Tag Archives: love

Paper anniversary

12 May

I didn’t blog about this at the time (it’s fairly self-indulgent…), but I’m currently working on something vaguely similar that I can’t talk about cool that made me want to share this.

Christie and I had our one-year anniversary in March. Since I didn’t really have any money, and since there’s not a lot of incredibly romantic things you can buy that meet the ‘paper’ criteria (magazine subscription? Cook book?), I went down the make-your-own path.

I bought a love-heart stamp pad from Kikki K, some note pads from the newsagency and I set about writing 365 unique, individual reasons that I love life with Christie.

I folded them up, put them in a jar and tied a ribbon around it.

I won’t share what the notes said, but I can reveal that, luckily, she liked it. Now, whenever she has a bad day or when I’m away, she pulls a random note out and reads it. And that’ll make me happy for at least the next year. A selfish gift, then, I suppose.

Oh, and I also made her this

As given to me on a handmade card…

19 Jan

Two days after a conversation I had with a friend and castmate in a show I’m currently doing, she gave me a simple yet stunning card with the following quote handwritten on the front. It answers every question I’ve asked of myself lately:

 

To laugh often and much, to win the respect of intelligent people and the affection of children, to earn the appreciation of honest critics and endure the betrayal of false friends, to appreciate beauty, to find the best in others, to leave the world a bit better, whether by a healthy child, a garden patch… to know even one life has breathed easier because you have lived; This is to have succeeded!

-Emerson

When you love me, this will all be over…

3 Sep

A short, short story by Tristan Lutze

I was travelling home from Brunswick a few days ago when, from the window of my tram, I saw a white sheet hanging from the window of a church, directly above the door.

The words on it were simple, and poorly scrawled, but they were so rich with poetry and dramatic potential that I felt like I had to do something with it.

*            *            *

This wasn’t how He had imagined it playing out. As He lay on the floor of His living room, His hands blue with paint that was beginning to dry and crack, He allowed the memories of every missed opportunity; every glance He’d avoided, every word He hadn’t said to flow painfully over Him.

(more…)

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