On finding beauty: dead tulips and grimy window

Sunshine

Growing Growing

... is the name of this amazing print by AshleyG which I treated myself (and Sammy) to. It is also my one and only New Year's resolution (and anybody making funny jokes about which bits of me are most likely to grow first will be tortured). Now I have to find a good place for it: a place where I can see it in the morning when I wake up, and while having breakfast, and on my way to work, and while sitting at the computer, and when hanging out on the couch (no, of course I NEVER do that, too busy you know, so much growing to do...)...

Western

Sick again, for the umpteenth time this month, feverish, nauseated, generally miserable, and instead of sleeping I spend my afternoon watching this old favourite. Pierced me right through. It does that every time. Something so fragile, so innocently gut-wrenching about it. Hope is such a very fine silky thread, isn't it? And yet it will knit such thick warm shawls of melancholy.

You can hear a bit of Bernardo Sandoval's soundtrack here (although not the best moment, when Sacha Bourdo does his own rendition of Rosenbaum's 'Gluxari'; I remember watching this movie for the first time years ago and debating with myself throughout whether he was really Russian (as his character) or a fake, and then in the last ten minutes of the movie, he just picked up this kid's guitar and suddenly his voice lost all its foreignness (is that even a word?), and my Russian blood broke out in song). I'll shut up now, and let you listen...