The reason I'm writing now is because I'm at a coffee house on the cute block in the city where the bookish and the grungy and the dreamy people go. I never ever come here. But I met a friend here who loves fashion as much as I do, and he and I have a lot in common. I'm staring at long-haired young men out the window. The sky is very gray and it's damp from rain. Girls wear giant stretched out sweaters and their roots are showing. Everyone is disinterested. I am so happy to be here right now.
I want to create a style blog, probably a Tumblr. I want it to be a combination of Fashion Toast and LookBook and DIY. I want to to be very low key, very accessible, and unpretentious. I just want to be able to get my fantasies off my chest, or rather, on my chest. I want to be inspired and forced to be creative and lovely. Clothes have given me so much of my identity. It makes you the best version of yourself. In your mind's eye, you can become that which you desire. It shows everyone who you are, and even if you're just looking into the mirror you can be anyone you want to be. It's such a beautiful thing.
This desire is not troubling or even difficult to achieve. I'm just perpetually stuck in a rut, stuck in a ditch I've dug, stuck in bed and without real motivation to get out. I am my only naysayer. I've willingly snuffed out my own identity and now I mourn it. I'm like a crazy murderer who cries over the corpse they've created and feels sadness and not remorse.
Blogger has always been the most welcoming invitation back into my mind and the place I'd like to be, permanently. Blogger and Boots Electric!!! have been real friends to me. They're my imaginary friends. They are made in the image of everything I love about writing, commentary, editing and pulling media and creating something very genuinely me. I've always found that I can come back here and start writing, and not only feel ok about it, I feel proud of myself for not sucking as badly as I always think I do.
I live (sort of) in this great city with art and camaraderie and food and calmness. The city is only as pretentious as the 18 year olds posted up at the Ivy League school and famed art academy. I think my problem is that I have always envied them, because I thought I was going to be them. I was primed and ready to be an artist and an I-don't-give-a-fucker. I was not confident, but I was also not scared enough to stop. I had ideas that were bigger than me. I was so interested in so much. I had that kind of warm ball of power that was in my stomach that filled me up and also soothed me. Whatever it was, it was truly mine, it set me on fire. I had blinders on, and no one could persuade me to be any different. Anyone who tried was beneath me. I looked and felt older than 17.
I think 18-21 was the deconstruction of myself. It was trying and it was numbing and I made so many decisions to become someone I didn't really like. I lost the ball of power. I probably vomited it out of me one night after drinking too much. I spent a few years truly sick from my environment of stale college and shitty beer and unfamiliar friends and they weren't like me at all. I was uninspired. I felt like a tourist when I remembered myself. I felt like I had run away from home or got a divorce from a girl I loved. I truly loved her. My memories serve to glorify her and put her on a pedestal. Unaware of her beauty, unburdened and disinterested in pleasing boys and fitting in. Those blinders. They are helpful and damning. I don't see anything I don't want to see. I didn't see threats when I was younger. And now I only see parts of a woman and I see nothing else.
I've always thought that my fashion is the only thing about the old me I've retained. Probably because it's easy and it makes sense and it changes all the time but can always remind you of something else. I still have clothes from when I was Her. But my style has certainly improved over the years. Back when I was Her, I was pale as sour milk. My hair was long, frazzled and heavy like a stage curtain. I loaded my neck with tacky charms and woven necklaces. I wore lacy, gothic skirts over flared jeans. I was pudgy. I wore way too much eyeshadow.
I feel so beautiful on the outside now. I am comfortable. I got the right haircut. I stick with liquid eyeliner and lipstick now. I love lace and Native American prints and the color peach and leather boots and sweaters. My heart races thinking about it. Think of the most gorgeous, simple thing. Now think about putting it on your body. Seeing yourself wrapped inside of It. Letting it soak into you and carrying that beauty with you always. Only you get to decide what goes on your chest of waist or legs and feet. You can paint your fingernails gray. You can tie a ribbon your hair, for god's sake. Nothing warms me like that warms me.
I will compose looks and outfits that are very me. Some will be skirts and leather boots and sweaters. Maybe some will be based on fine dining or brunch. Some will be the clothes you wear when you're listening to music and smoking pot with your friends. Some will be the very best of laundry day.
All I need is a camera and a cool background. I feel like this isn't beyond me. I think I can make this happen for myself and I think it won't hurt like it has been hurting if I do this.
No comments:
Post a Comment