Tuesday, August 10, 2021

Longing for autumn.

Longing for autumn.
A primeira vela do outono chegou. É enorme (pelo menos na escala do gato; as cores combinando não foi intencional)

Friday, August 06, 2021

Beth Chatto Gardens, Essex.

Beth Chatto Gardens, Essex.
Beth Chatto was an award-winning plantswoman, author and lecturer. Her work at the Gardens began in 1960. She took an overgrown wasteland of brambles, parched gravel and boggy ditches of the disused fruit farm belonging to her husband, botanist Andrew Chatto. She used plants adapted by nature t…

Thursday, August 05, 2021

Midsummer.

Midsummer.
Midsummer beauty. On nights like this we used to swim in the quarry,   the boys making up games requiring them to tear off  the girls’ clothes   and the girls cooperating, because they had new bodies since last summer and they wanted to exhibit them, the brave ones   leaping off  the high rocks — bodies…

Wednesday, August 04, 2021

Hampstead Village doors.

Hampstead Village doors.
Truly amazing, four colorful doors. They all call to me but which one to choose? Moving closer I listen intently. Alas, not a sound. Now what should I do? – Happy Chica

Thursday, July 29, 2021

All I ever wanted was a life in your shape

All I ever wanted was a life in your shape
Primeiro café do dia, uma mancha de sol entrando pela janela, um gato preguiçoso se esticando ao alcance da minha mão para uma carícia ocasional, a névoa da manhã se dissipando enquanto as notas de tocata e fuga em ré menor saem das caixas de som do rádio e se espalham pelo ar. O piso barato está de…

Monday, July 19, 2021

Sunday, July 18, 2021

Where the streets do have names.

Where the streets do have names.
Tem feito tanto calor que desenvolvi um certo pavorzinho de checar o app do Accuweather no caso de a previsão ser o Literal Fim Do Mundo. Uns dias atrás eu estava na rua e me vi obrigada a remover meu cardigã. Já é oficial: the hell season is upon us. Wake me up when september ends.

Friday, July 09, 2021

The White Pulse of May.

The White Pulse of May.
The very end of spring is green and white. Country lanes are illuminated with cow parsley, a delicate foam of tiny petals in a sea of pale green. Every year, this is what tells me summer is near. A certain kind of sadness for the dying spring, a certain kind of hope for drier days (warm and li…