About

Jessica Tekin
23 / Melbourne

I get paper cuts too easily,
and I enjoy red wine too much.

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"

It was early in the morning, but he knew exactly what was happening in his chest and woke my mother to ask her to call an ambulance. Our telephone was in the living room, but before she could leave their bedroom to use it, he asked for something else. My father asked that the ambulance not use its siren.

Weeks later, when the fear of death had receded like some strange tide, my mother asked him about the siren. My father said simply that he worried it would have woken and frightened his three sleeping daughters. It is true that we were all light sleepers and that our farm was usually blanketed by the polite silence that comes from having no close neighbors, but what impossible kindness there was in my father’s request.

I have called it an act of kindness, which I think it was. It was considerate in a way I cannot begin to understand; generous in a way no one would expect, much less demand. Years later I still do not comprehend how in what very well might have been the final moments of his life, my father thought to ask for quiet so that his daughters might continue sleeping.

Kindness is like holding an ice cube in your hands. It stings, but then the cold dissolves; what at first you could barely hold becomes something you cannot let go. My father’s request for a quiet ambulance came from a man so familiar with kindness that the sting was completely gone: the ice was no longer cold, but one with the flesh.

"

~

Absolutely exquisite essay by Casey E. Cep, who recounts what her father’s heart attack taught her about kindness – a virtue that Kerouac captured beautifully and Einstein articulated so memorably.

Henry James, it turns out, was right.

Do your soul a favor and read Cep’s full essay.


(via cagn)

One of life’s biggest gambles is when you order a serving of ravioli from a restaurant, because you’re either presented with a bowl of delicious pasta, or three tiny pockets stuffed with disappointment that is meant to constitute a meal.

ugggggggghhhhh

today’s class was all about learning how to pitch to online media and publications, and as my class is composed of mostly fictional-print writers (or those with no digital experience) I was turned to help explain about how important it is for you to maintain and upkeep an online folio and connection to clients and potential employers. 

When it came to discussing pitches’ financial benefits, I said to the class that I never have personally asked in my first e-mail pitch what my rate of pay was… mainly due to my fear of being shot down for being presumptuous, and also mainly because a lot of my online writing work I push out there to simply feel fuzzy about having my name as a listed contributer. I said that 9/10 times if I was writing to a publication it was because I admired it for x and y reasons, and wanted to be a part of it’s community, and that I currently didn’t think that my writing skills were strong enough to make a large income out of. 

This was met with resounding backclash in class, and while I understand that a lot of people don’t have the spare time, funds or output levels for writing recreationally, the amount of distain and mockery I received for it was.. not just unnecessary but nearly unbelievable??

'It's free writers like you who are taking food off my table.' / 'Are you aware that you are a key reason as to why respect and quality in media has dropped so much so recently?' / 'Why would you want to prostitute your wares out for employers to take advantage of for free?' are probably some of the greatest/worst quotations of the day and now I'm side-eying the whole class and just

There’s nothing that makes me happier than see discussion on a piece that I write or a viewcount or a new piece being published with my name written in Gill Sans underneath the title, and I feel ridiculous (and ridiculed) to have to explain that and my drive to a roomful of people who regarded me as being a core problem of modern writing. 

I just didn’t think it would be so hard to find like-minded people in a writing degree  who thought that half the success of being a writer was about being passionate and having your work acknowledged and recognised; I don’t want to be economically driven if it’s not a necessity, because I don’t want to drop my own standards or passion or voice to suit higher management. I’d rather remain whatever prostitution metaphore ya want than do otherwise, and the frustration of having 23 other students around me not understand at all was just

ughhhhhhhgghhhhh

ugggggggghhhhh

today’s class was all about learning how to pitch to online media and publications, and as my class is composed of mostly fictional-print writers (or those with no digital experience) I was turned to help explain about how important it is for you to maintain and upkeep an online folio and connection to clients and potential employers.

When it came to discussing pitches’ financial benefits, I said to the class that I never have personally asked in my first e-mail pitch what my rate of pay was… mainly due to my fear of being shot down for being presumptuous, and also mainly because a lot of my online writing work I push out there to simply feel fuzzy about having my name as a listed contributer. I said that 9/10 times if I was writing to a publication it was because I admired it for x and y reasons, and wanted to be a part of it’s community, and that I currently didn’t think that my writing skills were strong enough to make a large income out of.

This was met with resounding backclash in class, and while I understand that a lot of people don’t have the spare time, funds or output levels for writing recreationally, the amount of distain and mockery I received for it was.. not just unnecessary but nearly unbelievable??

'It's free writers like you who are taking food off my table.' / 'Are you aware that you are a key reason as to why respect and quality in media has dropped so much so recently?' / 'Why would you want to prostitute your wares out for employers to take advantage of for free?' are probably some of the greatest/worst quotations of the day and now I'm side-eying the whole class and just

There’s nothing that makes me happier than see discussion on a piece that I write or a viewcount or a new piece being published with my name written in Gill Sans underneath the title, and I feel ridiculous (and ridiculed) to have to explain that and my drive to a roomful of people who regarded me as being a core problem of modern writing.

I just didn’t think it would be so hard to find like-minded people in a writing degree who thought that half the success of being a writer was about being passionate and having your work acknowledged and recognised; I don’t want to be economically driven if it’s not a necessity, because I don’t want to drop my own standards or passion or voice to suit higher management. I’d rather remain whatever prostitution metaphore ya want than do otherwise, and the frustration of having 23 other students around me not understand at all was just

ughhhhhhhgghhhhh

"I tried forming a gang once but it turned into a book club."

~ Ram Danielle

(Source: epicreads)


(via aquacrunked-deactivated20140418)
l-valencia:

painting during my spring break

l-valencia:

painting during my spring break


(via thekingintheinnernorth)

Perfume.

I don’t have many opinions when it comes to fashion or style; a lot of the time when people are comfortable in what they wear, or emulate a certain figure or friend and feel that they have done it justice, I’m happy for them. I’m always happy when a friend is half-matching with me, it’s like we’re both part of a cute fashion team of ‘hey look how cute we are and how much we know it.’ I love it when girls in my class gush about the lippy I’m wearing and wear it the following week, and I love it when someone has a cute pair of shoes on and lets me know where they’re from. I love that connection that girls and boys have between different tangible items, and I love them having their connection out on display.

However, one thing that I can’t stand is my friends or family wearing the same perfume as me.

I’m not too sure if it’s something I’ve grown up with knowing, but as soon as I smell something, it immediately reminds me of someone. Steamed asparagus, stale lavender, the various JOOP brands; all of them are signature dents and represent the people that are always scented by them (whether deliberately or otherwise.) I have four perfumes in my arsenal, all of which I love for different reasons. 

  • Live by Jennifer Lopez was the first perfume that I bought as a teenager and I bought it because of its gorgeous bottle and effeminate shape. The scent is fruity- it literally smells like melted down mango, pineapple and passionfruit with a hint of floral. 
  • Babydoll by YSL was the first time I tentatively dipped my toe into ‘designer’ perfume, but as I grew older my love for it faded as much as the colour has in its diamond-bottle. Now it just smells like vanilla essence and chrysanthemums to me.
  • Daisy by Marc Jacobs was my next bottle to use religiously and for most late-teens it was a rite of passage from smelling like girls lockers to ‘hi I can wear heels without falling over now.’ It’s hard to meet a twenty-something year old who doesn’t have a bottle of either Daisy, Lola or Dot by Marc Jacobs anymore. However, all of my relatives bought me Daisy bottles several birthdays in a row so that I can give it out if there’s ever a bomb threat at Marc Jacob’s HQ. 
  • At one point I stole my Dad’s Blue Jeans by Versace just because I felt rich, pungent, and a little bit of a git in my earlier-twenties but still wear it from time-to-time because male scents lasts so much longer and are so much richer and woody than vanilla shit
  • Miss Dior Cherie by Dior was the first ‘adult’ scent I bought, and absolutely loved it; following that, Viktor and Rolf’s Flowerbomb has been my floral lovechild for my neck, wrists and décolletage. 

All of these are now worn by family members and/or friends daily, and all of them smell like this twenty four hours a day. There isn’t a single perfume that I own that someone else doesn’t currently wear and I feel so uncomfortable smelling like every person I know. 

This is basically a long post asking you guys what do you smell like/are you equally uncomfortable about this/I smell like my Mum most days now/can you recommend me perfumes that you love and smell like because we will probably never meet?

deadvodka:

when will noni hazlehurst be prime minister?


(via niceflying)

"Whatever teaches us to talk to ourselves is important: whatever teaches us to sing ourselves out of despair. But the painting has also taught me that we can speak to each other across time…That life- whatever else it is- is short. That fate is cruel but maybe not random. That Nature (meaning Death) always wins but that doesn’t mean we have to bow and grovel to it. That maybe even if we’re not always so glad to be here, it’s our task to immerse ourselves anyway: wade straight through it, right through the cesspool, while keeping eyes and hearts open. And in the midst of our dying, as we rise from the organic and sink back ignominiously into the organic, it is a glory and a privilege to love what Death doesn’t touch."

~ Donna Tartt, The Goldfinch 

(Source: aroc)


(via commovente)

~ I Need My Girl - The National

Remember when you lost your shit and
Drove the car into the garden
And you got out and said I’m sorry
To the vines and no one saw it

(Source: disparatre)


(via smoking-sections)

"Leave the dishes.
Let the celery rot in the bottom drawer of the refrigerator
and an earthen scum harden on the kitchen floor.
Leave the black crumbs in the bottom of the toaster.
Throw the cracked bowl out and don’t patch the cup.
Don’t patch anything. Don’t mend. Buy safety pins.
Don’t even sew on a button.
Let the wind have its way, then the earth
that invades as dust and then the dead
foaming up in gray rolls underneath the couch.
Talk to them. Tell them they are welcome.
Don’t keep all the pieces of the puzzles
or the doll’s tiny shoes in pairs, don’t worry
who uses whose toothbrush or if anything
matches, at all.
Except one word to another. Or a thought.
Pursue the authentic — decide first
what is authentic,
then go after it with all your heart.
Your heart, that place
you don’t even think of cleaning out.
That closet stuffed with savage mementos.
Don’t sort the paper clips from screws from saved baby teeth
or worry if we’re all eating cereal for dinner
again. Don’t answer the telephone, ever,
or weep over anything at all that breaks.
Pink molds will grow within those sealed cartons
in the refrigerator. Accept new forms of life
and talk to the dead
who drift in though the screened windows, who collect
patiently on the tops of food jars and books.
Recycle the mail, don’t read it, don’t read anything
except what destroys
the insulation between yourself and your experience
or what pulls down or what strikes at or what shatters
this ruse you call necessity."

~ Louise Erdrich, from Original Fire: Advice To Myself

(Source: violentwavesofemotion)


(via commovente)

"I have survived a lot of things:
High school, hormonal acne, his weight on top of me.
I’m either falling in love or running away from it,
fire constant in my brain, staying even after I am left.
This is not a poem that demands pity. Someone told me once
that you begin to be afraid of the person you love.
While my parents argue loudly in the room below mine,
I paint my toenails. I read the fashion magazines I horde
under the bed. Blow dust off of snow globes. Shake them.
I recite poems sitting on the window ledge, let down
my long hair. Three cups of coffee or don’t bother,
or go back home, or stay in bed. Sometimes, but only most
of the time, taking care of myself is difficult. I don’t always
ask the right questions. I forget to take out the trash because
I tell myself that my boyfriend will do it. I don’t have
a boyfriend. When my hands start to shake, I hold them."

~ Kristina Haynes, “I Have Survived A Lot of Things” 

(via kvenleg)

(via itsthom)

Vegetabowls 

Handmade ceramic bowls from New York

(Source: moarrrmagazine)