“confusion is a word we have invented for an order which is not understood.” // h. miller
it was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was cold, then not, humid, then not; heating is being forced on high, and i’m feeling like i’ve been wrapped in cling film and forced to sit in a car wash.
to make it plain – i have no idea what i’m meant to wear. too cold yet for spring, too warm already for winter wools, i’m making a case for layers, a million millefeuilles that i’m able to peel off and put back on whenever the need strikes.
march you’ve become confused, a temperamental little bitch and you’ve begun to drive me up my very own sweaty walls.
“the reinvention of daily life means marching off the edge of our maps.” // b. black
i really appreciate the fine art of a do-over.
a time, a moment, a beginning that strolled along well-enough until something, or someone gave their head a shake, and had a change of heart and started fresh. i sometimes feel that we become so tied to a concept, or an idea of who and what we are, that we don’t give making a change a fair shake. i mean, just because you started off doing one thing, doesn’t necessarily mean that that’s going to be the end-game until the end of your game.
i thought my winning piece would be somewhere, somehow writing, (what – i don’t know), i instead did everything in-between and did this wee bit thing on the side. a million years from where i started, i am, what i very-tongue-in-cheekly call, an entrepreneur-lite, running a teensy business, and who ever saw that coming should’ve clued me in because, who knew?
and that’s why it gives me just a little jolt of joy when someone, particularly someone who found success elsewhere, decided that ‘nope – this is no longer for me’, turned around, made a switch and decided to reinvent themselves… and found fulfillment somewhere new.
➝ source : multi-pouch wristlet via the row [you know who they are.]
➝ source : monkey pleat dress via title a [former model, agyness deyn’s line]
➝ source : a single man, tom ford‘s directorial debut
“she wore too much eyeliner then, at age thirteen, and now, at eighteen, she wears so much black under her eyes, she looks like a slutty linebacker raccoon.” // a.s. king
in high school, i’d make like siouxsie sioux. no finesse, not an ounce of try, just flawless teenaged angst.
my eyes would look as dark as the cure, and as deep as depeche mode. with some bit of irony, it made me happy. my eyes – the darker, the kohl-ier, were all the better. later, i’d be björk-lite – little dots by the outer corners of my eyes. i could go along with some part of whimsy, too, you know. it wasn’t all doom and gloom, i just looked the part for a while.
as time has gone on, i can’t say i’ve traveled far from the black lined eye. it’s changed some, a little finesse has been added to the mix, the lines are more defined, the flick at the outer corners a little less pointy. i suppose age has softened me some – but let’s be honest, i don’t want to scare the other first graders in my daughters class, and more to the point, it all goes a little bit pear-shaped and smudged by roughly 2pm. but if i could, for just an afternoon, i’d make a run to the grocery store with wings as big as hummingbirds with crystals attached; just for fun.
“fantasy is hardly an escape from reality. it’s a way of understanding it.” // l. alexander
an odd thing to admit, maybe, but i haven’t picked up a fashion rag in months.
with those monthlies comes an internal push and pull – of want, and then, what to do with them when you’re done?
i used to keep a few, (a few too many), the ones that felt special. the fat ones that came out in september, those that hurt your shoulders if you lugged them around in your shoulder bag for too long. the ones that featured some fantastic editorial, beyond the norm, or those that just spoke to me somehow.
there was a time, that they played such an integral part of my everyday, that a copy of french vogue, then still edited by carine roitfeld, played into how my then-boyfriend-now-husband, proposed the idea of getting into a white dress and playing house for the next five decades or so. i was devoted.
and then one day, packing, as we were moving house, i realized, this mountain of glossies had become a hindrance. it wasn’t economical, it’s wasn’t minimal; it was a heavy burden of copy, ink and paper cuts. they were brought to the curb, and i hope, recycled into something more useful, but no less beautiful.
i miss those moments, the ones whilst flipping through the pages when i had to bring the photo right up close to my face, as if to soak up some small piece of these weird and far-fetched chimera – the dreamscape of those who can see make-believe and bring it to reality.
perhaps just for old time’s sake, i’ll visit the presse international, and pick a little something up – just to see if it lives up to the memory.