Friday, May 23, 2008

Poppies


Who doesn't love poppies? I have this dream of a perfect poppy dress; white, with delicate stems growing up from the hem, a little like they're painted with watercolors. It would have puffy sleeves and a row of buttons in the front, and be light and soft as cloud...


Looking Back, originally uploaded by Art and Ghosts.
Listening to: John McGregor
Oh I forgot: I got tagged to play the 6 quirks game by the lovely spandexpony.
The rules of the game are to link person who tagged you, to tag 6 other bloggers and let them know where the rules are found, and then to post 6 of your quirks.

Quirk 1: This is hard. I view my oddities as being so natural, they don't seem weird to me...
I write fan letters. No, seriously I do. I'm an extremely critical person, and don't like to give idle praise, that means nothing. So in the rare occasion I actually adore something, I like to express my admiration for the creator of said thing. If I generally liked popular books and bands, this would be a fairly inane habit, but I doubt Laura Barton receives bucket-loads of fanmail (though she would deserve it). I mostly write fan letters to authors and many are kind in enough to reply. Writing is a lonely occupation, and one often has little knowledge of the impact of one's work on others.

Quirk 2: This is more preference, but people seem to find it weird. I HATE YELLOW. Like I can't stand wearing it, having it in my room, or on any of my stuff. I refuse to buy books with yellow on the jacket.
Oddly I don't mind it on other people at all. I think this is residual effect of my high school color neurosis when for 3 years I would only wear white and blue.

Quirk 3: I'm rather vain, but don't take care of my hair AT ALL. I've never used conditioner, I don't even own a hairbrush and I often wash it with bar soap, because there are more important things in life to spend money on than shampoo. I cut out tangles. Don't tell mom.

Quirk 4: I used to eat lunch at the British Museum next to the cabinet containing the mummy of an Egyptian princess. Morbid much. That kinda seems weird now that I think about it.

Quirk 5: When I was little I used see God a lot. And we're an atheist family.

Quirk 6: Mountains and things make me cry. Not like a little misty-eyed, but like all out sobbing, cry. And so do many other things. Like random things: movies where someone does something that's damn near impossible for them, books where children miss their parents, little birds on the yard. Not just sad stuff, but really beautiful scenery, or events, too.

Sunday, May 18, 2008

Different names for the same thing


I'm an obsessive person. By this I mean, that I often get overly fascinated with something that interests me, to the point where I simply have to know absolutely every little thing about it. For days and weeks, I can talk of nothing else. People around me get this glaze-over look in their eyes. It might all seem kinda scary, to the casual observer.
I've made a point of not collecting anything, because I'm worried it might drive me insane, should I fail to procure that one final Remington Standard typewriter, first edition copy of "A Tree Of Night", or Kellet's Whelk, which would make my collection complete.
My obsessions are thankfully rather varied and my attention span rather short, so it's unlikely I'll ever become one of those terrifying people who have one passion that determines them as a person, of which they ramble on ad nauseam and ad infinitum. Still, in moments of passing clarity, I take a step back to marvel at what a tremendous geek I can be. Most often this occurs when I look up and suddenly realize, that three hours have lapsed since I googled in "Maya Deren", or "North American wolf populations".
My sole, slim solace is that, obsession, is really just another word for passion. One is intrigued by something, because they are drawn to it, even if it's something disquieting, or repulsive, like, say my long-standing obsession with serial killers. Whatever interests one develops in the course of their life, are always reflections, whether we like to admit it, not, of ones own psyche. To explore them, is to explore yourself, the part of you, that can admire for hours, the perfect curve of a Kellet's Whelk.

Listening to: Death Cab For Cutie

Maya Deren was an experimental filmmaker, anthropologist, a dancer, poet, writer, choreographer and quite possibly a lunatic and a witch.
This:
is a Kellet's Whelk.



Saturday, May 10, 2008

Four Winds Blowing Through Her Hair

Before there were Harajuku Girls, Goths, Punks, Hippies, Hipsters, girls who wear exclusively vintage, and boys who wear exclusively lame band T-shirts, one's identity could be expressed trough clothes in a much simpler manner. Folk dresses and regional costumes were an early precursor of individual style, not only in that they expressed one's geographical origins, but also one's taste and artistic ability, as they were self-made. It could take a girl several years to make the laces, ribbons and embroidery necessary for her dress. In my humble opinion, that kinda beats buying your identity off the rack.
Folk influences come up in high street fashion at regular intervals, most recently a couple of years ago, when Slavic styles were briefly popular. Since the last time folk dressing enjoyed a widespread popular revival was the glorious 70s, I'm expecting to see a lot of folk influences this coming summer. The ubiquitousness of Oxacan-inspired dresses and tops seems to be pointing towards Frida Kahlo-esque South American folk; though here in the cold, melancholy North Eastern Europe, we'll always have a soft spot for flowered Russian scarfs and painted brooches.

Listening to: Bright Eyes