“They rushed down the street together, digging everything in the early way they had, which later became so much sadder and perceptive and blank. But then they danced down the streets like dingledodies, and I shambled after as I’ve been doing all my life after people who interest me, because the only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue centrelight pop and everybody goes ‘Awww!’”

Jack Kerouac, On the Road

As of late, I’ve been obsessively following a list of inspirational fashion/culture/photography blogs. They’ve got me thinking.

A lot of successful bloggers are YOUNG. Interestingly and impressively young. I love that blogging has given an entire generation of people an outlet to express themselves philosophically as well as aesthetically. What I do wonder though, is where all the older people are? Is blogging, like so many things in our youth-obsessed culture, really only for the young?

It could be down to the fact that this older generation grew up in a more reserved world where sharing intimate thoughts, images and dreams with a host of complete strangers was not only uncomfortable, but completely foreign. Conversely, the younger, Facebook generation is used to living and uploading simultaneously.

But it’s just like anything really — our entire existence differs from that of our parents so completely, it’s nearly impossible to compare them on any sort of relevant plane (making this train of thought, essentially, pointless). 

Or maybe it’s that those who were 21, say 20 years ago, had to find other ways to express themselves without the immediacy and reach of the interwebs and found rightful homes in the arts. Maybe the artists, writers and musicians of today would have been bloggers, had they been born a decade or two earlier.

As a journalist myself, I have a complex opinion about blogging. I love the fact that anyone, anywhere, any time can share their thoughts and inspirations with the world. But as someone who sees firsthand the process that goes into producing respected and professional magazines, newspapers, websites and books, I do worry that with this immediacy of the Internet comes a disregard for a few essential elements of expression.

By this I mean: a respect for grammar and accurate spelling. For tone and pace, not only in language but in imagery as well. An understanding of rhetoric and composition. A love for diction, an understanding of the current zeitgeist. An ability to hone one’s thoughts, experiences and eye into a cohesive and useful product. 

I’m well aware that blogs aren’t meant to be polished. I have no problem with that — in fact, that’s what is so endearing about them.

What I do have an issue with is that, since the inception of blogs, a lot of these facets seem to have lost their innate importance. I am not saying that expression in its various forms needs to be harnessed or fit into a mold. What I am saying is, without respecting the tenants of a craft, you will only ever be able to express yourself to a certain point. Call me old fashioned, but there is something to be said about honing your skills slowly but surely. I worry that blogging takes some of the fun out of this process.

Or maybe I’m wrong?

Tx

Here’s a recap of the last six months in Taylorland…

Winter trip to gorgeous York

Nordic walking in Durham County (please excuse the geekiness, this was for work)

Celebrating the Royal Wedding like a proper Englishwoman

Delicious afternoon tea at the Wolseley

Portugal from the sky

Portugal from the ground — staying in a 100-year old palace in Vidago. Blissful.

That’s my 2011 so far in a nutshell. Now that we’re all caught up, we can move on to more interesting matters. 

Tx

Happy MMXI!

I hope you all had a nice time celebrating the end of one arbitrary measurement of time and the beginning of another. I spent the first day of this year in the fetal position cursing the sadist who figured out fermented yeast or grapes or even grass can make you feel great one minute but leave you contemplating your existence as you retch into a porcelain bowl the next. 

But on a positive note, I had such a lovely New Year’s Eve with a group of friends that it almost makes up for how terrible I felt the next day:

I don’t have a resolution. I think they’re quite pointless, really. Instead, I try to be a better version of myself every day. And part of that includes simply accepting the person I am. Of course there are aspects of my personality I don’t particularly like. But I feel like wasting energy on trying — and failing — to change them when they’re not really that harmful to anyone but my ego is a bit counter productive. I just try to make positive and healthy choices. If I don’t, oh well. There’s always next time.

If you’re planning to do something like quit smoking or eat more organically for the new year, well done and very best wishes. I’ll just keep on being me.

Tx

I went to Rome last month and it was mostly lovely.

The air was warm and the pizza, wine and cappuccinos were delicious. The boyf and I spent four days wandering around aimlessly which was, again, lovely.

However, all the touristey areas (save the Colosseum) like the Spanish Steps, Trevi Fountain and Panteon left me strangely unimpressed. I understand this probably makes me sound like a spoiled and/or simple minded brat. And two years ago, when I hadn’t stepped foot outside continental America, I would literally be disgusted with myself for uttering what I just did. So let me rephrase: At every tourist spot, I felt like something was missing. There I was, standing in front of an incredibly intact work of art that was created by hand, without modern technology, over 2000 years ago, and somehow I felt, well, a bit ‘meh’ about the whole thing.

After a bit of thought, I think I realized why. These places lacked personality. They had no flavor, no heart. But not the places themselves; the places themselves are awe-inspiring. It was the setting in which the places existed — surrounded by sterilized people wearing fanny packs, snapping photos without really looking at what was glaring at them — that sucked all the innate beauty out of them

I felt the same way when I saw the Mona Lisa. I wanted to look into her eyes and think about all the people before me who had done the same and those who will do in the future and bask in the amazing history of this theoretically immense yet literally tiny painting. But I couldn’t because I had one person to my left elbowing me to get a better view and another to my right flashbulbing away (although I may have done the same. All that glitters is not gold, my friends).

Anyway, the places I loved in Rome were the ones that caught my eye for no particular reason. Like the Fontana del Tritone:

I find this fountain incredible. I love it. I wouldn’t mind being homeless if I could sleep at the foot of this structure. And yet, no one else stopped to take in it’s glory. Maybe that’s because it’s not Trevi or maybe because it’s not actually that impressive compared to the craftsmanship of others, but either way I liked that no one else really cared about this fountain. It’s mine.

Tx

Above: A real life snow man in Streatham Hill.

England is covered in snow. It’s really quite beautiful but also a tad strange. This country is completely unprepared when it comes to dealing with severe winter weather. They’re just not used to it — as one newscaster said, England doesn’t invest in the means (snowploughs, road salt, even car scrapers and shovels!) to deal with it. Understandable, because the sky doesn’t tend to dump this much snow on the hapless Brits. I read in the Metro that an area of high pressure in the Atlantic is preventing movement of the typically warm air from the West and allowing cold Arctic air to hit England, causing the snow. No matter the reason for it, one thing is for sure: I am stuck indoors. Working from home. Snow days feel a bit different (read: worse) when you actually have to be productive instead of throwing yourself face first into snow piles.

So as I work, work, work, I hope someone out there is enjoying the beauty of winter for me.

If you want to read something interesting, here you are, written by yours truly.

And here is a pic of what it looks like outside my front door.

Tx

Cosmo editor Louise Court on why Cosmo — and mags in general — rocks.

Me again! Shocking, right?! Nothing for a month and then two in one day! It’s getting ca-razy around here.

I was just reading The Times newspaper supplement and came upon a very interesting article called ‘Only Me’ by Geoff Dyer, about the impact having/not having siblings has on personality and life choices. In it was this paragraph that struck a cord within me:

‘The importance of this can hardly be overstated — my parents have a sense of humor! They’re funny. What greater gift can parents pass on to their children? In my impatient maturity anyone without a sense of humor bores the crap out of me. This is not the only way in which something I picked up from my parents manifests itself. My parents, as I have said, laid great stress on being reliable, punctual, dependable. We are encouraged to think of reliable people as boring, dull, and perhaps for a brief while, after leaving university, I flirted with this in that I was drawn to carefree, careless people. Then I realized that unreliable, dishonest people are the most boring people in the world. One of the advantages of the way that new social opportunities open up to you — and for me this began happening after university — is that you can have it both ways: there are plenty of people out there who are fun, pleasure-loving, clever and reliable.’

I really couldn’t agree with this sentiment more. I have struggled with this idea for years — that being responsible and dependable somehow makes you ‘less fun’ — because I like to think of myself as both dependable and down for a laugh. At times, I worried people would consider me boring because I won’t flake on them, lie to them, or just be selfish and careless in some way. And Mr Geoff Dyer verbalized this in a way that makes complete sense to me. I am grateful to him.

Reading this piece makes me thankful for two things: the power of language and the freedom that comes with maturity. I love the way words, sentences and grammar bring feelings into real, tangible existence. And I also love the way growing up allows you to stop adhering to certain ideas.

Tx

Good morning all,

Let’s have a quick catch up.

Here is the last month of my life in a nutshell…

Moving on to bigger and better horizons…

Throw in a bit of footie…

An engagement party, a wedding and a few nights out for good measure…

And above all, work work work!

Now that that’s out of the way, I’ll move on to more interesting matters.

It’s starting to turn cold here in London and it’s amazing. It’s not Michigan-in-the-fall-amazing:

but there is something about fall that just feels fresh. It’s really quite strange when you think about it, though. Everything is actually beginning to wind down and die in preparation for the winter, if you will, so the idea that fall is a clean and crisp time of year is somewhat incongruous.

But really this post is about my relationship with weather. Growing up in Michigan, spending four years in Southern California and now living in London, I’ve had my fair share of face time with Mother Nature. And I must say, it’s easy to forget about the weather. Of course, when it’s pissing down with rain or arctic cold it’s not forgotten, but all that bitching and moaning is about how the weather is somehow in the way. It’s nice to sometimes sit back and remember that weather and nature were here first.

Tx

Want to help respect our natural habitat a bit more? Check this organization out and support.