Sunday

what's in front and what's behind

Home is, unequivocally, where the heart is. 
Home is also where the wifi's spotty and the clothing's scarce.


Not having the luxury of a closet forces me to either wear the same jeans every day or get creative, so I cobble together my looks and cross my fingers that they won't fall apart. The conditions invite me to push past the necessary and into the fancifulWhat manner of creature am I today?which is what I want to do all the time anyway. 


Here, I end up indulging much more in the improbable body, the wadded tulle and safety pins body. On vacation, away from school (where looking relatively innocuous is directly linked to what kind of acting opportunities I'll get) I can seek my aesthetic ideals and try to enact them, rather than just thinking about them a lot. Will the ~REAL WORLD~ force me to abandon fashion(ing) altogether? I can't let it! My heart couldn't take it! Making magic in one field shouldn't keep me from making magic in another. 


Yesterday, all swathed in this nonsense, I scoured my favorite local consignment store for treasuresit's the place I'm most likely to procure pieces by the designers whose work I covet most without having to sell any organsand found too many! At least five by Ann Demeulemeester and a lovely Yohji Yamamoto that looked like an eccentric cassock, all far too pricey for my blood (though marked down all to hell). I tried on the Yohji and it was too big for me and tamer than I would have liked (If I'm going to invest in a label, I gotta go ridiculous, y'know? My first Comme purchase, for example, was a great find, and I cherish it, but if I could go back in time I would have been more thoughtful about it)... but I yearned to buy it anyway. Petted it, stared at it lovingly, and pouted aggressively at the price tag. How ridiculous! 


And then I put my own clothes back on and was so, so mad at myself for thirsting that hard for something I wasn't head over heels for, when here I was in a very fucking rad outfit created from bits and bobs around the house. I don't have any tailoring skills and I know less than I want to about the fashion industry, but I'm overflowing with love for the adventure of dressing. Sometimes I get so caught up in the desire to be a part of the sphere, or whatever, a thing that I absolutely do not have the means to achieve or sustain, that I forget that my imagination and enthusiasm are my greatest tools.

So here's to playing dress-up from within your closet, within your means! Here's to constantly reinventing the forms that surround you! Here's to being frugal while never once being "practical"!

I hope your holidays have been happy and wish you all the loveliest things for the new year. <3


Thursday

decaydence—a tadpole of a manifesto

Y'all already know I like my shit crumbling. I believe, perhaps above all, in being an opulent wreck.

I want
Is that an ancient crone disguised as a girl? 

I want
Is that a girl disguised as a crone?

I want
What is that even?
an ugly thing about beauty no. 1
My aesthetic ideals ultimately boil down to harnessing fey glamour.

Gold pieces that are moldy leaves by a certain slant of light. They feel weighty, as gold pieces should, but turn to dust at day's end.

Fine wine tasting faintly of pondscum just as you start to swallow. It gets you drunk all the same, but maybe only because you believe it should.

A cloak of soft, deep velvet that itches where it touches skin. In the mirror it's sumptuous but you catch a flash of burlap as you turn from the glass.

The Pale Man's banquet - Pan's Labyrinth
I am very interested in the tension between "to be" and "to seem".

How does one be a thing?

In my experience, pretending turns to seeming to becoming to being in a really really intricate and incredible way.

This is an especially interesting and odd experience when you happen to fashion yourself after sirens and witches, dead queens and old gods.

Far Far From Land - Kristen McMenamy by Tim Walker for W Magazine
I seek a shaky verisimilitude of the impossible, a coy sheering of the veil between worlds.
To show the potential of the preposterous on my own terms and to never, never cease interrogating the supremacy of the real and the natural.

Beauty, to me, is the split second when you see the actual and the so-called artificial all at once. In the beginning, one is superimposed on the other. But the more you look the more they melt into each other, until each is inextricable from its mate.

This is one of the reasons I'm so head-over-heels for non-CGI movie magic. Illusions, the creation of which is highly physical and ultimately results in something that does not resemble how real works in the real world. The off-kilter animatronics and puppeteering of Labyrinth and The Dark Crystal. The man in George Méliès' moon. Cocteau's candelabra. 
skekZok, The Ritual Master from The Dark Crystal
A Trip to the Moon, George Méliès
La belle et la bête, Jean Cocteau 
Why do we want our dragons and far-off lands to look photoreal? They are not of this realm... why should they adhere to its rules of corporeality? I'm down for a more confrontational magic. One that forces them to look and forbids them to touch. One that can be fashioned with safety pins, dumpster dive treasures, and dollar-store glitter.

I'm tired of being a human girlchild. I am ready to be a mermaid, a monster, a breath, a being of pure light.

an ugly thing about beauty no. 2
I want to be the rotting peach from the Goblin Kingshow you (me) what you (I) dream, make you (myself) find its edges.

It's a tall order, I suppose. But then, even the people I know best and love most can sense me vibrating in and out of proper human constraints of form and function. I'm gonna fly for a living. I'm gonna unhinge my python jaw and swallow the earth.

Seem grandiose? Sure it is. But it's also just about intentional multiplicity and creating and/or facilitating belief (in yourself, in each other, in life, in WHATEVER). Consciously harnessing glamour in whatever way it's useful to you. That can be as small of a thing as it needs to be. And I fully believe that we can exist as terrifying little godlings and twentysomethings with physical and emotional needs (coffee, sex, Netflix, favorite stuffed animals, etc. etc.) and that we can be all those things together.

C'mon, babes. Let's rule the fuckin' world.

Tuesday

gonna pop your bubblegum heart

I have nothing to tell you about my life. I am a boring slime who goes to bed too late and and wakes up too late. It is winter break and I dunno what to do with myself except spend all my waking hours in cafés (or, full disclosure, my bed) listening to Beyoncé on repeat like every other sensible human on the planet. I need to get out of this town and run around in the sun (while listening to Beyoncé on repeat, of course). 

But, so, clothing! I actually changed out of my sweatpants today! I got this sweater in the maila hand-me-down from my Nanaand was initially unsure that I would ever wear it. Baby-pink angora has never been my quote/unquote thing. Being stubborn, I took my doubt as a challenge. I was given a very good quality thing, and I was gonna find a way to wear it, dammit! I doubt my Nana envisioned her sweater all done up with a leather harness and a miniskirt, but that's the inherent danger of ever giving me clothing. 


Are you doing anything exciting during your vacation or are you all cabin-feverish like me?

Sunday

wintertide

Being a Calfornia baby makes winter's coming confusing for a body. My one pair of boots high enough in the calf to keep my feet from getting soaked in the snow happen to be heeled platforms. Ice is treacherous in flats, so platforms make it all significantly harder to navigate. So at the moment, until I get the hang of it, I'm alternating between playing dress-up and couch-snuggling with Netflix and our little pirate cat. I hate being so physically inert, but being out in the cold is hard on my feet and my lungs and my general disposition. I love it if I've got something specific to do. Like ice skating! I plan to go as frequently as I can before season's end. Just you wait! Michelle Kwan'll have nothin' on me. 

Anyhow, I ventured briefly out into the wonderland that is my back yard to document today's winter witch princess situation. 


Hope you are warm and safe and happy and full of dreams,

Saturday

a case of the calms

Two months gone and I'm not that sorry. Sure, I have wanted to be KNOWN for the way I dress and the things I say, but when it comes to selling the me-brand, I have no steam. I know in theory how to be an ~omnipotent social media force for aggressively witty-casual self-promotion~, but honestly I'm happiest when I forget my gadgets at home.

The thing about my absence: I am no longer the image that concerns me most.

Something happened. I got injured, spent a long time in half-delirious stillness. My clothes began to repulse me, the old favorites didn't fit right. Getting dressed no longer felt like an inspired event, necessitating documentation.

For the past few years I've been preoccupied - obsessed - with wrapping myself in a personal mythology. Somethings beautiful (to me) and captivating (to the world) and fearsome (to the douchebags). Something unmistakably powerful. And regardless of how others have come to perceive me in the course of my couple-year renaissance, it worked. I have encased myself in perpetual mirrors and somehow survived it and come to know that I can control my physical existence.

I guess what I'm saying is that I'm retreating into myself and my words and the arts I pursue. Which is not to say I'm done with this blog and its usual format. My interest in fashion was never merely therapeutic. Even if I ascended in the ranks of pure, goddesslike self-love and could walk the earth radiantly nude or whatever, I'd still be in love with the form and theory and history and applications of clothing. I'm just on extended hiatus from challenging myself to look at myself. I've got other things to look at.

I've been writing a lot more poetry, and with more confidence. For years I password-protected my work like there was no tomorrow, liable to anxiety vomit if anybody even caught a glimpse of something I'd written. Now I'm opening up. I'm taking a class. I'm taking myself seriously. If you want, you can read my shit here.

Still here, still yours, just ghostlier...

all we want is discount palmistry

There has been a lot:

Six weeks or more of literal/figurative laying about in a charming synthesis of injury and illness. 

Embarking on a rad-as-fuck 1001-day writing project.  

Seeing two of my acting heroes in person on stage in a play by a favorite playwright - one of the most elegant and understated displays of acting prowess I've ever seen. 

Breathing in night beaches through a stuffy nose while visiting my Diana in LA. 

And, among other things, a haircut.

A haircut I've been wanting to get ever since I concretely decided to "grow it out". I tried to try my hand at marketability, but I got antsy. I'm addicted to change. And this cut makes me feel a bit less like vibrating right out of my own skin. It fits like it's always been there. So that's good.

There's more to say. There's always more to say. But for now, here I am: brand new and exactly the same.



Friday

just grab your girl and go where no one knows you

I injured myself at my circus studio a few weeks ago and have been a bummed out blob ever since. I mean, I've been hanging out with people I love pretty much every day. I'm not lonely and I'm not bored. But there's this deep melancholy-flirting-with-horror that I feel every time I can't use my body the way I need to: the tragedy of staying still. Being unable to fly is incredibly taxing to my mental and physical health. It makes me do stupid things like go to a club three weeks into a six week healing process and dance all night. Reckless. Foolish. 

(Necessary.)

The reality of physical breakability, of aging, of corporeal decay looms over me constantly. People tell me I'm too young to think about it so much. But sitting here listening to my muscles atrophy by the soft light of the screen, I'm most definitely thinking about it. 

Still, I'm getting along. Trying to really let myself heal, remind myself that I am myself even when I can't pour that self into something else. 

Anyhow.

This outfit is made entirely of things given to me by/borrowed from my friend Linz, who is lovely and very talented (Seriously, you should go pester her about her chapbook. She's gonna do a second printing soon, I think, and might sell you one if you ask real nice). 

But, man, take a look at this dress. Bask in its beauty. I could never have asked for a more perfect slip dress. 

The docs are borrowed - I've been given the sacred duty of scuffing them up nicely. Which, like, don't you worry. Ruination is one of my great talents. 

And, hey, being injured hasn't stopped me from being cute as hell, so.
Glum, but surviving,