora Thompson, Lark Rise

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Take a July night, for instance. About ten o’clock, -when man is asleep, and day fairly forgotten,- the beauty of moonlight is seen over lonely pastures where cattle are silently feeding. On all sides novelties present themselves. Instead of the sun there are the moon and stars, instead of the wood-thrush there is the whip-poor-will,-instead of butterflies in the meadows, fireflies, winged sparks of fire! Who would have believed it?

— Henry David Thoreau, Excursions

Glaciers move in tides.
So do mountains.
So do all things.

John Muir, Letters from Alaska

(Source: anintimatewoman, via awelltraveledwoman)

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