Mr Little Jeans is the pseudonym of Norwegian electro-pop singer, Monica Birkenes (the name comes from a character in Rushmore).
This spring-reminiscent tune keeps you moving with a tingly baseline, deep guitar riffs and tight vocals.
The song is off of her new EP but we’re holding out for her full-length album “Pocketknife” which comes out on March 25. That gives us just enough time to put “Good Mistake” on repeat until our ears won’t stop ringing and our feet are danced raw.
This post was written by davidreese.
Remember what flowers look like? This winter can’t end soon enough.
Chino Otsuka : Imagine Finding Me
Chino Otsuka uses photography and video to explore the fluid relationship between the memory, time and photography. At age 10 she moved from Japan to the United Kingdom to attend school. Her experience of becoming familiar with a new place, a different language and new customs while she was developing her adolescent identity has profoundly shaped her work in photography, video and writing. Her series Imagine Finding Me consists of double self-portraits, with images of her present self beside her past self in various places she has visited. As Otsuka says: “The digital process becomes a tool, almost like a time machine, as I’m embarking on the journey to where I once belonged and at the same time becoming a tourist in my own history.” - via AGO
I am unexpectedly weepy looking at this.
gosh that’s… moving in a really gentle kind of “mother your inner child” way…
I scrolled down hoping for an explanation and there was none.
A day in the life.
"We did that often, asking each other questions whose answers we already knew. Perhaps it was so that we would not ask the other questions, the ones whose answers we did not want to know."-Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie, Purple Hibiscus (via larmoyante)
There was this one week in July of 2013 that was, probably, the worst week of my life. One of my best friends left me, physically and romantically, for another city and another girl. My grandmother lay on her death bed. I was working 70 hours a week. I biked to and from the office every day. I didn’t have a car. Sometimes I would bike home at 11 pm, work still left to do, stop at the store, and get 20 lbs of cat litter to put in my backpack, three miles left to go. But that week, my cat disappeared too amidst a flurry of reported mountain lion sightings. He never came back. Cycling was pretty much the only thing that could bring me joy, and then, obviously, I crashed my bike and gave myself a concussion. I started taking the bus to work, listening to my email interrupt sad songs with my head leaned against the bus window, tears welling in my eyes.
I had been dealt lousy hands before with your run-of-the-mill, tough-life problems: sexual assault, tumor in my neck, trying out for American Idol, but this was the first time I found myself going to the bathroom in the middle of the day to sit on the floor and cry. I, in a confusing turn of events, as it was my first time feeling this, felt weak. At the time, I would have said I was suffering. But in retrospect, the sad music, the push notifications of email, the very fact that I was uncomfortably leaning my head against the bus window effect, these were all clear symptoms not of suffering, but of wallowing. I was drowning in a foot of water, and I did not feel like standing up.
The weekend I flew home for my grandmother’s funeral, I received an offer to transfer with my company from Colorado to Los Angeles. I sat at my parents’ kitchen counter in a house I didn’t grow up in. They were watching TV. My fingers hovered over the keyboard.
Looking back at the times people called me strong, it was always when I was admitting frailty, that I was exposing the cracks in my architecture. Things have to prove their strength to be labeled as such. They need to be tested. It’s not the same as being big or being small, strength is a show, a feat, a stillness under pressure, and alternately, an explosion, an unfathomable show of force, the moving of mountains. Strength is not defined by your inability to be knocked down, but rather by your will to stand back up. At the bottom, you must recognize the difference between suffering and wallowing, because wallowing is a choice, and it’s one that we can see so clearly in hindsight to be foolish. We can opt out, we can stand up, we can change songs and we can pull ourselves up from the dregs. That’s willpower, that’s desire, that is strength.
“I’m gonna move to LA.”
“That’s nice, sweety.”
I wasn’t strong in July of 2013. I wasn’t strong the week I packed up. One could argue I wasn’t even strong when packing as I collapsed in a pile of cat toys, remembering prior moves where Al had been in his carrier in the front seat next to me. I was a fucking mess, to be perfectly honest. But I packed everything into that U-Haul and headed west on a Friday night, stereo as loud as it could go, and people called me strong.
The thing about strength is that it more often comes from fighting yourself than anyone or thing. Strength is what shows up when courage, blind faith, and stupidity make you do something risky. Strength is what showed up 600 miles in when the empty seat next to me echoed memories of what was and what could have been. Strength is what drives you through the night. Strength is also what you hear when someone calls and says, “I need a friend.”
When we describe strength we are describing so much more than stalwarts. We are describing courage, fearlessness, a secure sense of self, the ability to face adversity with poise, with dignity, with wit and wisdom. We are describing people we admire. And like rivers dry out only to flood the next year, their strength too will ebb and flow. So build yourself up with fresh pots of coffee, long walks through the woods, mud on your hands and knees, and minor chord transitions to major chords with the kind of bridges that bring you to your feet. Take time to notice that you’re sitting on the bathroom floor of a temperate office where there are likely at least two people who would walk with you down the street to get a beer at lunch, where there are people waiting at the other end of the phone to give you all the advice and encouragement you don’t want but could probably use, where a sunny Saturday by a stream with a book you read as a kid might be all it takes to remind you that bad shit happening to you doesn’t define the kind of person you are, it just gives you the chance to define yourself. Stop and realize you’re an adult sitting on a bathroom floor crying and start to laugh because of it. Stop reliving the misery and start envisioning what could be 1,300 miles and two months away. Ring the rag of hope over the seeds that remain and have the patience to let them grow.
Because you don’t stay strong; you become strong, over and over, for the rest of your life. And what sweet luck that is because everybody loves an underdog and no doubt you’ll be one again. You just gotta remember to root for yourself.