Coincidence?

Look at what I got in my inbox today:

For those of you who don’t know WhoWhatWear, it’s an online fashion mag that I religiously keep up with, and my go-to when I’m dying to know what one A-lister or another is wearing. Because WWW is fashion omniscience.

I digress.

I just thought it was funny cause I thought I was being all different and funky, and apparently, my decision was completely dictated by the fashion gods without my even knowing it. Once again.

It’s okay. I still love rockin’ it along with everyone else. Winged liner is a must.

love, esther

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“Today I see beauty everywhere I go”

The roomies and I took a trip to the Art Institute this past Friday. It was so, so, so, SO cold, but the trip was worth the pain. I’ve been to the Art Institute of Chicago a few times, but there was so much I’d never seen before, so much that was wonderful, inspiring, and tempting (to take home and museum-ize my own place, that is).

A few things I loved from…

For all of my jewelry and other shiny goodies? Yes, please!

The colors on these are vibrant and scrumptious. Love.

If only I had a doorway inset or something like that to place this Hellenic bust in…

No future home of mine would be complete without a Toulouse-Lautrec — very, very French.

I think a kooky wall somewhere in the house would be too fun.

“Les drames de la mer” (Dramas of the sea) — Paul Gauguin

(I snagged those suede wedge booties at Forever for twenty bucks, and they are my go-to shoe of the moment. I can walk miles in them. Miles. Yay for cheap and gorgeous footwear!)

Here’s to finding the art, beauty and inspiration in the everyday.

À tout à l’heure mes amis!

love, esther

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On Reading and Writing

After a week of classes, plus reading, I’ve already learned so much, but intimidation is casting its dark shadow over my enlightenment.

Three years of focusing on journalism and I finally have the time to broaden my focus. I’m taking Reading and Writing Fiction with John Keene and Reading and Writing Creating Nonfiction with Brian Bouldrey, and so far, they’ve been two of the most enjoyable classes I’ve taken at Northwestern. And after only a week, with one of my fiction classes being cancelled, that’s a tall statement. They’ll also be the most useful; I can feel it. I definitely think learning the mechanics of writing and exercising the creative side of my craft will bring more depth to my writing in whatever career I choose to pursue.

Even though I’m excited about what I’ll learn and what I’ll write this quarter in these classes, after reading one essay on syntax, one on the familiar essay, and a few nonfiction and fiction pieces… Boy, do I have no clue what I signed up for. The mindfulness and the intention behind every sentence, every word of every great writer that ever penned anything worthwhile; it occurred to me that I have no idea how to do any of it. Every other lit whore in the class seems to get it, let alone the mastery of the accomplished writers we were reading for the class. I feel like the black sheep. I can’t even consciously juggle all of it at the same time: diction, syntax, parataxis, hypotaxis, satire, rhythm, meter, and that’s only one week’s worth. What’s a girl to do.

My first assignment is due on Thursday, and I have to write a familiar (personal) essay on something I love that everyone else hates. My writer’s block is so huge, my brain automatically stops thinking about it when I even begin to consider brainstorming for it, eradicating the remains of the thought. I end up spending a few hours on sites like this.

Any ideas?

love, esther

P.S. That last question was not rhetorical (not that they ever are, but especially this one). I’m stumped. Help a poor girl out!

P.P.S. Here’s a picture because this post was incredibly wordy, and if you read the whole thing, you deserve a treat :).

Aren’t the colors stunning?? I would like a sweater with all of these colors, please. I took this the summer I went to Jerusalem. Which reminds me, I should write a post on that, too!

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A Chocolate Chip Oatmeal Cookie Monday

I went to sleep last night with a sudden pang for chocolate chip oatmeal cookies, which isn’t unusual and probably just means I’m due for a visit from Aunt Flo. When “she” still (Norman calls my tummy the third, very fickle person in our relationship) cried for them in the morning, I thought it was the perfect way to get rid of those Monday blues, and by the smell of it, I’m sure I got it right.

A few things besides the cookies that are making today feel very un-Monday:

from left to right: 1. a genius idea that I will definitely be trying with my old shirts | 2. pumpkin pie in a jar — what a cutesy DIY gift | 3. these dolce&gabbana knock-offs would complete me… it’s a sad day when you can’t even afford the knock-off of the real thing | 4. rainbow layered cake!! white and unassuming on the outside, CRAJEE on the inside <3 | 5. Atonement is the fantasy of every hopeless romantic realized. | 6. by far the coolest coffee table book I’ve seen: French artists were asked to sketch maps to their favorites spots in Paris | 7. ugh so inspiring. I am most definitely going to dig up my fuzzy pink sweater ASAP. | 8. love everything EmersonMade, but I die for these 70′s inspired, high-waist jeans. | 9. I actually love these bloomers from Kiki Montparnasse. is that strange? I think bloomers are really sweet.

Have a very sweet Monday.

love, esther

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Just thought I’d share…

It’s not something gut-wrenchingly adorable and completely hilarious or anything…

Something I thought I’d share.

And if you were wondering where all my high quality amateur photos were coming from:

That is the camera Norman knew I had been saving for, and he surprised me by getting it for me for Christmas. (!!!)

Why yes, I do have the most thoughtful, sweetest, amazing, fun-and-everything-under-the-sun boyfriend in the universe.

love, esther

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Once in a blue moon, your life changes

I just finished an amazing book. It was I’ve-just spent-ten-minutes-thinking-about-what-I-just-read-and-my-head-is-now-on-the-verge-of-implosion-so-I-HAVE-to-write-a-post-on-it-right-now amazing. Amazing doesn’t do it justice because I abuse that word far too much. Incredible, fantastic, ridiculously satisfying. I’ve read a hefty number of novels and other works over the past few months after the sudden realization that I don’t read enough, but they simply can’t compare. Nicole Krauss’s History of Love is one of those books that has changed how I see writing, love and life, for that matter, for good.

A really, really short synopsis: A young girl named Alma Singer is looking for the author of The History of Love in the hopes of solving her mother’s unhappiness, and all the while, a dying man, Leo Gursky, is attempting to survive only to continue longing after his own Alma, the only girl he’s ever loved. I wish I could say more, but I can’t give it away. It’s too precious to try to convey it in my own lacking words. But I will tell you this — this book led me on a journey so confusing and so unexpected, that at the end, I was actually furious. But after about a minute of thinking about what I had just read and the story (more like five stories) in its entirety, it just blew my mind. And I understood — Love. It was one of the most satisfying revelations I’ve ever had. In my life. This must be very frustrating for you, reader, but let it only be further encouragement to read it yourself!

Not only that, the book is chock full of quotes that can’t be found anywhere else, I assure you. Krauss is a voice all her own. Here’s an amuse bouche:

When I told Alma the things I saw she would laugh and tell me she loved my imagination. For her I changed pebbles into diamonds, shoes into mirrors, I changed glass into water, I gave her wings and pulled birds from her ears and in her pockets she found the feathers, I asked a pear to become a pineapple, a pineapple to become a lightbulb, a lightbulb to become the moon, and the moon to become a coin I flipped for her love, both sides were heads: I knew I couldn’t lose.

And now, at the end of my life, I can barely tell the difference between what is real and what I believe. For example, this letter in my hand — I can feel it between my fingers. The paper is smooth, except in the creases. I can unfold it, and fold it again. As certain as I am sitting here now, this letter exists.

And yet.

In my heart, I know my hand is empty.

Now tell me you don’t instantly want to run to the nearest bookstore and grab it right now.

love, esther

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The Aftermath

The interview was fine, like they usually are. It’s funny — even though they always end up being nothing at all, it doesn’t stop me from feeling heart palpitations that feel like they’re meant for a 300 pound man in the middle of climbing a cliff trying to balance his child on his head, or keep my brain from exploding from the disastrous possibilities that could ensue from this unpredictably inarticulate mouth of mine.

Frankly, I’m a very shy person. Meeting new people or, God forbid, giving public speeches doesn’t come to me naturally, but one of the most valuable things I’ve learned in college is that the shyness doesn’t have to get in my way. On my very first day of journalism class, my professor sent us out to do some guerilla reporting, and all I could think was, ‘I’m not cut out for this.’

“Leave it at the door,” he said.

—-

I told my interviewer I couldn’t accept the position because I found out during the course of the interview it required a 25 hour per week commitment. It’s a shame because it sounded like a great opportunity, but c’est la vie.

The commute would’ve been a problem though. I ended up taking a cab home because I found out the next bus was 25 minutes away, and in this kind of freezing? No, thank you sir. And now, I’m in the toasty comfort of my flannels with a plate of  Coconut Dreams and absolutely no intention of leaving for the rest of today.

love, esther

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