Tomboys and Barbie Pink

Knees scuffed, hair a perpetual knot of entropy, I was more the basic and beloved tomboy archetype than the fairy princess as a young girl. Though my afternoons were more likely spent playing with dump trucks, plowing through brown dirt and terrorizing the local pill bugs, rather than pilfering lipstick from my mother, practicing my pucker, I was not immune to the Barbie doll phenomenon. Even when spending an afternoon building a huge dream home for my Barbie and her various friends, leveraging bizarre ornaments and chachkas invariably housed in my and my friends' basements, this did not segue into painting our nails and lips. Generally, it led to romping around outside, looking for toads. Countless plastic bodies, immobile and contorted, lay piled in large cardboard boxes in my basement, amid a flood of neon shoes and evening dresses. Despite the frenzy of their storage, something more akin to a guerrilla war zone, I loved these dolls. And, to be fair, was more gentle with them as I grew older, a sort of strange tension, where the realization of their superficiality as toys enhances, yet the association of their doll bodies with approaching feminine development also strengthens. They grew more fake, yet I treated them more like actual miniature people.

As I would assume is fairly common, my tomboy tendencies were fostered and encouraged by my father. To this day, he adheres to a natural over artificial approach when it comes to grooming. The one time in early adolescence when I did paint my nails with a friend, furtively, in some atrocious algal green and yellow, surely ended in some disapproving comment, though, what exactly I do not remember. Which is probably a good thing, at least for my own sanity. So, unlike many of the girls my age, in my circumstance, I did not actually own a bottle of nail polish until my junior year of high school. An added flair before my junior prom dance, the shade was a deep ruby wine, a more glittered and cheerful blood, and it matched my dress. Raven Red by Revlon, a loose nod to Edgar Allen Poe. With this as my seminal precedent, for years after, the only shade I wore was this, rarely, slowly emptying the bottle.

Eventually, probably around the time that whatever remark about my unattractive forest moss green nails was forgotten, I branched out, to other variations in the dark red family. Cherry Crush. Revlon Red. Frankly Scarlet. At the start of the summer, taunted by the austere lust of the cosmetics aisle of the pharmacy, I stared at the rows. In my chromatic comfort zone, I owned them all. Each one. Hastily, I grabbed some blindingly fuchsia tint and ran to the register. Did not look back.

First remorse, then neglect. Earlier this week, I finally cracked open the bright pink, slicked it on. Immediately, my nails adopt a plastic sheen. Curved keratin becomes that iconic tiny plastic pump of my childhood, and I remember the frustration when, inevitably, one would disappear into the abyss of the play room.

(image taken from Ron's Rescued Treasures)

Cheap Metal

After years spent rummaging through the random drawers and scratched plastic cases of various antique and thrift stores, I have grown accustomed to cheap, low prices for bold costume jewelry. Now, with such a vehement resurgence of classic costume aesthetics of earlier decades by numerous popular commercial fashion franchises, most notably J. Crew, I am shocked at the prices so many seem willing to pay, but more so am disappointed at how prevalent some of my favorite, once unique pieces now appear. Such is the cyclic nature of trends. So little remains original.

To wax a bit more philosophical on the subject, I suppose, with that price, comes an assurance of timeliness, popularity, consumer-tested appeal. A sort of playground, schoolyard approval. With pawing through a pile of knotted fake metals and neon plastics, there comes a certain risk; an adventure. There is choice. With that, both successes and failures.

I found both of these necklaces, one a simple paved road chain, one a cluster of gilded leaves, at the same dumpy antique odds and ends shop in Ithaca, squirreled away in a dingy mall between an old, used book store and a new age children's toy shop. They were purchased on separate occasions, and typically have been worn alone, but the other day, while donning a simple chambray blouse, paired them together. Coincidentally, the light, almost sunlight white gold of each metal nearly matches, allowing the clash of texture and shape to come to the foreground of the coupling. With such a plain, soft, and androgynous outfit, the pile of metal added a hard feminine edge.

Someone's Gotta Help Me Dig

(image taken from Earphoria)

(image taken from Interview)

(image taken from Brooklyn Vegan)

Not one to succumb to oblivion or blissful ignorance, I knew that moving to New York, while definitely a welcome and arguably overdue adventure, would not be the ultimate antidote to my various life struggles, big and small. Very aware, I knew I would continue to work long hours, would continue to combat constant exasperation from inane or incompetent clients, would continue to irrationally fear those creepily crawling brown water bugs that invariably live in apartment sinks, for a moment, before remembering I can triumph with a deluge of cleaning spray, accurately aimed. But, obviously, I did have some typical expectations of being able to indulge in the rich experiences the city has to offer. Music, art, literature. Margaritas. And the like.

After several days of incessant fretting and frittering over inconsequential details, there is a beautiful tension between the excitement and the calm experienced, engulfed in a crowd of strangers, old and young and delightfully diverse, listening to the creation of sound that, through the inevitable mysteries of time, can only happen once.

Last Wednesday, after a long day in the office, I saw Father John Misty perform, sing his poetry and gyrate, mostly ironically, on stage. His presence is an amalgamation, a hybrid of gods before him, part satire and part honest veneration, or at least respect: Joe Strummer, Freddie Mercury, Elvis, Frank Sinatra, with a splash of buxom lounge singer, anonymous, ubiquitous. He struts. He feigns slamming his guitar, his microphone stand, hard onto the stage, holding them aloft precariously, dipping low. He parades into the crowd, poses for photographs, smiles for the various likes and shares on some digital plane. He jokes and talks between songs, sharing stories that may be truth or lies, which it does not matter. And none of these things compromise the integrity of his lyrics, humorous and mocking but also gritty and provocative. Nor the integrity of his voice. As a wonderful cherry atop, his band is, unsurprisingly, equally talented; they do not merely support, but perform and entertain alongside him.

Rarely am I hugely disappointed after live music, though, naturally, some shows are notably better and worth it than others I have attended. While Father John Misty is certainly worthy of a gander, for me, last week, it was an evening of wiping my eyes of the computer glow and remembering why I moved, and why I should never forget to seek to live.

Red Wicker Bag and Blurred Patriotism

Memories of Fourth of July festivities are nearly as blurred as this amateur phone-photograph, a result of haphazard frozen concoctions imbibed on the day and a whirlwind of amorphous time-space since. At once furiously frenzied fast and molasses long, this work week has left me exhausted; I blame my project pile, the lack of natural sunlight in our crouched building office, and the general solid city heat.

Last week, as an accompaniment to a cook-out with some friends and an unpolished roof top with some other friends, for some illicit fireworking, I carried this sugar cherry red vintage wicker bag, a find from my weekend last summer up in Great Barrington.  The past few seasons have seen a return to the classic, quintessential wicker bag of earlier generations, imbuing me with effortless and on-trend style based on my collection. Tightly woven, natural or dyed some bold blinding color, the sharp structure of the wicker bag lends elegance without stifling a casual, capricious summer style. For me, the wicker texture and this simple red are synonymous with lush gardens, croquet, sweating summer drinks in tall Collins glasses, and patio parties.

Hearts of Glass

(image taken from Kitten)

(image taken from Lehigh Valley Live)

(image taken from Ribbon Around Da Bomb)

(image taken from Listal)  

Yesterday, Debbie Harry turned sixty-eight, an age at once laughably arcane and painfully close. Time has been strange and elusive to me lately; since moving, new city and new tastes and new smells, old friends, new friends, I never seem to stop moving, even when I wake, a comfortable sweat collates from a night of speeding dreams, eerie and horrifying and beautiful. A friend of mine from high school came the other weekend, for a brief but delightful visit; she is well, different but also the same, as I hope that I, too, am, someone familiar but someone also new and exciting to explore and continue to cultivate these relationships. This past weekend, another friend, from university, similarly, we are both new yet the same, I can still see a trance of mischief in her smile. It seems to be a success to say we both are happier now, happier than then, without forgetting that which first led us to find such friendship. Commiseration. I am proud, of us both.

Singing karaoke for the first time in a public space, somewhere loud and open and with strangers, we selected a tried and true Blondie song, simultaneously safe and rebellious, like us. Mostly giddy but fueled by alcohol as well, we ran to the train, nervous, not wanting to spend the early hours of a dark morning wandering the streets, but also not caring if we were forever trapped here, atonal, dancing the same rhythmic discombobulation of hips and open smiles.

When we were all younger, the whole group, a dance competition: Madonna against those familiarly simple subversive post-disco beats. My earrings broke from the effort of dancing. The floor warped beneath our shaking bodies, convulsing wood in sinoidal waves. We laughed and laughed, knowing and yet, not knowing, years from then, we would still hold such a place for one another in our hearts. 

Corso Como Lusting

My sister, Elizabeth, introduced me to the affordable beauty and elegance of Corso Como pumps last winter, during an evening out at Gramercy Tavern celebrating my birthday. She wore this pair of classic suede pumps in black, the slight hint of gold in the tip of the toe the perfect accent against her monochrome look. Earlier week, I discovered that the bold velvety red variety are on final sale at Piperlime. I will espouse the many versatile qualities of a great pair of red shoes dogmatically, my consumerist sartorial mantra. For someone who has been bemoaning the lack of organizational space in my new apartment, especially when it comes to handbags and arguably impractical shoes, indulging in this steal may be laughable. Even more so, considering the chaos and destruction of my recent closet woes, which, ashamedly, I am still in the throes of. Moderation has honestly never been a trait of mine, anyway; go hard or go home.

(image taken from Piperlime)

Closet Crash

Sunday late afternoon is spent reveling in a cool, languid heat, sipping Sazeracs and stouts. Then we gorge on Cajun spiced food, the soft flesh of white catfish, bloodied tomatoes, rich mayonnaise sauce. We speak slowly and laugh. Tattoos, given to ourselves, or bestowed upon us by friends. Ventriloquism. Documentaries. We sit on wooden picnic table benches, prime real estate, as cigar and marijuana smoke mingle and permeate, a couple of local of caricatures smacking on rolled joints of different flavors, stretched taut denim, stretched taut braids. Reading conspicuously from some red leather journal as they puff.

Earlier that day, zealous, I arrange fastidiously various limp cascades of fabric in my two new closets, harnessing spacial analysis and brute force. A wooden dowel, long and supported by cheap plastic, I ignore all tenets of physics that I know to be true and cruel. Snap, like a cracking bone. Collapse. Inevitable entropy, sprawled and crumpled on the floor. 

I cry for a moment, overwhelmed and hot, then decide this is a manifestation of the proverbial growing pains.