the stacey editorial
Post on 19-Feb-2016
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DESCRIPTIONThe Print Edition of Stacey's 21st birthday photoshoot collected into a catalogue. Personal texts, self-answered questions, reflections, and heartfelt thanks included. This would never be put together if not for my very patient photographer sister, Sam, and assistant sister, Hazel. All the love. This is Stacey is her rawest form of english and poses, enjoy!
Who is Stacey? I believe she is a girl, turning 21. Living all those other years that have been lived out,
replayed, and replaced every year the birthday candles go off. She is an extra-normal person living in a
quiet neighbourhood. She is naturally shy and her heart races easily just by speaking to people. Im not
sure how much text will I be able to fill up in the empty spaces but to make it look more professional, I am
still going to give it a go. Now where was I ah, yes. Stacey is a Greek name either meaning bountiful
grains or resurrection; though she would really like it if it would simply mean completed so that she doesnt
have to keep throwing and chasing her naked and embarrassing dreams around in the fits of trying to
make a name for herself. Above all, Stacey was the name christened by her mother, one of the few women
in her life she feels worth dying and changing for. Along this book, you will find some undisclosed and
personal texts that Stacey has scribbled on her iTouch, lecture notes, napkins, homework and examination
scripts. She is an easy girl to inspire with simple everyday things, people, moments, trees, moon. You will
get to see her as the girl that writes a whole lot before she got busy with her life and ceased to answer to
every spontaneous moment to write when she could have. This book will also be used to commemorate all
those moments that she decided to throw away and not write; watching that inspiration pass by and with
her bare hands wave goodbye to. This book will not be edited for grammer or language. This is the Stacey
in her rawest form and poor English from her lack of reading of the newspapers or watching the news.
S U N D A Y , M A R C H 1 , 2 0 0 9 AT 7:37 PM
The sky today is the sky that I love / It is beautiful and dark / Just like how the heavy rain had colored it /
just a while ago / Like pastel colors washed against the large canvas / At where the earth and the sky meets
/ there was mere light / I told myself to wake the rain after it falls / This insanely peaceful weather /
Perfect for a wake, isn't it?
When someone dies in the family, the hearts of its members die also. That's why we always forget where
the heart is. I want to be inspired by death, not scared of it. With every head shaded in white, I could
always not hold back but turn to look. Funny isn't it? How silly we can be.
T H U R S D A Y , A U G U S T 2 7 , 2 0 0 9 AT 2:01 PM
The raining confuses me. I can never under the language of the rain. That's why I've never liked putting it
with that one God but with, the-God-of-another-kind. It must have been a bad time to start reading again,
but it was good weather to have done so. I love how the rain falls, how much noise it makes.
/ I like to think of the rain as an individual. /
/ I'll still need to study, well, after the rain that is. /
""This is something I
hate to tell them.
There is something, a thing that was brought upon the Earth. A me Natureza canta-lhe a terra. But the flowers started to die. She thought it was her lack in love as she sang. So she continued, attempting to bring back that life again, into the flowers. She sang on and / on and / on / and on. Until she could move no longer, no voice could escape her dried lips further. But she continued to move those lips - mouthing out the words of the lullaby. She continued and / continued and / continued. Until she became the bark of the Earth. But the flowers were never brought life. And when she tear, they became the rain that waters the Earth. She sang on and / on and / on. Until her breath became the air of the Earth. And now things started to breath. She continued on / and on and / on. Until the heat of her heart started to gather light.
And now, the Earth was brought warmth. She sang on / and on / and on. Until it all became silent. Man started to walk the Earth and Mother Nature was soon forgotten. Science eroded the truth of Mother Nature; Mathematics only subtracted her existence; English was not her tongue; History was severely distorted; Geographic was attributed solely to plate tectonics. They had forgotten who was the one that brought truth into the Earth; the one who counted the blades of grass in the patch; the one who spoke a language of the beginning; the one who wrote about living; and the one who moved the lands of the Earth. Man could not appreciate her - But she did not cease. She continues and / continues and / continues to sing. Until the flowers are brought life again.
You asked me to write about love. I paused and thought hard, but with that alone, I fail to form sentences. I picked up my battered soul and lifted my feet. Right. Left. Right. Left. I walked, walked to write, something about love. Humid is getting the better of me. My perspiration fell like rain, streaming down the faint lines along my teenaged skin. I passed by those stationary bus-stops. Vehicles whirled pass me. Not just yet, keep walking. I kept looking back, just in case someone was behind, or nearby. I was a selfish child; I wanted this moment for myself, solely. The brewery. I'm getting closer. I feel like I am a secret agent on a mission. The street-road beside me fell silent. And for the first time today, I truly heard myself breathing. Taking in deep breaths, and I felt consoled. The apple strudel parlour. This time round, Im really getting closer.
I see it! I felt a child in me, laughing, and the adult in me, crying. I feel the skin on my feet tearing, fed by the slipper. Nobody crosses roads so that they can use the overhead bridge. Only fools do, and you know what, here's one! I did it, I found love. In a way that maybe people might not understand. Weird isn't it? But when I walked along that bridge, I really meant it - that I was walking on it. With every step I took, I took it with love. I thought to myself, this is utterly beautiful. No one else would have known what it was. When I got on the bus, they were probably looking at me as if I had just taken a run for the bus. I plastered the tear on my feet and gave myself a mental pat on my back. But I know it, I know it alright. The girl whose child in her laughs and the adult in her cry. I know the girl who crosses roads only to use the bridge to bring her back. I know her alright. The girl who fell in love with a bridge.
No wonder they call it the Midnight Sun. It's beautiful, with its edge sketched deep into the dark blanket.
It's like the window that peers through from space onto Earth at night. Like the eye of a God of some kind.
Watching over the cars and buses driving along the roads at night; taking care of strangers as they walk in
dark alleys; feeding the birds supper; guiding cats into refuge for the night. Then if the moon is the eye of
that God of some kind, then the stars are it's ears, listening to every conversation to the littlest bit. A
helpless scream, a sigh of sorrow, a jest of laughter, a whisper of gossip, a silent smile, a child's bedtime
prayer, an ambulance siren, a stray dog's whine and even the mere breathing of the people - the stars
listen to us for that God of some kind.
When I was a child, Mommies used to tell me that the Midnight Sun follows us everywhere under the dark
blanket. At first, I thought it awfully weird - like a spy hanged into the sky watching every single deed that
we do. It was a jester to me and I never really liked walking in the night. Slowly, I started to grow
accustomed to it and thought it to be actually a terribly thoughtful act and was thankful. However, I
realised that there were nights that there was no moon. Then Mommies told me that the moon needed a
few days to rest as well. Then I realised that even that God of some kind would grow tired.
The lady in red rouge, and a parasol in hand. Clad with the elegance of a Missus. With flowers red as rum
blooming at the breath of her bosom. With the dark of night caught in her eyes. With her greying do in a
loose bun where she fidgets with pride. Aimlessly she dives into her against-all-arguments-larger-than-
normal handbag, and vainly picks out a compact mirror. She adjusts her brow into a light frown and pursed
her lips, her wrinkles deepened with every glee. Her elegance wrapped up her neck, mandarin collars, they
call them that. Down the loosened skin against her calves, feet suffocated in sheer black stockings and
saddled up. Then up her limbs she wears with youth, a sultry slit that defines elegance.
With her aged might she holds on tight, against the wheels of the bumpy bus. While her gold trinkets
danced with vigour in mid-air. In the midst of children basking with gay, composed, she enjoyed her
definition her dress exposing the slit down her thigh. Poised her head and left to a place where apples fall.
With the last glance I saw her back, a feeble figure as she took upon the challenge posed by the several
steps. As this woman age with grace, wearing her elegance inside out. Vividly I recall, the lady in red rouge.
A Tribute to my Love / You see, I fell in love with a bridge. And we had the most tremendous affair ever. She was
simply beautiful although appearing aged; her heart was that of a young fine lady. Well it's not as though that I was
young either, but nonetheless I have fallen helplessly in love with her. Upon our first meet, she was burnt right into
my heart and I knew at once that even if we can never have each other, we could occasionally enjoy the company of
a stranger. She was an absolute beauty in