It’s alarming, truly, how disarming she can be // A Personal History Through Lana Del Rey

 

Last week, when Q and E listened to Lust for Life, we got deep in our LDR feels and spent a while recalling our favourite Lana-inspired memories.

Here’s an annotated discography of Lana Del Rey nostalgia.

Photographer:  Nicole Nodland

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An Island in the Rain

L muses on July in her love note to the sea and the sublime.

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I’ve been feeling melancholy this July—

yet also euphoric.

The anticipation of change as autumn clambers closer is invigorating me, I think, but it dulls all within the interim.

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A Letter To My Fresher Self

Dear Me

Congrats! Your 24 year old self just graduated medical school and is about to start work. As a doctor. A real one in a hospital and everything. You’ll make it. Pretty soon, you’ll figure out that it’s just beginning, and that there’s a whole minefield of a world outside medical school, but that’s future us problem.

If I recall correctly, little baby 19-year-old Sarah in her lame band t shirts and lack of lipstick (that’ll change SOON) was spending the summer of 2012 panicking; what if you don’t get the grades to get into med school *again? What if you get in and immediately flunk out? You’ll read a blog called “The Secrets of Peninsula,” and freak the fuck out – what kind of medical school makes first years sit 5th year exams four times a year?

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Letter from the Editor // Updates from the Feminist Press

When last I wrote a Letter from the Editor, Boshemia Blog had been publishing online just shy of two months. Now, it will be one month since launching our print magazine.

On June 16, some of our closest friends, family, and people who came in from the street gathered around The Marina Bar in Plymouth, England, to celebrate our magazine launching.  We sold a batch of copies of our first printing, drank a fair bit of gin, and read from our magazine to a happy crowd, all bathed in pink and lavender lights.

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the editorial team

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Sigalit Landau // Barbed Hula (2001)

Winding through the tourist scattered streets of Málaga on a Sunday afternoon, sun beating down on me, I headed to El Centre de Pompidou, a smaller branch of the world famous contemporary art gallery in Paris. Making my way through the gallery, I stumbled across many striking exhibits, such as ‘Self Portraits’ which featured feminist icon Frida Kahlo’s The Frame (1938), as well as a sincerely thought provoking exhibit, ‘The Man Without A Face’. However, it was the gallery’s segment for ‘The Political Body’ that struck my attention most. This is where I discovered Sigalit Landau, an incredible Israeli female artist who uses video, sculpting, installation and her own body to create political art. Her art was astounding, but her message was even better.

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This Is Not Just A Paperclip, This Is A Prada Paperclip // no wait, it’s just a paperclip

Has this ever happened to you?

You’re sitting at your desk, doing paperwork; you’ve spent the entire morning editing the margins, perfecting the font – none of that Arial size 10 bullshit for you, you’ve gone for deluxe fonts. Instead of a plain black font, you’ve one upped yourself and gone for dark, dark, dark, dark grey. The difference is barely noticeable but you know. Oh, boy do you know. You’ve decided to print it on the fancy paper that’s normally reserved for special events. Sure, the finance department will probably yell at you again for wasting resources and money, and apparently, the company is nearly ~broke,~ but you don’t care – this report is worth it. You are worth it.

(The report in question is the weekly update for Linda in HR but it doesn’t matter. This report is too dang valuable for stupid Linda and her stupid bangs that she won’t shut up about. Shut up Linda)

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Fuck you and your bangs Linda

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Smalt || Happiness is a Smart Salt Shaker

The other day, I was in the kitchen, wearing a classic shirt waist dress and an old school apron, chain smoking and generally looking like a discontent housewife, whilst I was cooking a big old home cooked meal for my darling husband. It was his favourite; cheeky Nandos style pot roast. Naturally, I’d never had any, because it’s important that a woman retains her figure, but he seemed to like it, so that’s the important thing.

My darling husband was late. He often arrived late, sometimes with lipstick on his collar, but he swore to me that he wasn’t having an affair so that was the end of that conversation. As I sat alone in the kitchen, with no one to keep me company but my children, I couldn’t help but glance at the salt shaker. It looked so boring. It was just a little ceramic pot with a few holes in it. I hated it. It was dull, drab, desolate, and it reminded me of the limitations of humanity.

I had no such qualms with the pepper shaker. I loved the pepper shaker.

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