All posts by thirteenfingers

What is Ibiza like? – An Emotional Travel Guide: Cala Moli & Old Town

Ibiza. Eeh-beeth-uh. Party destination; earthy European glamour. The surreal, exciting, disturbing sensation of entering a bar in the dark of night and leaving it to find the sun. The sun has risen whilst your back was turned – you learn that the world does not pause for you to find a place to sleep. Tinted sepia-pink, greens morph into lush shades of olive, and the ocean moves quietly like a pan set to simmer. Simmering heat. White linen. Aperol Spritz. This is Ibiza.

Ibiza Beach Club Sant Josep Cala Moli

Cala Moli is carved out from sea-licking mountains and appears from the highway like an unpretentious Hollywood, with its curving tarmac lined by gargantuan forest trees. Through the dry and drunkenly undulating branches, I see wide, white houses with flat roofs. Their entrances are tucked behind the tall foliage which grapples up the hillsides, majestic wooden gates off some silver gravel track. Everything is high, hidden, reeking of unknown wealth and romances. As our car fights round the knotted road, my nose is filled with the scent of the swinging alpine air freshener, which has been baking for its lifetime in the trapped Cala Moli heat.

Ibiza Sant Josep Cala Moli

Afternoon sun is the most vicious, so the locals simply do not sit in it. They’ll be under bright white parasols, sipping tar black liquor, a digestif for the paella. And whilst they respect the swelter of the midday light, boozing gently in modest shade, Ibiza’s visitors rush at the terrific sun. There doesn’t seem to be an in between. Either vibrantly lit or a silhouette against it; either so hot that the plastic chairs themselves sweat, or entrenched in the deep, cool shadow of the Old Town wall. The island is all over oozing with this fantastical perception of life, where there is no monotony, no areas of grey, and only the dreamy extremes of joy and joyful sin remain.

Ibiza pool Sant Josep Cala Moli

It is beautiful how the trees, cacti, flowers and all matter of green burst so audaciously through the ashy dryness of the earth here, to all hang with thirsty longing over the rocks and ocean. I love most the way that the Old Town and its bikini boutiques and rare restaurants feel as though they’ve been built inside nooks of hills and crannies of land, that have sheltered them into a moment of time which keeps them young whilst they grow wise – every laugh, every love at first sight, every choice and consequence, seen and captured and lingering still. You can feel it in the noisy buzz of tongues speaking, singing, kissing, as you wander amongst it, the European class and bohemian money.

Ibiza villa Sant Josep Cala Moli

As we sit on the edge of the sea, inhaling sangria, tearing shellfish apart with our brown hands, I am absolutely content. My limbs are heavy and my skin is dewy with the sweet steam which perpetuates the island. Feet slipped from sandals rest upon the terracotta tile floor. Ice cubes hit my teeth. I spot the hairs on my arms have turned baby blonde. It’s only two p.m. – dinner is seven hours away; cold strawberry gin & tonic is nine. I’ll be awake for another sixteen. The never-tiring day turns to night turns to day, seems endless, in its bubble of dusty rock and opaque blue sky. And yet the day did come, despite all efforts to halt it, to leave my siesta-induced dreams in Ibiza – which will be waiting there for me still, the next time I get back.

Ibiza Sant Josep Cala Moli

All photos are my own, please credit if you use them.

‘Love’ by Lana Del Rey Lyrics – New Song

‘Love’ is the first single off of Lana’s new album. In her latest live Instagram stream, she described the aesthetic of the new album as having “a retro sensibility with a futuristic flair”, which can be seen in the achingly surreal music video for the latest release. Moreover however, I feel the most beautiful element of this piece of work is the lyrical message of the song. Lana encompasses that strange, bittersweet sensation of youth and being lost and impassioned, masterfully. I say masterfully because it is achieved, actually, so simplistically and effortlessly, with modestly powerful metaphors and language, yet it doesn’t patronise. The words reach out to those who are searching, wavering, doubting; and for me, it’s a reassuring smile that losing your mind in this disenchanting world is just a growing pain. Meaning, you’re still so young, and you’re doing the right thing, and God, how lucky you are to be so in love and to love so much.

Look you kids with your vintage music,
coming through satellites while cruising,
you’re part of the past but now you’re the future,
signals crossing can get confusing.

It’s enough just to make you feel crazy, crazy, crazy, sometimes,
it’s enough just to make you feel crazy.

You get ready you get all dressed up,
to go nowhere in particular,
back to work or the coffee shop,
doesn’t matter cos its enough,
to be young, and in love,
to be young, and in love.

Look you kids, you know you’re the coolest,
the world is yours and you can’t refuse it,
seen so much, you could get the blues but,
that don’t mean that you should abuse it.

Though it’s enough just to make you go crazy, crazy, crazy, I know,
it’s enough just to make you go crazy, crazy, crazy.

You get ready you get all dressed up,
to go nowhere in particular,
back to work or the coffee shop,
it don’t matter because it’s enough,
to be young, and in love,
to be young, and in love.

Don’t worry baby, don’t worry baby.

And it’s enough just to make me go crazy, crazy, crazy,
it’s enough just to make me go crazy, crazy, crazy.

I get ready I get all dressed up,
to go nowhere in particular,
doesn’t matter if I’m not enough,
for the future or the things to come,
cos I’m young, and in love,
I’m young, and in love.

Don’t worry baby, don’t worry baby.

Dark Bloody Blue: Mood / Inspiration Board

She sits and sizzles at the poolside. Hot skin, cold fingertips, resting on her sweating glass of drink. Vivid blues of chlorinated water and powdery sky, hold up weeping palm trees and orange mountains lost in steam. Wet footprints across the concrete soon fade in the sun. She can smell the tyres burning on oven baked cars struggling to cool down; the sweet, Hawaiian Tropic on her knees and thighs; the sweat that is crawling down her neck. It is late afternoon, the saddest time of day, and not long to wait before the wicked night’s crush. But there is bliss to be found in this everyday hell. She finds hers between his mouth and hands. Beneath his feet and within his chest. A ten minute drive away at the fluorescent red slushy machine, tongue stained, brain numb, frostbitten lips to kiss him with. There is bliss to be found in this monotonous paradise. In the hum of the fan that puts him to sleep. The scent of a brand new shampoo. The white light that pours in past midday and illuminates the rising dust like holy ash from the burning wings of an angel shamed. She sips her drink, to watch the sky descend into unearthly sanguine, and observe the shadows creep, threatening to grasp her ankles and drown her in the lukewarm pool. There is bliss somewhere amidst all this.

by Y.L.H.

Click here to view and download the mood board in hi-res.
Ideal ratio for desktops. Largest resolution available 2880 x 1800.

Novel Opening: a University assignment from 2014 being brought to light

I could not move when I woke up. Forced to lay in the glare of white sun, sliced into pieces by the blinds over the windows. The rings on my fingers pushed hard into my teeth through the skin of my cheek. Murky waters, like a swamp, swished back and forth over my sticky eyes. The scene grew cleaner, the place growing more and more unfamiliar. My flesh felt as if it were a bag full of damp sand, and I did not kid myself that I would be exploring soon. I did not kid myself that things would turn out well from this. I ground my already grinding jaw some more, in hopes it would slip and snap and I would spill out, and all the grime and dirt would leave me. Dragging my skull across the cheap metal on my knuckles and the hot pillowcase, I dropped it over the side of the bed, and saw his black eyes twitching from behind their lids. In between the petrifying moments, sticking out like turrets through a mist, are these images of searing clarity. I find that my mind tries to erase most things, leaving just the pressure marks on paper behind, the faint idea of an idea. But moments of him are recorded in ink; ink on skin. When he lifted his stare from his bottle of Sol, choosing me from the rest. These are the dots that connect each loose line.

Let’s begin at dot number one – it is seven in the evening, mid-November, and it is cold and dark. Lucy and I are walking carefully down the metal steps of a rollercoaster ride’s exit. ‘Inferno’, eight corkscrews, five loops, no build up, abrupt ending. He stands over six foot tall with a cigarette in hand and bleached buzzcut, zipped into a chunky, nylon, khaki coat, a bit metallic, looking all over a bit sickly, almost done with living. He has a strong nose and sleepy eyes. He is waiting by the wall of one of those gravelly flowerbeds that seperates the theme park tarmac into curving pathways. Lucy slows down with me, to figure out what it is I am gaping at. “Molly”, she says, “he is gonna catch you looking!” I want him to, so much so, that I stop walking, to continue wondering, to properly wonder, at the figure glowing by the overflowing bin, lit up by the green and purple rollercoaster lights. The sounds of the screaming and the adrenaline-induced blasphemy, the deafening spin of rushing, shaking wheels, layered over indecipherable announcements from rusty tanoys like foreign tongues through radio noise – all together they weave themselves into a loud and perfect drone. Nothing can describe him except for that, devouring, simultaneously numbing and purging, terrifying and euphoric symphony.

Prose and featured image by Y.L.H.

Spinach Pici Pasta

spinach pici pastaJamie Oliver’s Family Superfood aired on Channel 4 the other night, and the ingredients of the spinach pici were so vivid and colourful, and it involved fluorescent green dough, and pine nuts, and loads of parmesan – so I had to try it right away. I upped the 1/2 teaspoon of chilli flakes to 1 or 2 teaspoons, which ended up giving the dish a perfect amount of warmth, and adding an extra courgette worked well too. Roll the pasta thinly to create a more delicate dish, and do not forget your 50 (or 100) grams of parmesan to finish the sauce.

To try it yourself, Jamie Oliver has the Spinach Pici Pasta Recipe on his website.

Summer Legs

A leggy summer collage, ideas brewing. Putting together turquoise, greens, orange and black. Gucci buckles, Jimmy Choo sandals. Glamour glamour glamour. Thigh high boots. Palm trees poolside, all-in-one pieces, throw-on, effortless.

fashion collage summer legs

“Beauty and femininity are ageless and can’t be contrived, and glamour, although the manufacturers won’t like this, cannot be manufactured. Not real glamour; it’s based on femininity.” – Marilyn Monroe

“Glamour is an imaginative process that creates a specific emotional response: a sharp mixture of projection, longing, admiration, and aspiration. It evokes an audience’s hopes and dreams and makes them seem attainable, all the while maintaining enough distance to sustain the fantasy.” – Virginia Postrel