fink.

a conscious thought.
pondered by S. Kukulka

It’s beautiful because it’s true. 

the secret world of arrietty (2010)

It’s beautiful because it’s true. 

the secret world of arrietty (2010)

(Source: issietheshark, via nobunnyluvsyou)



a question for the stars
My mind is in constant disagreement about whether our fleeting time together was predetermined fate, or an accidental miracle.
Either way, do not dwell over realigned stars, this is out of our control; rather, lay under them, observe them, for they are marvellous and beautiful. 

a question for the stars

My mind is in constant disagreement about whether our fleeting time together was predetermined fate, or an accidental miracle.

Either way, do not dwell over realigned stars, this is out of our control; rather, lay under them, observe them, for they are marvellous and beautiful. 



I guess, ideally, we’d just kiss and go back to bed. 

I guess, ideally, we’d just kiss and go back to bed. 

(Source: somerollingstone, via thegirlwiththelittlecurl)



I guess it resonates in my need to be amongst the trees, my ongoing exploration of the wonders of avocado, my obsession with the art of ceramics – the ripples, and colours, and shapes I will forever be collecting – my determination to know every flower name out there, my constant yearning for dappled sunlight, the sexiness I feel when I put on a pair of baggy jeans, the undeniable perfection of tea & cake, my pure happiness when sat in an empty still room, the face my cat gives me when I get up out of bed, my comfort in knowing the two best people are only one call & one flight away, my ambitious prose, my heated heart, my lethargic grudge, my relentless fight, my forever urge…it? what is it? Well, it, is just the simple reason why I get up and do what I do.  



You’re not sure exactly what has changed, but suddenly it all makes sense: all this hard work, all this treading water. You see before you a sea of greatness, opportunities swirl as ideas flood in – baby, you’re ready for the swim. I didn’t see this coming, I dare say it was never my plan, but I guess it was meant to be, aligning long ago before my mind knew it consciously. Fearless and ferocious – I guess you all made me that way; proud and up ready, there’s determination in her eyes. But wait your turn, there’s still work to be learnt, this swim is a long one, don’t dive before the gun. 

You’re not sure exactly what has changed, but suddenly it all makes sense: all this hard work, all this treading water. You see before you a sea of greatness, opportunities swirl as ideas flood in – baby, you’re ready for the swim. 
I didn’t see this coming, I dare say it was never my plan, but I guess it was meant to be, aligning long ago before my mind knew it consciously. 
Fearless and ferocious – I guess you all made me that way; proud and up ready, there’s determination in her eyes. 
But wait your turn, there’s still work to be learnt, this swim is a long one, don’t dive before the gun. 



All of a sudden you don’t feel used, or betrayed, or cheated: you just feel silly….I can deal with silly. 

All of a sudden you don’t feel used, or betrayed, or cheated: you just feel silly….I can deal with silly. 



a floral life
When considering the seasons, the variety of floral species, the colours, the shapes, the changes, the scents, the growth, it’s no wonder we are so very inspired by what we do. Simultaneously one cannot help noticing the difficulty of our task: with each passing week a bloom is lost for another year, with a new one taking it’s place. Time wonderfully gives us new blooms to work with, new stems to depict; but first we must consider you, think how you grow, understand your movements: are you tucked deep, rooted low, or do you project high, boasting your presence? These understandings help us mimic your natural magnificence, which is why we will forever be learning. 

a floral life

When considering the seasons, the variety of floral species, the colours, the shapes, the changes, the scents, the growth, it’s no wonder we are so very inspired by what we do. Simultaneously one cannot help noticing the difficulty of our task: with each passing week a bloom is lost for another year, with a new one taking it’s place. Time wonderfully gives us new blooms to work with, new stems to depict; but first we must consider you, think how you grow, understand your movements: are you tucked deep, rooted low, or do you project high, boasting your presence? These understandings help us mimic your natural magnificence, which is why we will forever be learning. 



While lolling atop duvets we spoke of all the things we wanted. Shoulder to shoulder, ankle to ankle, we moaned endlessly, berating the faults of the system. Fantasising the day things would change – a break, a chance, an opportunity, success – we’d interrupt ourselves with endless fits of laughter. Unintentionally the three of us found ourselves in exactly the same place at exactly the same time; and although we equally distressed our ears with complaints, this probably would be the greatest times of our lives. 

While lolling atop duvets we spoke of all the things we wanted. Shoulder to shoulder, ankle to ankle, we moaned endlessly, berating the faults of the system. Fantasising the day things would change – a break, a chance, an opportunity, success – we’d interrupt ourselves with endless fits of laughter. Unintentionally the three of us found ourselves in exactly the same place at exactly the same time; and although we equally distressed our ears with complaints, this probably would be the greatest times of our lives. 



soapy suds.
I guess it all began with my father’s arrival home from work each night: his key clicking in the front door lock, chiming six o’clock. Bored – or most likely in trouble by our mother – our father’s arrival home was the trophy of nightfall. Diving for the front door we’d call, “Daddydaddydaddydaddy” as our little hands stretched towards his shoulders, eagerly wanting to be the first he picked up. Despite our determination for affection, without fail he would firstly go to the guest sink and wash his hands. In his royal blue overalls, he would lean over the basin and thoroughly soap his hands, foaming large suds that squished in and out of his fingers. Slowly the creamy suds would turn a dirty brown – evidence of a long, hard days work. He would then dry his clean, yet never quite clean enough hands on the faded yellow hand towel, hung conveniently to the left of the faucet (a towel my mother purposefully, and cleverly, selected). 
As a young girl, to me this was a symbolic image of the ideal man – a man I would someday marry. Despite my maturing age, romantically I’ve always pondered this image: a man returning from work to wash his soiled hands – no suits or no briefcases invaded my juvenile daydreams. While it’s not been a priority, nor even a conscious criteria, I’d be lying if I didn’t admit to stencilling an outline of this image onto men I’ve been in love with – this stencil being the trifling tick of youthful perfection. 
Perhaps merely my own personal version of the primitive sexual division of labour: The Hunter / Gatherer; but are we not all capable of evolution, even if only minuet?
Four weeks ago I found myself returning home from my new job, and marching straight upstairs to soap my hands. Large suds gathered around my knuckles, turning from clear pearly bubbles, to gritty dollops of discarded soap. Pulling myself into consciousness I registered my actions: I felt proud. It’s small, and nothing to brag about, but there’s something about in fact becoming the person you had planned to find. 

soapy suds.

I guess it all began with my father’s arrival home from work each night: his key clicking in the front door lock, chiming six o’clock. Bored – or most likely in trouble by our mother – our father’s arrival home was the trophy of nightfall. Diving for the front door we’d call, “Daddydaddydaddydaddy” as our little hands stretched towards his shoulders, eagerly wanting to be the first he picked up. Despite our determination for affection, without fail he would firstly go to the guest sink and wash his hands. In his royal blue overalls, he would lean over the basin and thoroughly soap his hands, foaming large suds that squished in and out of his fingers. Slowly the creamy suds would turn a dirty brown – evidence of a long, hard days work. He would then dry his clean, yet never quite clean enough hands on the faded yellow hand towel, hung conveniently to the left of the faucet (a towel my mother purposefully, and cleverly, selected). 

As a young girl, to me this was a symbolic image of the ideal man – a man I would someday marry. 

Despite my maturing age, romantically I’ve always pondered this image: a man returning from work to wash his soiled hands – no suits or no briefcases invaded my juvenile daydreams. While it’s not been a priority, nor even a conscious criteria, I’d be lying if I didn’t admit to stencilling an outline of this image onto men I’ve been in love with – this stencil being the trifling tick of youthful perfection. 

Perhaps merely my own personal version of the primitive sexual division of labour: The Hunter / Gatherer; but are we not all capable of evolution, even if only minuet?

Four weeks ago I found myself returning home from my new job, and marching straight upstairs to soap my hands. Large suds gathered around my knuckles, turning from clear pearly bubbles, to gritty dollops of discarded soap. Pulling myself into consciousness I registered my actions: I felt proud. It’s small, and nothing to brag about, but there’s something about in fact becoming the person you had planned to find. 



an intersecting equilibrium

I guess we are all just here: colliding and sharing, meeting and learning, living and loving, neither belonging or owning; eventually passing one another to their next co-ordinate. Perhaps this is the biggest life lesson: accepting that there is no one person you are to own, or whom you will belong to. Rather we are autonomous souls, intersecting at outrageously varied rates. There is a buoyant, weightlessness about it – a bunch of directionless atoms moving through time, unaware of course or distance. When we do happen to intersect with another – a rare occurrence – it is down to the mystery of time and space. How long we pause at theses co-ordinates often isn’t a decision made by both graphs, but with a general understanding of the wider picture, it is deducible that such is life. We are not entitled to occupy beyond our designated allocation – we cannot hang on, or hold back. 

In one timeframe we met and collided, and when our time was spent you passed me to my next place; and then it was you who was collected for a journey to an unfamiliar grid. The beauty lies in the simplicity of the unforeseeable intersection; but not everyone sees the purity in the method, but once you do, you’ll be thankful for the time you had at equilibrium. 



a graceful grumpy girl
Brooding gracefully – possible? A tough call indeed. I can’t say i recall learning this skill in school, but as I creep (slowly) towards my 30s, the notion of being tempestuously surly loses its justification. Despite the enjoyment a grumpy girl may expel by dragging her moody arse around a room, society, for better or for worse, deems it “inappropriate”.
Does this mean you can’t be grumpy over the age of 25? Technically (logically, obviously, genetically) no, but it would seem that a certain amount of decorum be maintained.
So again I ask: can one brood gracefully? – outwardly no, you cannot stomp your feet, call someone a wheelbarrow, open the fridge door in someone’s face, or use a utensil as weapon AND still be regarded as graceful. Fact. Besides, most likely you’ll just end-up the psycho who used a spoon to serrate someone’s wrist off. 
However, (hallelujah!) delight in knowing you have something quite marvellously annoying: your happiness and sheer brilliance. The best thing a grumpy, yet graceful girl can do is smile big in their fat faces. Wah-pow! 

a graceful grumpy girl

Brooding gracefully – possible? A tough call indeed. I can’t say i recall learning this skill in school, but as I creep (slowly) towards my 30s, the notion of being tempestuously surly loses its justification. Despite the enjoyment a grumpy girl may expel by dragging her moody arse around a room, society, for better or for worse, deems it “inappropriate”.

Does this mean you can’t be grumpy over the age of 25? Technically (logically, obviously, genetically) no, but it would seem that a certain amount of decorum be maintained.

So again I ask: can one brood gracefully? – outwardly no, you cannot stomp your feet, call someone a wheelbarrow, open the fridge door in someone’s face, or use a utensil as weapon AND still be regarded as graceful. Fact. Besides, most likely you’ll just end-up the psycho who used a spoon to serrate someone’s wrist off. 

However, (hallelujah!) delight in knowing you have something quite marvellously annoying: your happiness and sheer brilliance. The best thing a grumpy, yet graceful girl can do is smile big in their fat faces. Wah-pow! 



There’s a water bottle tucked under my feet, and the candle by my bed has dripped onto the floor. The hour’s still early, but the sun has long gone. The day has rung my body out; there’s a twinge in my back. Today’s outfit mimics an invisible corpse on the floor, whilst a plate with crumbs waits to be returned to the kitchen. My cat tiptoes over my calves - she’s cautious to not disturb me, yet equally wants me to play. I’m conscious of the thoughts in my head, but posses no energy to process them. So they float, and sail and pass. I wave. I let them go. Needing nothing else, I let the day close. 

Surf – Mal was ruhiges für den Winter, mit Sommerlichen Gedanken “Something quiet for the winter, with summer thoughts” track by Jonny Rizzle.



Even on the edge,
baby, you can grow. 

Even on the edge,

baby, you can grow. 



A quiet theory resides in theses walls: home is peaceful slumber. 



fink’s been rambling now for 2 years – happy 2nd birthday to us.  I guess what I would like to say that I love this space: the late night thoughts, which evidently turn into late night moments with my keyboard. There hasn’t been much of an agenda, (except to “conquer the world”) but I hope to have sparked a little contemplation in you at some stage.
It’s quite a nice little thing, so, to say “hey, this is pretty ace” fink is being published. The favourites are being printed and bound, cos hey, when did we ever do something consistently we didn’t have to? 

fink’s been rambling now for 2 years – happy 2nd birthday to us.  I guess what I would like to say that I love this space: the late night thoughts, which evidently turn into late night moments with my keyboard. There hasn’t been much of an agenda, (except to “conquer the world”) but I hope to have sparked a little contemplation in you at some stage.

It’s quite a nice little thing, so, to say “hey, this is pretty ace” fink is being published. The favourites are being printed and bound, cos hey, when did we ever do something consistently we didn’t have to?