Wednesday, 30 June 2010

Moth-er F

I left the light open
so a giant moth flew
into the window
he screamed
I screamed
as it thudded onto the blinds
and sounded like a rat
slamming into a wall
I stood in the hallway
silent and the lights were dimmed
he stood with the repellent
and we fought a battle
twenty five minutes long
which ended with the moth entrapped
in a glass ice cream bowl
that I will never
use anymore

Soft and fat like summer roses

This guy is one of my favourites.

I have been a fan of Charles Bukowski's novels since my later high school years - but neglected to read his poems because I'm not big on poetry. (Okay, maybe at 13. Ones about love and abortion ripping apart tiny babies in wombs. I know you know the one, Catholic high school girls)

Thankfully, I spotted this gem of a novel at the used book shop, that changed my mind about poems once more - or at least Bukowski's.

This biography is a very insightful read, and just happened to include snippets of Bukowski's poetry throughout.

And they are truly wonderful. Here are some of my favourite passages:

“I walked into a dark hall
where the landlady stood
execrating and final,
sending me to hell,
waving her fat, sweaty arms
and screaming
screaming for the rent
because the world had failed us both.”

"in the cupboard sits my bottle
like a dwarf waiting to scratch out my prayers.
I drink and cough like some idiot at a symphony,
sunlight and maddened birds are everywhere,
the phone rings gamboling its sound
against the odds of the crooked sea;
I drink deeply and evenly now,
I drink to paradise
and death
and the lie of love."

His writing is succinct, never flowery but always beautiful - to me at least. For me, what really makes a Bukowski novel is its pace, something he had complete command over.

Sure he may have been a misogynistic, shameless drunk, but the man could write. I have tried to read other novels from the misanthropic male point of view, but just couldn't stomach the depictions of women and the vulgarity of the protaganists (I'm talking to you, "Average American Male") - which is strange, because Bukowski is as crude as it gets. I just feel like a lot of "stereotypical" male voice novels lack the wit and pace needed to overlook the blatantly misogynistic undertones that permeate some of this genre. Plain and simple, Bukowski makes me laugh, despite my disgust at some of the things Henry Chinaski does.

In his own words, "Genius might be the ability to say a profound thing in a simple way."

It's surprising just how autobiographical Bukowski's novels are. I felt as though I had heard it all before because Chinaski's life pretty much mirrors his own. The book includes letters from one of Bukowski's girlfriends, and though they were definitely interesting and relevant, there was something all too voyeuristic about it. And excuse me for this, really, but I wrote a poem.


I was reading a book
about a writer I admire
in the pages
were letters from lovers
perverse and damning
I couldn't read on
without feeling like I had
invaded a private space

when I die
will they go through my emails
Jesus Christ
I hope not


Becky Bloomwood complex

I hate that sometimes I have moments where I can spend way too much time looking clothes online. I can sheepishly say online window shopping is one of my many procrastination tools. (looking up "Ralph Macchio" on youtube is another)

I'm betting that spending time online looking for dresses you can't really afford is probably not the best way to productively spend a Wednesday afternoon, but one click leads to the next and before you know it, you're stopping yourself from reaching for your nearest credit card.

Hello, dwindling bank account.

See by Chloe shorts

Yes please!

Sadly, I'm saving my pennies right now, but for any of you lucky enough to have a bit of a disposable income at the moment and are into pretty blue dresses, this one's for you. And it's only 25 quid. Loads of other dresses on sale too, for those in need of a little retail therapy.


Monday, 28 June 2010


Daniel has been making a short film and I have been making the costumes and 'acting,' alongside the talented Kerr Logan.

I don't mean to brag, but I'm pretty sure Daniel's the next Cronenberg. This film was shot in Toronto and London and I think you will be thoroughly impressed. If this whole headband thing doesn't work out, I guess I wouldn't mind being the next Cronenberg's costume designer.

If you would like to see this film, alongside work from other talented and gorgeous people like Lucy Stockton and Sarah Smith (who have also happened to model for me), then come to Those that Move, Camberwell's BA show at The Rag Factory, Heaneage Street (just off brick lane), E1 5LJ
Private view is on Thursday 1/7/2010 and its open daily until Sunday 4/7/2010.

Mari x

I'm on a vespa

Since it's super sweltering outside, I think it's a great time to post some photos of me in my brand new hat on my brand new vespa scooter.

Just kidding. I only wish this were my scooter. But the hat is mine. Thanks, mom!

Here is another outfit.

In both photos I am wearing my favourite pair of high waisted shorts from French Connection, which were a gift from one of my best friends, Rene, two Christmases ago. Good present huh? (Okay, I may have picked them out myself, but I was just making things easier) Thanks RJ.

It is really hot in London right now. I am busy working on the A/W collection (when I am not taking pictures on vespas and pretending to own them) - sneak peek soon.

M x

Sunday, 20 June 2010


Happy Father's Day, Dad. I think you read this sometimes (I'm still not adding you on facebook, though)


Some dad facts on the top of my head at the moment:

My middle name is Antoinette because my dad's middle name is Antonio.

He is a great cook. Once he made some Filipino noodles for my kindergarten pot-luck and my teacher asked for the recipe.

When I was little, he would often pretend he was dead when I tried to wake him up. I am sure this has left some detrimental psychological effects somewhere along the line, but it hasn't stopped me from pulling the same act on my little sister!

When he would call me from downstairs when I was upstairs, he would sometimes yell "There's a ghost!" to get me to move faster. (I once jumped an entire flight of stairs because of this.)

As a child, I was allowed to draw with pen on him all the time...but wasn't allowed to wear makeup/nail polish until my late teens.

We watched all the Star Wars episodes 1-3 in the theatres together.

"Mr. Bean" was our favourite TV show.

I used to pull out his grey hairs for 10 cents a hair.

He used to do donuts in the car parking lot during winter because I liked how it felt like an amusement park ride.

We used to use garbage bags as sleds in the winter.

He once called me into the computer room laughing hysterically to show me a "joke" he got from his friend. It was a condom hidden in a walnut. WHAT. I actually just googled it right now, and apparently Malaysia shares his sense of humour.

Tuesday, 8 June 2010

Pretty In Pink - If You Leave

When I am having a particularly stressed out day, I find that watching Pretty in Pink clips temporarily dulls the annoyance (don't judge me). It's actually one of my favourite films...but perhaps only because I know a Duckie personally - and maybe even a Blaine.

Hope your day is going better than mine.

Mari x

Wednesday, 2 June 2010

Baby Fille?

Before I mailed off an order to my aunt, I took a couple of photos of her custom pieces. She asked me to design headbands for children aged 2 - 5, which was an interesting task. These heart headbands are very lightweight and fasten using velcro.

In case anyone was curious and was wondering where I was with Little Fille - I am currently in talks with manufacturers and am aiming to get my Autumn/Winter collection produced. This change means that you just might be able to find Little Fille stocked in a city near you sometime in the future.

I will also continue to feature one-off custom pieces that you can order directly off the website in due time - stay tuned.

M x

Tuesday, 1 June 2010


My dad recently sent me an email saying, "Justine says Hi Ate I miss you, I love you and I want you to stay here forever.  I don't want you to go away....come here soon....."

One of the hardest parts about being away from home is being away from my 6 year old sister, Justine (My brother Aidan too, but that's for another post). She is joy - pure joy in tiny little human being form. And I'm not just saying this because she's my sister, she's got plenty of glowing reviews from everyone she meets.

Her forte is boy advice: "The trick to make a boy like you is buying him lots of toys. If he doesn't like toys, then you can buy him t-shirts." Truer words have never been spoken.

I wrote this a long time ago:


My entire family knew before I did—aunts, grandparents, second cousins twice removed. And me, my dad’s only daughter, the one that lived with him for four years after the divorce, was the last to know.

The baby was due in a month.

More changes were to come. My home - the one I happily called my own when I was eight, where I played dress-up and danced bare feet across my back yard - was sold to a shady looking business man who wanted all of our curtains for free.

And then she came: my half sister, swaddled in cloth, staring back at me with her alien eyes.

It was real now; she was here, like a porcelain doll in flesh and bone. Tiny hands held my fingers with such certainty, the newborn with an iron grip.

I cradled and rocked her back and forth; I told her stories and sang her songs. Justine, with coal black hair and rainbows in her eyes, looked mischievous when she smiled. Justine, who smelled like peaches and jellybeans, never ate anything green. Justine, my sister, needed me like I needed her.

She was a sweetheart, a terror; the little girl with hair that fell in her face, who followed me around like a shadow during all my visits home. She drew landscapes on paper and painted portraits on carpets and on the walls.

Justine dressed herself in printed tights and frilly skirts, hid nail polish and lip-gloss in her pink backpack, and cut her own hair with safety scissors under the dining room table.

When an ex-boyfriend broke my heart, her tiny hands wiped the tears from my eyes; and when she scraped her knee on the sidewalk, I wiped hers.

It was true love with her, the girl who wanted to be exactly like me in every way - even when I didn’t want to be like me at all.

At 23, I was to start anew. The airport was my first step towards a new life in London, a fresh start in fashion journalism, a struggle to be independent. I was burdened with two suitcases and a pile of student loans; uncertainty and apprehension; hesitation and excitement. Big leaps reap bigger rewards.

Only I was too scared to jump.

I felt the tears well up in my eyes, saying ‘So long,’ to my best friends, ‘Arrivederci,’ to my family, ‘See you soon,’ to a city I knew so well. And my sister, my darling sister, with all her three-and-a-half year old wisdom, hugged me close and told me she’d miss me.

Justine, who married princes in tablecloth gowns, feasted on plastic French fries and fake ice cream. Justine, who knew the words to all my favourite songs, was the hardest one to leave.

“Here,” she handed me her prized possession, a small pink bear. It was her lifetime companion, a confidante of cotton stuffing and fake fur. I smiled but declined.

“She’ll take care of you,” she said.

With wide-eyes and hands covered in marker, Justine loved me more than her very favourite toy. She was my half sister, my hero in pink overalls. But half means never complete: half empty, half hearted, half finished. Half full.

Save for Justine; that was never her. She’s my sister--entirely whole.

I'll leave you with some photos and a funny little video:

If you don't read any of this, fair enough, but you won't regret watching this video:

Justine from mari on Vimeo.