ABSTRACT HAPPENSTANCE

On Herve

2009-02-17T19:41:00.010-05:00

Yes.

3 models did banana peel it during sunday's herve leger show.

and prettier-than-you celebs led applause when the bare-legged, wide-eyed girls balanced themselves atop 5-inch goliath platforms and continued their strut.

As changing shoes on subway (chuck to loub menswear-inspired cut-out, lace-up booties), a trio of midwestern tourists snapped my picture. Geez...

I was just doing my commute!

As leaving herve show (to dash to tea with auntie), was stopped by some fashion photog. Stand, look awkward behind thick-framed specs and pretend to know what i'm doing while juggling humongo herve-branded umbrella, two gift bags and ginormous purse. while on bberry with coworker about some m.i.a. shipments.

and this was on sunday.

other fashion girls pose perfectly for cameras. they pop out their hip, put hand on waist and angle shoulder just so... then recall exactly who they're wearing down to the season and year. oh this old thing? it's CDG's S07 collection. And my shoes are from roger vivier's capsule collection. whatevs. i'm happy in my zara & chicy-chic hand-me-downs.

nonetheless, i dashed off before photog even could get my name.

suddenly banana peeling it on runway seemed eons ago.

shit. just ran into work acquaintances. on train.

grrr.

what a headache.

but i'm safe in my masquerade: hiding behind thick-framed specs. combine that with hat & scarf and i'm just anybody else.

keep.head.down.

oooh. must do laundry.

so that's what's going on at moment. nothing too scintillating. expect for nonstop spin in this dizzy world. strange.

and exhausting. slept all day saturday. but also ate so much that i fell into food-coma. am so addicted to these walnut date crackers that i literally must hide them from self. in fact, ate an entire box on saturday. almost finished second box sunday. no worries though: finished that one off monday night.

geez i need a life.

anyhow. herve's show. pretty fascinating. yes - he & his taller-than-he wife played it safe with what they do best... but their added details were so intriguing. like dinosaur skin or costumes snatched from a tartovsky film. and, like my friend said, if his usual dresses retail for $1,200-$1,500 - no telling what this fall's collection will cost.

but loved the details. the little twinges of leather and bits of razzle dazzle meet bam-bam rubble.

and the hair?

rad beyond comprehension.

& thanks to nymag for the photos.

On Chadwick

2009-02-15T10:39:00.015-05:00

On Monique

2009-02-12T22:10:00.010-05:00

[& her supremely thin - but divinely sweet - models]

On Soggy, Boggy Days

2009-02-08T11:47:00.020-05:00

Sidewalks slick with melting snow.

Unprotected feet (oh my!).

Style goes without suffering - much.

Bright colors, Jimmy Choo, doorway accessories. Chloe F'07 .

Isn't it time we give our feet a colorful treat?

Photos courtesy flickr.com, britmusicscene.com, pawzdogboots.com, wellieart.co.uk, vogue.com, style.com, comparestoreprices.co.uk, urbanoutfitters.com, uncommongoods.com

On Leggy Obsessions (pt 2)

2009-02-07T19:11:00.010-05:00

balmy warm winter days.

white. hot. leg-ccessorize.

images courtesy urbanoutfitters.com, welovecolors.com, style.com, nytimes.com, double-dot.info

On Leggy Obsessions (pt 1)

2009-02-04T22:15:00.020-05:00

stung by bitterly cold weather, there's something absolutely alluring about skin peeking out, just winking at the world.

images courtesy moviemarket.co.uk, doctormacro1.info, moviegoods.com, & nytimes.com

Thoughts on Diminishment of Self

2009-01-28T22:28:00.004-05:00

today was the sort of day only deserving the most melancholy of songs - mazzy star at their darkest, leonard cohen warbling on about the chelsea hotel, nico, dylan. and so i ramble.

been trying, for the last twenty minutes, to cry. i seem to have forgotten how to do that. but - you know - tylenol commercials claim that crying is a great release. and so, while propped in my bed, neck uncomfortably wedged between two poly-filled pillows, i try to think up the saddest of sad thoughts (which, with my family history, isn't too difficult to dream) while staring into candlelight that twinkles to the maudlin tunes of hope sandoval and david roback. oooh. radiohead. i wish i were special, too.

and that's a bit of the predicament.

that's the thick of it.

back home, everyone thinks of me as that savvy fashion girl - the girl with the job that opens doors and makes things happen. the girl who knows whether or not to wear tights or sheer hosiery. the girl who refers to the New Look in dotty conversation. the girl who tells her 88yr old grandmother that her blouse is so ysl circa 1976.

the hell am i doing here?

oh, this sad sad music. it goes quite well with my day-old cider. [i know: i cringe at the thought of it, too]

but you see - well, i haven't had a single non-work related conversation since an awkward evening perched on a nasa bed at the hotel rivington. and, on that grand night, i remained an ungainly 3inches from the most satisfying-looking of europeans. that was the night spent with he who wore no pants. oh yes, i have my adventures. but that was 2+ weeks ago.

this past weekend was spent with blanket pulled to chin, netflix reeling from film to film, law & order's cast becoming all the more familiar. shadows lurked between hallucination and reality. nyquil's liquorish taste lingered.

my best friend called to announce her engagement and i groggily demanded the images for the company website. right now. conveniently enough, i have no recollection of said demands and like to think that i gave her jolly congratulations.

today though - what a wowzas of a day. 12hrs spent before a computer screen, racing to spit out estimate after estimate, proposal after proposal. and, between that and meetings and moments of rushed panic, was the announcement of Domino's end. however will i manage My Deco File? oh golly geez. that magazine was my beacon. my apartment recently enjoyed revamping courtesy Domino's book of decorating. and there were seconds where i paused to request fashion week tickets (herve leger! chadwick bell! phillip lim!). coworkers spun by me until the room faded into gray. finally, at 8:30, the lights flickered and all was silent. my eyes burned. i realized i hadn't stood up in hours. still, my heart raced. but in a lopsided way because it was filled with such sorrow.

amidst all of that, he-with-no-pants emailed to say he'd be back in town, just for the night, before returning to his continent. we made tentative plans for drinks. but things waivered as his flight suffered delay after delay after delay. we finally shrugged off our plans. work still loomed before me - and then an hour commute home.

and once i got home, there was the wailing cat and the frenetic pup. my darlings, my joy. but sometimes it's human contact that's so desperately needed. conversation beyond small talk or chit-chat or brainstorming or reserving conference rooms or reviewing budgets. last week, my dear friends suggested i leave work an hour early one night a week and do something for just me. but, the truth is, leaving work an hour early means leaving at 6pm instead of 7. and leaving at 6pm means that i really should do the laundry or clean the dishes or sweep or dust or do something constructive like take that first French lesson that i've been delaying or reserve some time to do something entirely indulgent like watch an hour of tv. or read the new yorker. i forget the smell of books. new shoes, however, are pungent.

and so i feel myself fade. the body shrinks from its diminished appetite. clothes that once were too small now hang from my frame. but there's not enough time for lunch or even a healthy snack. even the office vending machine has fallen victim to the current times and now only serves greasy generic potato chips for $1. we once indulged in honey wheat pretzels and dried fruit. now it's entenmenn's pound cake. untouched for over a month now. mmmm.

creativity sapped dry. the desire to hunt and search and feel and live and thrive slowly dissolves. until there isn't much energy left for batty eyes or subway conversation. been thinking about photographing people's shoes on the subway - but what would they think of that?

and then, when i think of my first years here (oh the loft in soho for $1k a month!), i think of a fairytale land. a twinkling, glimmering world of champagne fountains and truffle mountains. suitors who insisted upon paying the bill. my desk's underbelly still carries the faint memory of those gleeful years - at times, we'll chance upon a few boxes of hermes ties or a carton of forgotten killian fragrances.

but today - - today the mind aches, the heart breaks...

and we're never coming back.

On Wonderland

2009-01-22T20:43:00.008-05:00

Thoughts on One

2009-01-21T21:06:00.006-05:00

So it happened today.

Just in the middle of a meeting to discuss mannequins and looks and costs, etc.

Chanced upon it on bberry...

Subject: "It's been a year..."

...wanted to let you know that we're going to have another baby this summer...

initial thoughts: Oh My Fucking God.

then: should people my age have this reaction?

then: How can we off-set additional costs with sales?

then: was jason wu's dress really that unflattering? because I truly want to like it.

Synapses collapsed and thoughts paused for a moment. Was completely unable to multitask. Even fumbled over my response to some question i can't even begin to recall.

Also - at that moment - step-sister's labor induced. She's two years my senior.

That's when it kind of sinked in.

And it wasn't so much the proliferation of babies or the clatter of friends having babies - although that had a good deal to do with it - it more was another married friend's reaction - it was exactly the reaction that someone my age is supposed to have: blissful happiness with a tinge of geez i wish i were there...

I haven't a split-second desire to settle down and crop out a litter. Honestly: who wants to introduce innocent children into the mess we've caused? It may be a bit radical but shouldn't we employ this bit of solitary psychology?

Sure - people may think me a bit selfish because I'm not the slightest bit emotionally prepared for any of the responsibilities linked to parenting - fuck, I wouldn't even know how to participate in a even-tempered, fully reciprocating relationship... so how would I even begin to approach that shining, ultimate goal? But isn't choosing not to procreate a gift to future days?Aren't I doing the world a favor?

You really should nod your head in approval. Just agree that it's an entirely selfless act that should be commended by the highest of the high. ... verging on sainthood! Yes - I am a martyr for my generation.

Whatevs. I just don't want to get the stretch marks. Or that awful bit spent in the hospital. Vomit and diapers are pretty gross, too. Ew.

But what does that leave me to face? A mailbox filled with catalogs and business journals addressed to Mr. Surname. Two animals who devotedly follow my every waking step. Now isn't that rewarding.

But the One's becoming the problem. And it's not that I don't enjoy personal freedom (because who doesn't love only being accountable to self?) - it's that the cold and the quiet make my unaccompanied journey seem all the more silent. There isn't even a shadow to fall back upon. It's just me. And - at times - nothing sounds more enticing than grocery shopping with someone else. Or folding lavender-smelling sheets with ease. See? It's all entirely indulgent of me. My desire for another only sates that which is self-promoting.

Sometimes I'm alone for so long that my voice breaks, mid-sentence. The truth shuttles in quickly: I've forgotten how to speak. So, in a vain attempt to seem normal, I'll just smile and awkwardly cough. Can't let them know my inevitable fate of being snacked on by cat. That would just make the neighbors cringe.

And yes: I do think of that. What would happen if I were to slip & fall in the shower? Who would find me? It's not like I have a day-to-day dog-walker... I suddenly think of my previous next-door neighbor who festered for four days until the super checked on him. Would that be me? I gasp at the thought. My vanity won't permit any mental image. It's just too ghastly.

So I suppose the fact is this: I cherish my independence. I relish the afternoons spent without conversation and awkward comments followed by pregnant pauses. But - solitude grows moldy; it's too quick to prevent, too large to confront in a fell swoop. Too much to grasp in a sitting. Instead, it's something to ponder - to take home with me and sit with. Yes, I understand that sounds funny. But isn't that the beauty of this conundrum?

I'll need quiet in order to digest my solitude...

On snowy, snowy nights

2009-01-19T22:32:00.002-05:00

Thoughts on the Goodbye Game

2009-01-12T21:30:00.005-05:00

In fashion, make-believe is far, far easier than other industries. We've built an entire commodity on the belief that something so temporal, so ever-changing can improve one's look and emotional standing. We spin silk from the shadows and alleyways; we convince all that it is the absolute Must Have.

Until now.

And now. Well, now this world crumbles

I moved to New York to pursue the written word. To prove to the world that my scrambled text actually could move someone or something. To seek that almighty question mark, and ampersand with ellipses... But that was years ago. Shortly after settling on these fair islands, I found myself messengering swollen bags to big designers. Rubbing shoulders with them. Soothing their ego. Wigging out over the insignificant. Attending shows and anticipating the lavish, the overdone and lovely.

Fashion was the cultural zeitgeist.

We celebrated the over-the-top and scrumptious. Marie Antoinette was crowned our queen; Karl Lagerfeld, our king. $800 camis were called big bargains. The bubble expanded more and more, and more thinning its elasticity. Fashion girls hobbled down Fifth Avenue, their red soled shoes attracting Bill Cunningham's lens. Patrick McDonald arched his brow: hand on the hip now, pose. Team Anna & Team Carine formed. Achingly long hours wasted at castings; go-sees; brainstorms fittings; sprees through the City, searching for wrapping paper in the perfect shade of silver. And still, the ladies shopped - closets bloated with Balenciaga, Lanvin, Zac, CDG, JPG, Peter, Rodarte, and more. We ached with anticipation.

Doesn't it feel good to be so full and happy?

But then something happened - it started with my sister-in-law. Almost a year ago. Her company streamlined its efforts; she no longer was needed.

But we were ok. We had the Europeans! And Russians with their dripping oil accounts and Germans with their fanny packs bursting with weak dollar bills. The streets echoed with foreign voices and words. Subway advertisements became multi-lingual. Macintosh sapped their honey pots dry - at least temporarily.

Madoff. And your ponzi scheme. And, truthfully, I don't even really know what a ponzi scheme is. I can't even begin to explain how one can easily trick so many. But I can relay how, exactly, these tricks have affected our little cozy nest.

See - I just was beginning to enjoy this paillette-encrusted world. I just was beginning to see its beauty and truth. I was beginning to fit in; to see it up close, with my own big eyes. The resentment faded and I embraced this garish frivolity. I anticipated and enjoyed it. And then watched it fade as quickly as the fashion girls snapped into my life.

Now WWD report disintegrating sales and announcements of Chapter 11. Bryant Park Cancellations. What will Fall trends be? Who will we pick to worship for a few months? What will CFDA focus upon?

It's all silly stuff. Yes - silly, transient stuff that does zero to improve the world. But it's beauty. Impossibly beautiful things that consider so much .

And, yes, I'm a little drunk. Vodka's a wonderful thing these days. Numbs reality for a bit. Because, as I told a friend, nothing's worse than going home alone, facing a cat & dog who want nothing more than a full bowl of water & food. They don't understand my sadness in losing breathtaking fashion spreads to an assembly-line of models standing before beige backgrounds. Nor will they comprehend the sorrow in losing shows in lieu of showroom visits. The romance dwindles. My heart sinks.

Fashion soon, I fear, will be long out-of-fashion.

And then what will we do?

on Silver Lining

2009-01-11T11:49:00.022-05:00

[thank you, rilo kiley]

Thoughts on Day Dreams

2009-01-06T20:41:00.006-05:00

Today was one of those days - those days when, for just a fleeting second, the dreamy half-life appears and exposes what life could be. As with all Day Dreams (as opposed to daydreams), streets were empty, quiet. The air a bit glazed over with gray. My footsteps echoed through the cobblestone path.

Graffiti held its own wonders - begging me to scan its grainy canvas, charming me with its clever artistry and irony. Demolition men raked scattered bits of scattering mirrored glass, at times they paused to scoop up shards within their amorphous, gloved hands. Voices carried a romantic, lilting accent. Fashion girls tiptoed down pathways, cigarettes crisping in their fingertips. Three identical weimaraners stared at their walker.

And I thought: this world could be mine.

I shuffled along, feeling a bit like a spectator in this alien place (and to think: I once lived seconds from where I stood), seeing the streets with untainted, unjaded eyes. Suddenly I was wary of looking the outsider's part, of seeming too obvious behind my thick spectacle eyes.

Upon entering the doctor's office (that was the goal, you know), I studied opposite office windows, memorized their breezy open spaces. The curling bamboo, twisting within their clear glass cases. Hip, urban folk passed by, seemingly unaffected by the ever-popularly phrased economic climate.

And, for just that hour, I was impressionable and new to New York again. I wished for a polaroid camera with which to snapshot all that charmed and mystified me. But instead I reached for my buzzing blackberry and knew that my fantasy spin was complete. The garbage smelled; the dogwalker dangled a blue plastic bag from her hand; a taxi whizzed by, spraying me with street spit. The R-train beckoned.

But - just before descending - I chanced upon my favorite splash of graffiti. And the dream persisted.

On Chance

2008-12-27T09:34:00.018-05:00

...just today, while strolling through Wonderland, a Loteria card dazzled its way down a street-stream - whirly-gigging along, dancing with leaves and bits of muddied ice.

Thoughts on Holiday Parties

2008-12-17T22:17:00.004-05:00

...or choosing not to attend

Because it's freezing cold and there are chores to be done and animals to love. And, no matter how the trying twists into almost-certainty, I can be surely certain that home beckons.

But there are the holiday parties to think of.

Company ones really are the best. And even though the years blend into one, there still are a few moments that puncture memory with their idiosyncratic poignancy - managers necking their assistants; fights bursting between never-before-noticed staffers; chief officers shot-gunning beers while their spouses lurk in the shadows; unfettered, unabashed confessions of love and obsession [ie: i fucking love you]. And the chaos that follows the next day - staffers forced to crawl on fours in order to remain unseen as they pass through rows and rows of cubicles; bits of weave missing from scalp; hickeys obscured by itchy, outdated turtlenecks.

They really are classic.

Then there are the non-corporate holiday parties - the ones hosted by friends. The ones leaving party-goers squeezed into a 350sf flat, huddled around a wooden trunk caked in candle wax and bits of cracker crumbs, brie smears and cashews. The ones with refrigerators stuffed with Blue Moon, curious lagers, obscure wines, limes (because the deli had no oranges) and Amstel Light. There's always Amstel Light. The music has a bizarre mix of 80's hair band classics, johnny cash, led zeppelin and hipster bravado. Leave your shoes by the door, please. And remember: don't feed the cat.

But those are the parties in this wonderful, wanderlust wonderland. This magic island isn't real - didn't you know? Did they not let you in on the secret? And you thought Bill Murray really did crash that Bushwick Halloween Party. No... it's all just a mirage - a cobbled illusion. Really, if you focused the lenses a bit more, you'd find yourself on an over-stuffed poly couch dotted with cigaret burns, listening to Tom Waits and staring at a whiskey film glazing the bottom of a dentist spit cup.

Just the other day, I asked a friend about the holiday parties that she planned to attend. (oh, my poor worldly friend... stuck in the mire of middle america. ) She sighed and said that they don't compare to our old charades - really, our old dinner parties were the stuff of legend. What? I asked, Is it punch & bagel bites? No - more along the lines of Cool Ranch Doritos and Schlitz Beer. The splurges threw in a keg. And these were with business associates. And I'm sure they listened to Mariah Carey's Christmas spectacular.

But at least there's this: no matter where one lives or what one does, there's this opportunity to join together for a bit and feel a bit more vivid. To glow in this holiday half-light and seem a bit more magical. To think of others and thrill in their joys. To have a legit reason to cover an entire flat or house or condo or studio or estate in glitter-struck chotskies. To relish in overflowing corporate gifts (cured meats, i heart you). To touch. To feel. To live purely. And to huddle by the fire and feel every bit part of a postcard - and to know that it's not posed but that its authenticity evolves from this abstract, intangible, unexplainable contentedness.

And nothing really beats that.

On Shoes for the Journey

2008-12-17T21:36:00.007-05:00

Thoughts on the Return

2008-12-16T22:16:00.000-05:00

Mine is a Phillip Lim Dress. With little razzle dazzle, hello dolly! synthesizers. Carefully chosen to look haphazard - as though it were an afterthought [oh this old thing? I just pulled it from the closet], an unintended masterpiece. It's what they expect, no?

Especially now, with the apartment smelling of tomatoes and parmesan, home feels eons away. Outside, snow continues to settle upon car after car after car. Like all snowy nights, it's silent out and Brooklyn seems lovelier than ever. Amber light dances with the floating scenery. A night intended for Leonard Cohen dreams.

It all seems so silly - worrying about finding the perfect dress. For some whatevs party back at home. Especially since the look intends to appear casually confident. Supremely New York. Divinely unassuming.

But there's this expectation - by the folks at home - to dress the job. To look fantastical and utterly fashion-forward.

Don't they know? Haven't they realized that, like them, I'm just a girl trying to make the paltry paycheck spread thinner and thinner each month. Glamorous meals mixing a can of beans and cayenne. Not thinking twice about solitary wine indulgence. It's deserved. Duh.

And I honestly don't know what's wrong with me - worrying about something as silly as making the right entrance at the right time with the right dress. There isn't even a date. [honeys: pause to imagine frozen looks of shock. what? no fiance? no boyfriend? well. don't worry: he's out there somewhere. you'll find him. It's not like I've been looking] But there is the dress - the beautiful, beautiful dress that folds and ripples - bits of silver dashing amid black. It could be a sonnet - this dress. Or that which encases a slick secret. Or perhaps inspires the secret.

You see - even in my reluctance - I still will indulge these belles. I'll play the part and pass funny jokes. I'll give them tips on S09. Perhaps I'll even whisper some yawn of a rumor. They'll feel a bit more alive - a smidge closer to that which feels so glamorous and dreamy, a few heel clicks from Oz (you know the Tin Man will lurch 'round in Gareth Pugh).

Oh this odd, odd world - this place where I'll soon return. It's balmy days and white sunshine. Girls mooning over the simplest pair of Louboutins - not knowing a bit about the truly swoon-worthy McQueen flap-front booties or Azzedine Alaia's frothy concoctions.

Instead, they keep a credit at Talbot's and aspire to wear Juicy Couture. If only they knew what other delicacies fashion provided. If only it were a bit more attainable. Or comprehendible. Fashion isn't about sassy leopard-print sling-backs or curlz font. It isn't about pink patent-leather dog carriers or St.John knit. Tory Burch, while incredibly accomplished, isn't the harbinger of the creme de la creme. Style is personality and confidence. Of knowing who you are and pursuing it, living in it. Feeling inspiration's fleshy buds. It's mixing and blending - of discovering patterns that almost feel rebellious. Of being entirely covered up and feeling entirely stripped down.

So maybe that's the problem with my perfect dress - I want it to do more than it ever will do until I remove its expectation. It's just a dress. A beautiful, fanciful dress. But still a dress.

And I must remind myself of it.

On Dressing Appropriately

2008-12-16T20:27:00.000-05:00

Songs for a Rainy Day

2008-12-16T07:55:00.001-05:00

Boots of Spanish Leather, Bob Dylan
Girl in Saskatoon, Johnny Cash
These Days, Nico
Paris 2004, Peter Bjorn and John
Love Love Love, The Mountain Goats
Suzanne, Hope Sandoval
Sweet Jane, Cowboy Junkies
I'll Melt with You, Nouvelle Vague
Sugar Mountain, Neil Young
Famous Blue Raincoat, Leonard Cohen
Sounds of Silence, Paul Simon

On discovering the funds aren't quite what i thought

2008-12-16T00:21:00.001-05:00

the atm isn't so generous when there's nothing to give but two lone parenthesis flanking an even lonelier number.

holiday dreams vanish.

panic.

a tsunami of scattered thoughts and doubts and regrets rushes toward me, sinking my ears and eyes, filing my head with pointless regrets (why did a buy those three books! why shop at chicy-chic market when pathmark is just a half-mile away! why did i buy two holiday gifts for aunt when i could afford none? why get additional chicken breast when i had a perfectly good one at home? well, that's easy: the butcher is tres dreamy and I become a bit transfixed by the tracery of ink that races up and down his arms). attention deficit and dysgraphia rear their gorgon heads. multiplying.multiplying.multiplying. and, like medusa's victim, i freeze in place. unable to move or think beyond frozen self. unable to focus on the receipt crumpled in my hand. unable to think beyond transferring dollars from savings to checking - depositing long-lost checks and pursuing payment for sundry activities (petty cash! iou's! ebay profiteering!).

Even in rush-hour, the F-Train can be painfully silent. The usual thump-thumping and razzmatazz songbirds aren't quite as mellifluous. I fumble upon an undiscovered zit. Cower in its shadow and actually hope that it's larger than the hole I've dug. Until this very moment, recession hasn't stung me with its thorny arithmetics.

A panic-induced to-do list forms:

find all un-deposited checks, deposit immediately
sell never-worn truly vintage silver lame silver thigh-highs
sell any other never-worn vintage or demi-vintage pieces
convince brother to purchase one of two gifts purchased for aunt
abstain from purchasing any iTunes productions
halt any and all on-line purchases
don't panic

And still, the guilt curdles. But, instead of confronting that which I never will understand or comprehend, I return to that which is most comfortable: a clatter of words that probably sound prettier than they make sense. if that even makes sense.

At least my previous target purchase was in bulk. Solutions & solvents stand in tidy rows, joyfully saluting me. We're ready!!

This is that oh shit moment. That time when one really doesn't want to admit that they failed. That they may need to pack up and give up. But there isn't need to do that: I have a job, a good job (well, a good job that pays horribly), and I like my life here. Including all of the adventures and misadventures and the wrenching moment when I discover that my success isn't as pecuniary as I had hoped. I'm still just a girl trying to make it - trying to pretend that all is golly-geez-dandy.

But oh the things to relish!

The cozy lamplight. The fizzing, rushing noise that tires make across wet asphalt. The dog's dried-up tongue, wrapped under his chin. Johnny Cash. A full fridge (because I did go to market prior to oops! shit! i have no money! discovery). Admirably brave family. Constant friends. But, before I digress into some oprah-worthy pantomime, a discovery's made: yes, things are bleak at this exact moment and I probably shouldn't be so whimsical with my purchases. But let's face it: it's a good thing that I have a sturdy savings.

Well, I guess it's now a bit like the Leaning Tower of Pisa.

PIFFLE

2008-12-15T23:21:00.000-05:00

Synthetics Over My Dead Body!

2008-12-15T21:33:00.000-05:00

'Beauty is truth, truth beauty, - that is all

Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.'

a FAVORITE

2008-12-15T21:00:00.000-05:00

Jam-packed train. Head-to-head. Nose-to-nose.

Just existing in little invisible boxes, never touching. Eye contact rigorously avoided. We all fear the Missed Connections serenade, no?

Some women click-click-click on their blackberries, feverish thoughts dazzling their 2" screen. Others (the braver, more brazen ones, I suppose), stare cockeyed into a compact mirror - lips slightly ajar, mascara wand keen on the lashes. Careful, now. How do they make it look so glorious? And the men - the beautiful men in their cinched trench coats - graze the Wall Street Journal. Oh, how the Dow dips, dips and dips. Others stare, catatonic, before the space between them and those standing - or sitting - or squatting - or slouching - or pretending to ignore the very pregnant woman standing just inches away from their seat. It's always a bit of a waltz. But eerie. Silent.

Still: there are the special ones - those folks bursting just beneath the skin, those wanting nothing more than to watch the surrounding crowd fade away, so that the imprisoned can dance. Eyes closed, their feet secretly tap.tap.tap. The head bobs. Ever so slightly. Ever so gently. Ever so quietly. Cautiously, in secret. Oh! Oh! Oh!

And they're spinning - but only in a world that exists elsewhere. That place where imagination and dream lapse into wanderlust. The province of protean revery. Pole swinging. Jumping into a Broadway whirlygig manifesto. High kicks. Pirouettes. Deep dips. Soul-stretching bliss. Unseen. Unknown. Unacknowledged.

Then, sooner than one would expect, the train waddles into the next station. Doors lurch open, and thousands of groggy-eyed commuters stuff their print-things and devices and what-nots into covert pockets.

And we continue through this unrehearsed choreography - this daily masquerade that is too familiar to savor or even digest.