tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11604638572807460242024-03-19T10:38:31.029-07:00glowy girl -alexandra-http://www.blogger.com/profile/14926537295771480468noreply@blogger.comBlogger41125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1160463857280746024.post-968604292644229012022-08-29T16:09:00.002-07:002022-08-29T17:02:56.190-07:00AT THE TABLE AND BEYOND<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigFqffOh1UdXZHICLre5jwhCXpA7GLC5nk_Q0MWq4GT2ZMG07jCHRM2hG40B06JD03b5bLdt32bVUdsYFs1pFGkQDRRyP9K2uAkQZoTKRzwH4e4TUkEdVq0DxEmB-V3UMd_XcCkpllAEQAYE6YemlDU1eF7iO4MsH8eB0bMk4UQP5QhyqbCyxLC7GY/s3507/8BEA6F27-F91B-4EBA-AD7D-90E6A56E4137_1_201_a.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3507" data-original-width="2547" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigFqffOh1UdXZHICLre5jwhCXpA7GLC5nk_Q0MWq4GT2ZMG07jCHRM2hG40B06JD03b5bLdt32bVUdsYFs1pFGkQDRRyP9K2uAkQZoTKRzwH4e4TUkEdVq0DxEmB-V3UMd_XcCkpllAEQAYE6YemlDU1eF7iO4MsH8eB0bMk4UQP5QhyqbCyxLC7GY/w464-h640/8BEA6F27-F91B-4EBA-AD7D-90E6A56E4137_1_201_a.jpeg" width="464" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i>from top left: Katherine serves "Two Soups Happy Together"; Cassie and Aki in conversation; plates mid-meal; Cassie and Aki post-revelation; order tickets staked on the table; Aki's thoughts on comedians; drinks on the table; Cassie's thoughts on comedians; Mission Dolores at dusk.</i></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">The table is the place of confessions. At the far back, in the corner, we're checking out everyone who's coming and going from the bathroom. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Everyone looks at everyone, especially those people we know from Instagram, or even from real life, and my line of sight to the front door means I get to keep tabs on who's arriving. Nobody is leaving.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">When the <i>New Yorker</i> uses the word "buzzy" to describe the scene at a restaurant, I guess this is what they're talking about. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">The <i>scene </i>has showed up. The bartender who made me a Paloma on Saturday afternoon is here, as are the DJs, the painters, and the hot Australians. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">As we watch all these people and they watch us, the ricocheting noise of conversation and music creates an ambient and shifting blanket of privacy. So as we are very much on display, the confessional takes shape.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Here's the thing about age. On the internet, which takes up so much space that it becomes tantamount to or even surpasses the reality of reality, I am led to believe that this time in my life is about "Finding a Partner" or "Building my Career." </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">It is becoming my job to decide whether or not I should watch the following videos: "MARRY THE RIGHT PERSON?", "Therapist_Dave's Red Flag Warning," "He Did THIS 13 Years After Retiring," "RYAN GOSLING'S DAUGHTER IS A BIG FAN OF THE [thumbs down emoji]." </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">But in this bar, and at the gallery and on the street, and especially at the dinner table, it is possible to stop gulping from the ocean. People who look like people. Friends who feel like friends. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">We have heard that the prefrontal cortex reaches maturity at the age of 25. We turn to each other wondering, "Does your brain feel like it's done cooking? Does yours?" </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Maybe not, but at least we've come far enough that Cassie is able to go full circle with Hooked on Phonics. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">The Mushroom is serving tonight and we order a "Carrot Pile and Crudités," "Savory Pancake" and "Mizuna Salad." "#1 Hippie Sandwich" is already sold out, but "Sexy Vegan Cheese Plate" is still on offer, as is "Two Soups Happy Together," which Katherine serves nymph-like through the crowd. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Alex wears Kermit green from toque to toe and appears at the mouth of the makeshift kitchen, which is also the last remnant of the dive bar that used to be. The chef's domain is like a cave with cracked red paint and a string of halogen lights that adorn a staircase which recedes into a dark and unseen corner. But what exits from such darkness is the bright and spicy flavors of sharp, fresh greens and a pile of carrots so true to its name that I laugh deliriously when it's placed on the table. <br /><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">This is the kind of food that makes me sure that my brain's still cooking, new neural pathways opened up by the ingenuity of two slices of radish sandwiched together by a generous dollop of hummus. </div><p></p>-alexandra-http://www.blogger.com/profile/14926537295771480468noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1160463857280746024.post-23826845547944245222022-06-28T16:10:00.000-07:002022-06-28T16:10:30.567-07:00IT FEELS GOOD<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiP8LhMoNTryWflu-7vvF_DXPItCdLghfC9mGflhdkWYvmpDeQu_7L5tBSJWvR5ys_oxfxg22oWg3F9rwvietUUgumdoYVLP9RWXoxwZRSHGj_a645djsbRImVF8Wu7oskDF-K1SRcFRuz5SObWHXyQOrPeuyCNu1yZYBab5D9fmu0CEGBEFYSHR8XL/s3300/696DA3E1-1BF0-44AB-B44A-863F8D2981F1_1_201_a.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3300" data-original-width="2550" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiP8LhMoNTryWflu-7vvF_DXPItCdLghfC9mGflhdkWYvmpDeQu_7L5tBSJWvR5ys_oxfxg22oWg3F9rwvietUUgumdoYVLP9RWXoxwZRSHGj_a645djsbRImVF8Wu7oskDF-K1SRcFRuz5SObWHXyQOrPeuyCNu1yZYBab5D9fmu0CEGBEFYSHR8XL/w494-h640/696DA3E1-1BF0-44AB-B44A-863F8D2981F1_1_201_a.jpeg" width="494" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">The train drops off in the dell. To become acquainted with the subsequent upswings, we climb the walls of the bowl to the cruising spot, to the Victorian delta. Imagine you follow on her shoulder, so subtle is the <i>we</i> here, because to her she is joyously alone.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Triangulating the first path with the second is a simple matter. Hike up Clayton, pause for the overgrown lamp shining toffee yellow. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">The air is so good. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Our girl finds a market and stops in for a bar of chocolate. She is already feeling beautiful. The man behind the counter says, "This bar is my gift to you today, because you have beautiful eyes." She accepts. She agrees. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">The market is on Uranus street, high above the city, and she starts to sing "Top of the World" by the Carpenters. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><i>I'm on the top of the world lookin' down on creation and the only explanation I can find ... is the love that I've found ever since you came around your love put me at the top of the world... </i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">She feels radiant. She turns right on Mars. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Our girl has an idea about God. Belief? Hm, no. She is making and then meeting God. Prayer usually goes something like this: </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">In a dark room, with eyes closed and hands tucked together, she begins by getting in touch with the idea of God, which can be done by envisioning the paths water droplets follow when flung off an object in motion or the random collisions of molecules in a gaseous state. Realizing that the veins of stone printed on the linoleum of her bathroom are the same as the sprawl of alluvial fans and flood planes, we can add these to the list as well. Then, she says, "Hello, God," and imagines that there is a heavenly phone bank where a representative picks up the line and eventually passes on her information to the main entity. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">This is a very good way. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">In the bustle of this place, it is easy to worry that God is not here. But upon reflection, to look out a back window at sunset and see a scoop of sorbet sitting on the horizon was an affirmation. God showed itself to her, to assure her, to usher her in. Perhaps the God encounter is to be in the discovery of things, like walking out from the dell to crest sequential wooded hills. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">And to quote herself, <i>God has left the building, but He is still in the room</i>. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">It is a good thing to arrive to where she is known and unknown, interceded by four years of more flesh and living.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">There are many things to say, apparently. Questions to be asked about the appropriate cultural categorization of various animals -- cottage, cabin, trade wind? There are so many statements that prompt her to ask, "Today?" </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">She says "Behind my house there is a garden, next to my house is another house, because I live on a street, because my street lives in a city." They all laugh, him especially. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">One day around a large table in a small library someone read a poem aloud, perhaps about the sea. He began to cry. He took his water bottle. He left the room. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">One day he arrived to the large room on the first floor carrying a small homely tea cup pinched out of clay and glazed a morose yellow. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">One day he tacked two long sheafs of brown paper to the wall and two people took up position writing single words at the same time until they came to the same conclusion. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Sweetness. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Our cosmic family. Is that what friends are? Is that why love or some promise of it seems whispered in the touches and glances of men with wives and girlfriends? </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">A sing-song name to call him baby. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Really, wondering if the pope will come to pizza. Is it enough to sit shoulder to shoulder in the plaza? </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Perhaps. It is good. </div></div>-alexandra-http://www.blogger.com/profile/14926537295771480468noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1160463857280746024.post-75745079370951022532021-10-17T23:45:00.006-07:002021-10-18T19:53:54.607-07:00FERNAND<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi62IftltaehYxjEfQBZWVlL0e1rKNz03iNZmYhXCNeJyyDWfP9dt8xEAglVt0j-MkQEnyyBjaSsP9QaVSmUYt11vt9grJTtIKguWGHV-ue4cGDaOnqs0kfqXNg1U3lb5hpdYp1EBSyqeY/s480/413px-Portrait_of_a_Man_in_a_Red_Cap_-_Titian_c._1510.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="413" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi62IftltaehYxjEfQBZWVlL0e1rKNz03iNZmYhXCNeJyyDWfP9dt8xEAglVt0j-MkQEnyyBjaSsP9QaVSmUYt11vt9grJTtIKguWGHV-ue4cGDaOnqs0kfqXNg1U3lb5hpdYp1EBSyqeY/w344-h400/413px-Portrait_of_a_Man_in_a_Red_Cap_-_Titian_c._1510.jpg" width="344" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div></div><p></p><p>The cloves closest to the core of the head are not fully articulated. Cooking in the half-light is a practice of tactile discernment, thumbing the cloves as they decrease sequentially in size. The first rain of fall spits against the windows, but the door to the balcony is left ajar. Later, one might see a strip of water accumulated there. </p><p>Oil is heating in a skillet on the cooktop and water approaches a boil. As she cooks, she thinks back to the drive over the airport tarmac last night. As she sat on the bus, a different model this time, the phrases she'd written about this same drive resounded in her mind. She'd written her own narration to this drive, and she recognized its exactitude as it rang out to describe the same sights. </p><p>As she cooks tonight, she's turning these phrases over already in her mind: "<i>first rain of fall</i>"<i> </i>and "<i>the cloves are not fully articulated</i>"<b style="font-style: italic;"> </b>as she moves about the small kitchen. Thinking about "<i>she</i>"<i> </i>and "<i>our girl</i>". </p><p>The story she wrote is out for first reading with two of her most trusted friends. When she wrote it, it had felt like a potent record of something that needed to be captured. But now, the line between recollection and fiction has become significantly blurred. Memory and feeling turn out to be incredibly fickle. </p><p>"<i>She</i>" is obviously a deflection. A way to say what she's thinking without explicitly claiming it as hers. These days, she feels as though she is hiding, cloaking herself in solitude to avoid being caught out. </p><p>She feels as though she is straddling two large pieces of ice, floating in a frigid ocean. They slip and jostle, threatening to upset her footing. She feels exhausted by the fluctuations in her own hopes and perturbations. She cannot fathom how or why the people around her put up with her vicissitudes. She wonders if it would be easier to cut them loose, to allow them to find stability elsewhere. Perhaps that would show real mercy.</p><p>In the morning, the sky had been blue with trailing wisps dispersed, but in the mid-afternoon the sycamores began to flail with an almighty wind. Then approached a purplish stand of clouds from the north and just at the crux of darkness rain began to fall. </p><p>In the afternoon, she'd found a thick volume in a book shop. <i>Annuaire de la Jeunesse: Education et Instruction</i>, published 1914. The pages were crumbling, in no fit state to be left on a shop shelf. She'd opened the book carefully. It seemed to be a catalog dedicated to schools in and around France. "Instruction of English or German begins in grade six, but Spanish is integrated into instruction from grade one." "The school is half-boarding and is accepting new pupils." </p><p>The book was shelved just feet away from a pocket-sized <i>Inferno, </i>in its original Italian, bound in red cotton. No distinction had been made as to their relative literary merits, to their relative truths or untruths. </p><p>She was not an altogether sheepish recipient of the past, in fact she often occupied herself by trying to imagine places in their states of antiquity. Like holding a photo transparency over the present topography, it was a practice that required accepting a certain level of dissonance. </p><p>She closed the <i>Annuaire</i> gingerly. Leaning in to read a quote in small print on the cover, her eyes strayed to the upper left hand corner. Previously unnoticed, she saw there an inscription in faded brown ink, <i>Fernand Démousseau</i>. The <i>F </i>had been carefully serifed and the tail of the final <i>u </i>curved around itself to become a self-assured diagonal. At one time, the ink had been raised, wet and mutable. A warm hand had carefully, expertly drawn a pen across the gray-green paper cover. </p><p>Besides the sheer humanity of the name written on the page, she had been struck by the absolute beauty of the script. In its regularity, it was nearly as perfect as the mechanically printed text on the cover. But in the tall vertical stroke of the <i>D</i>, it was possible to see where the nib had splayed, drawing ink unevenly.</p><p>Years ago, she'd happened upon a resplendent Caravaggio portrait of a man in a red cap. It was in a dark corner of a museum, and she'd been captivated by the beauty of the sitter. She had found herself leaning in towards the painting, willing the man to tilt his head in her direction, to bestow his depths upon her. When she had finally left the painting, she did so with dismay, feeling as though she was leaving behind a particularly beautiful prospect, sighted from across a room. </p><p>The signature on the book had left her with this same sense of lingering pleasure. The grace of its curves, the uniformity of its lines, belied a slight wrist and long, elegant fingers. Just like Caravaggio's sitter, this imagined signer had his basis in truth. There was a Fernand who had really lived to ink his name. </p><p>And yet the Fernand that she encountered, as with the man in the painting, was someone else entirely. He was someone of her own invention, a product of the intervening years, which had erased fact and proffered figment instead. </p><p>But, so we are told, that is history. Neither truth nor fiction, but a cumulative record, imagined as much as it is lived. </p>-alexandra-http://www.blogger.com/profile/14926537295771480468noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1160463857280746024.post-42369093574356272032021-10-06T17:38:00.000-07:002021-10-06T17:38:07.868-07:00LAURIE ANDERSON AND ME<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhD_68inRFBFeeUfWH3Gz3Zzky_nWD3atIHjrzNBjlPnXYUgl1dq_lTQ4cZgWQjWe8Nq-02mYCEshWRCh7d31qCNmQrPa4It46lHhdAz2nz9zRBJriatIeHgIlX6RcL1db9s5xRfyJqaE0/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1371" data-original-width="2048" height="428" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhD_68inRFBFeeUfWH3Gz3Zzky_nWD3atIHjrzNBjlPnXYUgl1dq_lTQ4cZgWQjWe8Nq-02mYCEshWRCh7d31qCNmQrPa4It46lHhdAz2nz9zRBJriatIeHgIlX6RcL1db9s5xRfyJqaE0/w640-h428/image.png" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i>Laurie Anderson in her studio, 1980 </i>| <span style="color: #666666; text-align: left;">Allan Tannenbaum/Getty Images</span></div><p>I just got off the phone with my therapist. She's a new therapist (to me). This is only our second session. But I feel that she is a good one. </p><p>A good therapist is one who listens, then asks good questions, then listens again. A good therapist is one who, in the last three minutes of your session, recommends a lengthy <b><a href="https://www.nytimes.com/2021/10/06/magazine/laurie-anderson.html">interview with Laurie Anderson</a></b> published in the <i>New York Times </i>today. Just seven hours ago, according to their website. </p><p>In our conversation today we brushed up against the idea of creativity and purpose. How the identity of the artist is lost or subsumed in corporate work. I'm speaking loftily of "the artist," but I mean to say "me." </p><p>I've noticed that in times of feeling particularly foul ("down in the mouth" as I called it today, for some reason), I have been able to kick-start myself out of the doldrums by setting myself a concerted daily creative task. This time, it's writing here, but last year it was my "Daily Practice" styling and photography project. </p><p>The creative project must be specific, repeatable, and not too time intensive. It also must require some daily output. Progress is imperative. I said to my therapist, this way of working feels like flooring the accelerator out of despair, and with every daily output I feel gratified and reminded of "my purpose."</p><p>I've been circling the idea of purpose for a while now. In past months, I've written long journal entries about what I feel the purpose of my life is, what my orientation on work and success should be, how I want a job to fit into or support my life. As I wrote in one such entry, my personal creative work "<i>gives me a stronger sense of self and can make the world feel expansive and rich with creative inputs and catalysts. It feels like a way to connect with people and the world.</i>"</p><p>This is how I want to pursue my purpose: I want to engage in multi-sensory and multi-disciplinary creative outputs. I want to steadily, even quietly, work to continue to read, learn, process, and produce (much as I have done this afternoon). That's why Laurie Anderson is sitting above this as you read, in her studio in 1980. Her posture, the intensity of her gaze, the cubby-like space with all her <i>things </i>on the table... I recognize something in this: the self-motivated, absorptive way of focusing that comes from being engrossed in work of one's own creation.</p><p>Anderson's synth setup reminds me of my childhood desk. For my seventh birthday, my uncle built a simple wooden desk into the left side of the closet in my bedroom. The desk was painted bottle green, and I adorned it and the walls with my <i>things</i>. My pens, neatly displayed in a tin tea canister. A stack of colored square note sheets. A black metal desk lamp that, in the winter evenings, would be the only light in the back of the house as the sun set and the family gathered in the kitchen for dinner. </p><p>As the eldest of three, I remember being very self-occupied as a child. I spent a lot of time in my room with my door closed doing my own thing: reading, dressing up, hatching plans. Maybe that's why my personal work feels more natural and more important to me than my job. Perhaps, in all my creative pursuits, I am returning to my childhood bedroom with the door closed, wrapped up in my own thoughts and inventions. </p><p>Seeing Anderson in her studio, I feel drawn to the same thing that struck me from the <b><a href="https://glowygirl.blogspot.com/2021/09/rooney-on-writing.html">interview</a></b> with Sally Rooney. The idea of cozy, self-sustained work. A place to put my energy that feels focused, ordained by an inner compass. </p><p>In a dream at the end of August, I dreamt of playing in an orchestra again, of sharing my poems with an editor, of dancing and singing and creating a short film. After waking up, I wrote:</p><p><i>I felt buoyant & stimulated. So many avenues for the same light to pour out from. A confirmation that all these tools and channels indicated I was doing what I was supposed to — making, effusing, performing: ART, ART, ART. </i></p>-alexandra-http://www.blogger.com/profile/14926537295771480468noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1160463857280746024.post-20990111198665553452021-10-03T15:32:00.005-07:002021-10-03T16:54:03.128-07:00BEING WHERE I AM <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjamMeddH4M4bivPbTckcKibCdNyCwCi03EKrDGzX0qwWfdo1jxL2HDv0H0lQDtMoKj0UbcC-UlKok9DGkrpmMn6UIWgz33G1XZkp0n_S7_NciC0_DClJJfe6U3_onbi0wmJhqol1aauMU/s2048/561B11D7-2B9F-4F6F-93C6-BAEADC95D130.heic" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjamMeddH4M4bivPbTckcKibCdNyCwCi03EKrDGzX0qwWfdo1jxL2HDv0H0lQDtMoKj0UbcC-UlKok9DGkrpmMn6UIWgz33G1XZkp0n_S7_NciC0_DClJJfe6U3_onbi0wmJhqol1aauMU/w640-h480/561B11D7-2B9F-4F6F-93C6-BAEADC95D130.heic" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCIr746and1_S6f64YlsiiRAaSXxopgYX4xjpF28pxFqWNL2dz4y5W_mGRqTOV8LpcW-fqqlJIjI_cFtsJ3PjC1VZgjJ4_mxYE9sRVftRqFsBEPjAjp-tauWVb2ZbxyKkr9UWjQN29ctk/s2048/718687F9-8EFF-4123-8359-29E49E39BBF1.heic" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCIr746and1_S6f64YlsiiRAaSXxopgYX4xjpF28pxFqWNL2dz4y5W_mGRqTOV8LpcW-fqqlJIjI_cFtsJ3PjC1VZgjJ4_mxYE9sRVftRqFsBEPjAjp-tauWVb2ZbxyKkr9UWjQN29ctk/w300-h400/718687F9-8EFF-4123-8359-29E49E39BBF1.heic" width="300" /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQUT2svU2vS6R0bBhIpzh0YnAz-zzDzpBtom8lNptQQbYHGlewQ9lYu6hLm4hk7kI0sOSLnvvPi6oBrZCuYPd7VHr7c_PtJzDzQAnBGSfYbkQPDsY3JfzHg_3wPp5s1f9Zb-W-A0zn3JM/s992/AA8C332A-8D11-4176-A146-E96026AB3260.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="992" data-original-width="744" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQUT2svU2vS6R0bBhIpzh0YnAz-zzDzpBtom8lNptQQbYHGlewQ9lYu6hLm4hk7kI0sOSLnvvPi6oBrZCuYPd7VHr7c_PtJzDzQAnBGSfYbkQPDsY3JfzHg_3wPp5s1f9Zb-W-A0zn3JM/w300-h400/AA8C332A-8D11-4176-A146-E96026AB3260.jpeg" width="300" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjBkUjgG_a-r0pFVF2DBCk7kKX8hCWsJpegn1OGjAypHS9rhf1SUwiLSeKRZmK31wFR3O-rA7tN8TmCuPKeru8341mIk1YCjleiIDmDCV7rM623JZEQsmhR5WF249XZn4yhgLUjg1epPE/s756/DF79E10F-B194-4916-B160-FF5A79F2168A.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="568" data-original-width="756" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjBkUjgG_a-r0pFVF2DBCk7kKX8hCWsJpegn1OGjAypHS9rhf1SUwiLSeKRZmK31wFR3O-rA7tN8TmCuPKeru8341mIk1YCjleiIDmDCV7rM623JZEQsmhR5WF249XZn4yhgLUjg1epPE/w640-h480/DF79E10F-B194-4916-B160-FF5A79F2168A.jpeg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><i>clockwise from bottom left: Me, Meriç, James, Akil</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I sometimes feel that I spend an inordinate amount of time thinking about where I am, whether I should be there, and if there is someplace that I could be that would be better. Better in the nebulous sense that there might be another place to settle myself that might help to unlock or at least quiet some of my existential questions. A place that might allow me to live what is more fully "my life" or a place that might quiet the thrumming anxiety I encounter on weekend days, where it feels that no place in proximity to me will be able to quell the grating disquiet of being <i>here</i>. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Sometimes I wonder if this feeling isn't about place at all, but is in fact is about people. I find relief in an afternoon spent with a group of friends. And often, for me, the height of social pleasure is a day that begins with one thing (coffee, for example) and then organically spools forth to include and sandwich, then a museum, then a quartet in the park, then a drink, etc. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">When I was in New York this past spring, I had an evening that gave me glimpse of this. We met with Lydia of <b><a href="https://www.lrcnyc.online/">Lydia Rodrigues Collection</a></b> under the FDR bridge and sat by the river drinking natural wine and eating cookies I had picked up from an Italian bakery a block off of Columbus Park. Ostensibly, the gathering was to welcome me to New York and give me the chance to meet some of my fellow participants in Lydia's biannual Salon. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />There, I met Akil and James. Akil has worked with Lydia on the last couple of salons and James is a friend of Akil's from when they both worked at the New York location of Snow Peak. We talked for three hours. The wind gradually picked up as the night wore on and whipped away the lingering heat from the day. James pulled a soft pink linen towel out of his pack and offered it to me. Gratefully, I wrapped myself in it. I was perplexed by how to dress for the New York spring. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">It was already 10 when we began to realize we hadn't had dinner. Lydia headed off, leaving us to head in from the river towards Chinatown. Just a block off of the water, the spring heat returned, radiating off the asphalt. Gleefully, heading off with these new friends into the night, I felt like a high schooler again. It was easy to delight in simply being out in the dark. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Akil was heading out to Long Island, James back up to the Bronx. We paused at a street corner. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">"Well, which way are you heading?" </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">"This way," pointing deeper into Chinatown. We continued as a jovial band.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Winding our way through dark and narrow streets, past empty produce crates, we wondered aloud what to do about dinner. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Akil knew a place, and it was right by a train. He could take the F to connect to another. James said he would do the same. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">"It's a cart," he told us, "During lockdown they disappeared and I didn't know if they would come back." It was a popular destination for people who had been partying late on the Lower East Side.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Despite the fact that it was 10:30 on a Wednesday night, the line was still four or five people deep. We ordered (one chicken skewer, one pork skewer, one rice cake skewer, one enochi mushroom skewer, and one corn on the cob) and paid $11 cash. We waited hungrily, with our backs pressed up against the shut metal grating of a Chinese grocery. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">In the daylight hours on this corner, commuters ducked in and out of the steps down to the Grand B/D train and weaved between shoppers poring over produce and fish laid out in crates on the sidewalk. In the night, this cart was the wick to which we all drew near. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">The waiting was a pleasure. Those last moments snatched to round out our serendipitous trek through Lower Manhattan. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Akil's order was up and he ate it. It was late, now, and he and James both had at least an hour of train journey to reach their respective destinations. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">"Please, if you're ever in San Francisco, let me know and I'll take you around." Not quite a plea, but what else can you say to two wonderful people you know you're unlikely to see again, but that you're not ready to leave? </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Our order was up. James and Akil left into the night, and our attention turned to the contents of the small plastic bag that had just been handed over to us. Too hungry to wait and not feeling encouraged by the dark emptiness of the park across Chrystie, we stood on the corner by the dark steps of the train. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">The food was delicious. It was hot and well spiced and we ate it quickly and happily. Akil was already underground and speeding away from us, somewhere, but we praised him aloud for his suggestion. We were thanking him and James for their company, speaking their names into the warm night, already reminiscing.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Their companionship as we reached street corners and said "Do you need to turn off here? It was so nice to meet you," and then continued on all together, was a gift. Sweet and warm as the night. Meandering and gentle like a breeze. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFfl43UewU5szXka1jGx1pyJXpFcAvJ4R-h4TS-2cAbaXi2rMQ_uDC9mffZt17tm-NVIf2X4dtxRZy193e_p5n68GE3c4IJxJItcGr6t0qBsB4zRSMwmq1rplVtV90WYGpdeoin3v5G1k/s2048/C2D9673A-52E2-4D19-8BDB-7A6ADE289110_1_201_a.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1365" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFfl43UewU5szXka1jGx1pyJXpFcAvJ4R-h4TS-2cAbaXi2rMQ_uDC9mffZt17tm-NVIf2X4dtxRZy193e_p5n68GE3c4IJxJItcGr6t0qBsB4zRSMwmq1rplVtV90WYGpdeoin3v5G1k/w426-h640/C2D9673A-52E2-4D19-8BDB-7A6ADE289110_1_201_a.jpeg" width="426" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i>corn on the cob on the corner</i></div>-alexandra-http://www.blogger.com/profile/14926537295771480468noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1160463857280746024.post-83584224152511558102021-09-30T18:17:00.004-07:002021-09-30T18:18:41.121-07:00'I LIKE MYSELF'<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5wUozooAbjQrcWhqWXG-hasMUkb1DrLiTgljDLrIcZ_zZU-VEL8SYhccAyhNUACHnpL8EkdJlb21CTeRFYjaa1tnrd0bTv3UPhiIegOvmEu-yQpR7XUmKy_nZNFQvAVU21UVWlVqzoaQ/s2048/IMG_6263+copy.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5wUozooAbjQrcWhqWXG-hasMUkb1DrLiTgljDLrIcZ_zZU-VEL8SYhccAyhNUACHnpL8EkdJlb21CTeRFYjaa1tnrd0bTv3UPhiIegOvmEu-yQpR7XUmKy_nZNFQvAVU21UVWlVqzoaQ/w480-h640/IMG_6263+copy.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><p></p><p>Just now, after finishing work, I lay back on my bed (not the side I sleep on) and grabbed a book I'd stopped reading months ago. It's sitting in the stack of novels that acts as a sort of bedside table for my small green lamp. Note to anyone reading: parking books by the bed (especially in a stack under a lamp) is a surefire way to stop reading them all together. Total loss of accessibility. Active reading books must be placed at the top of a stack on the coffee table or directly on the couch, in my house. </p><p>Anyway, I pulled out this book from the stack, <i>Like Streams to the Ocean</i>. It's not very good, frankly. That's why I stopped reading it initially and how it ended up relegated to the sub-lamp pile. But looking at it in the stack, I remembered reading something about the author on the inside flap of the jacket when I had picked the book up in the bookstore. I can't remember what exactly, but something about this book really struck me as being written by a normal person. Like not a vaunted <i>"author"</i> but just some guy who got a book deal. </p><p>So I saw this book in the stack today, and I think the Sally Rooney interview I <a href="https://glowygirl.blogspot.com/2021/09/rooney-on-writing.html"><b>mentioned yesterday</b></a> was still on my mind, because suddenly I had a rush of compassion for this writer. I could be him one day, with a book that's mediocre and languishing half-read in someone's bedside pile. </p><p>As I pulled the book out then, I had a sudden thought: <i>"I like myself." </i>It made me smile. </p><p>That <i>"I like myself"</i><b style="font-style: italic;"> </b>was brought on by a fleeting recognition of all the books that I have around, or how much time I'm spending reading, which I think has increased recently. In a rush, as I pulled this sort of bad book out from the stack, I think I felt the approximate landscape of my intellectual life and my internal life. And it gave me a nice little sense of satisfaction with myself as I am today, or as I was in that instant. </p><p>Sensation and recognition of oneself (specifically, myself) is totally inconstant. It's surprising to me that I just felt this <i>"I like myself" </i>with so much clarity, and even more surprising that it was triggered by pulling a book out of a stack. As I wrote before, I've felt recently that the ways that I recognize and evaluate myself have been shifting substantially. But I suppose it should make sense that in the largely internal world I occupy now, it's my internal pursuits that shape my own relationship with my self. </p>-alexandra-http://www.blogger.com/profile/14926537295771480468noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1160463857280746024.post-2395365381379675692021-09-29T17:07:00.002-07:002021-09-29T20:44:27.604-07:00ROONEY ON WRITING<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9rURuaRgEdc47DG6ViKNVgJI7wkvd6RCkMi5It3bTV7XTwj9eg_dJvC-bsupxXgROFmPgpokfbPHZHjfTZl7z87bx94UYAwmjJYYCUu3LQZjvhfa64lYKdE7_xRv0frHmtznPArFoM9s/s1879/IMG_6224.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9rURuaRgEdc47DG6ViKNVgJI7wkvd6RCkMi5It3bTV7XTwj9eg_dJvC-bsupxXgROFmPgpokfbPHZHjfTZl7z87bx94UYAwmjJYYCUu3LQZjvhfa64lYKdE7_xRv0frHmtznPArFoM9s/s1879/IMG_6224.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvVqfcqmNbgJnICuy_4ERy5BK40kVtk3u4II37IIRhk-qt_Kt5FgutB4fO02tIVc3aRIGPrJAJzNQoAuK8Jj2O-iCY1JmwWgptSdWdvm-vq1xZiyKgEpBp5iIiwilNWCJ3mdPF-iVjaJU/s1483/IMG_6013.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1039" data-original-width="1483" height="448" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvVqfcqmNbgJnICuy_4ERy5BK40kVtk3u4II37IIRhk-qt_Kt5FgutB4fO02tIVc3aRIGPrJAJzNQoAuK8Jj2O-iCY1JmwWgptSdWdvm-vq1xZiyKgEpBp5iIiwilNWCJ3mdPF-iVjaJU/w640-h448/IMG_6013.JPG" width="640" /></a></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p>I've just been watching a <a href="https://youtu.be/ho5ja2trqrs"><b>video interview</b></a> with Sally Rooney. In it, she speaks about the process of writing a novel, saying "When I'm writing something new, that's all I want to be doing." She later talks about the process of writing her first and second novels both being "so enjoyable." </p><p>From a young age, I've always felt that I struggled writing narratives, particularly dialogue. I always find it easier to imagine and describe what a scene looks and feels like, but writing the character interaction or plot movement feels really unnatural to me.</p><p>But hearing this description of working on a writing project being the only thing that you want to be doing, for it to be so enjoyable, sounds so deliciously compelling. Cozy, satisfying, and self-sustained. </p><p>I've always thought of the writing process as a somewhat frustrated one of placing words next to each other, then reworking those word to word relationships to eviscerate corniness or awkwardness. But the way Rooney talks about it sounds more like exploring a deep cave with warm water. Not so tortured. Not so pressured as to have every plot point outlined or predetermined. </p><p>I think I'm craving this kind of self-possessed and self-directed occupation. After years pushing myself to use my energy and my brain on work that wasn't my own and felt antagonistic to my very spirit, nothing sounds better than delving into a realm entirely of my own creation. </p><p>But also, I desire to be wrapped up in something. To be pulled in and delight in that thing's unfolding until I've had my fill. What might that feel like? Wonderful, I imagine. This is a craving to inhabit a space only I have access to. It makes me think of waking up from a good dream and trying to fall back asleep to re-enter the action. Warm, precious, sacred.</p>-alexandra-http://www.blogger.com/profile/14926537295771480468noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1160463857280746024.post-85562743363855462202021-09-27T22:13:00.000-07:002021-09-27T22:13:54.313-07:00YESTERDAY<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZcr0jXCVDyrcWzd7tDIBMPfG4SEgpsD9ssFDeQDeLKYdPZXvNSuuKZPBFnIcz5ShfhibU2tQkeB3gFMeoglxaTA9j4W8mDm43PTefWDX8Ndln5AGFE2UWXet0hvrNv8K_7P3dF2qhC7g/s2048/C38C800B-3C13-4A32-BAA6-F125836A89C6.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZcr0jXCVDyrcWzd7tDIBMPfG4SEgpsD9ssFDeQDeLKYdPZXvNSuuKZPBFnIcz5ShfhibU2tQkeB3gFMeoglxaTA9j4W8mDm43PTefWDX8Ndln5AGFE2UWXet0hvrNv8K_7P3dF2qhC7g/w480-h640/C38C800B-3C13-4A32-BAA6-F125836A89C6.jpeg" width="480" /></a></div> <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIxstJPJGfX_ay9z3nffASrgb7GQjs8JpbLMdGkPP-vLUem76a2je0OLkipnhmaqhBPwjczfQI5w2hkRYPwyNjvCZqn05Ney7jm1wnNSBAJO5XgTVoK7-0e4_PF1Ge6eaCTk5H7Z1MNlQ/s2048/CF7E88C6-795B-4848-A723-6E62F38BA5B6.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIxstJPJGfX_ay9z3nffASrgb7GQjs8JpbLMdGkPP-vLUem76a2je0OLkipnhmaqhBPwjczfQI5w2hkRYPwyNjvCZqn05Ney7jm1wnNSBAJO5XgTVoK7-0e4_PF1Ge6eaCTk5H7Z1MNlQ/w480-h640/CF7E88C6-795B-4848-A723-6E62F38BA5B6.jpeg" width="480" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglhESf1D4AjWu2TG-pcdC9DRXZ6kMeIdXfoGW1XdD1IxAA8HkAPV2hDJtDNIBMMGVKT4evsFS-BbivVaU6A8-muCFeZrVonW_7ykMnENYohyphenhyphenNkF4CMM8OtdJCerJVgbMVN8QTqa-90jYs/s2048/25F25DC0-F74F-482B-AAD5-1D545243B80A.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglhESf1D4AjWu2TG-pcdC9DRXZ6kMeIdXfoGW1XdD1IxAA8HkAPV2hDJtDNIBMMGVKT4evsFS-BbivVaU6A8-muCFeZrVonW_7ykMnENYohyphenhyphenNkF4CMM8OtdJCerJVgbMVN8QTqa-90jYs/w300-h400/25F25DC0-F74F-482B-AAD5-1D545243B80A.jpeg" width="300" /></a> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLO234nC-HIgVSYMxtjI-w6MtM8D5_kuY3zLyouWO3QkJHLoCOIZqiOQ78r0vA_BX3yYhgH7dHXgqTmfXVa581IBgZkOfelVw4lKHmnxyN7t86csH_LJCfhAXECAJMFdny7PgsFVbtQ80/s2048/8C8417BA-92FC-424C-A9B5-2204CDF41DEC.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLO234nC-HIgVSYMxtjI-w6MtM8D5_kuY3zLyouWO3QkJHLoCOIZqiOQ78r0vA_BX3yYhgH7dHXgqTmfXVa581IBgZkOfelVw4lKHmnxyN7t86csH_LJCfhAXECAJMFdny7PgsFVbtQ80/w300-h400/8C8417BA-92FC-424C-A9B5-2204CDF41DEC.jpeg" width="300" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">These days, feeling like myself comes in fleeting moments, few and far between. How do I articulate the gradual creep of the loss of taste? I find that I'm unsure of how to dress myself, as myself, for the first time in my life. At once inundated with the trends via TikTok, and totally out of place in the spaces that hawk those trends (see Urban Outfitters, Depop, etc.). I feel as though I've gone to sleep and woken back up, out of place and out of time. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Life feels upside down at the minute. Yesterday, I was excited to drive up to Oakland and Berkeley. Less of a homecoming, more of a reminder of an anchor point. A place with real humanity. And I felt like myself in my outfit. Not just like <i>me </i>but the feeling that makes me feel excited to be <i>me</i>. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">At the Berkeley Flea, I found this jacket. A good thrift find is one that fits perfectly, as this jacket did. It felt destined to sit on my shoulders. I like the embroidery especially, which feels like a nod to toreador flair. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">At Mars, I found this embroidered peasant-style blouse, which is quite voluminous and somewhat see-through. I like the slouchiness of this top, which is a style I long to wear but find difficult to achieve on my body. I felt the wrists were cinched just right and hit at a nice place on my arm to give the perfect billow. With the kerchief I wore throughout the day, this whole ensemble felt very swashbuckling as I stood in the mirror of the fitting rooms. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">The trees on Sproul Plaza are beginning to turn yellow, the first hint of fall. The change in color isn't exactly perceptible in person, even. It comes out more in photos, where the warm light of the sun setting in the late afternoon picks up the changing tones in the leaves. There's a coziness and an anticipation in these images, of something slightly magical just around the corner. </div>-alexandra-http://www.blogger.com/profile/14926537295771480468noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1160463857280746024.post-36956357024217761322019-05-23T19:53:00.000-07:002019-05-23T20:00:55.652-07:00FEMININITY IN SILICON VALLEY<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsl76VmYEB-Im-4RLP3h6peG04OQCL3Gg5sca_f__Of4__ndcPT5lNbGOQ5OQOD16ZViq_3XKf81S_iTS5W12MmNKj0xPT5l1cIa1T1JpxgKDYsOBlNGMpwsCkUSguXGV4Ms6byrrcX7I/s1600/IMG-1937.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsl76VmYEB-Im-4RLP3h6peG04OQCL3Gg5sca_f__Of4__ndcPT5lNbGOQ5OQOD16ZViq_3XKf81S_iTS5W12MmNKj0xPT5l1cIa1T1JpxgKDYsOBlNGMpwsCkUSguXGV4Ms6byrrcX7I/s640/IMG-1937.JPG" width="480" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Hello, blog! It's been a year. And oh, what a year it has been. I'm not too interested in waxing nostalgic here since the ins and outs of the time since I last posted have been well documented on my <a href="http://www.instagram.com/apunk_apink" style="background-color: #b4a7d6;">Instagram</a>. I will say, though, that if you've not kept up there, <i>a lot </i>has changed since I last wrote. Most notably, I moved to Silicon Valley to start my first real deal job. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">There are lots of very cool things about working in Silicon Valley. Free lunch is definitely one of them. Also, working at break-neck speed means that I've learned from and been responsible for a number of projects that wouldn't usually land in the lap of someone one year out of school. (Sending emails to millions of people, for example.) </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">But outside of working hard and learning tons, there's one thing that's been particularly challenging: embodying femininity and flamboyance in the land of the hacker hoodie dress-code. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">It's funny—CEOs here wear Patagonia vests and sneakers. The CTO of my company rides around our office on a Segway. So if you're out there watching <i>Silicon Valley</i> and wondering if the real place lives up to the stereotypes, the answer is, "Well, sorta." </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">One thing people forget to mention about Silicon Valley: it's a collection of about 10 suburban cities with no true center. After nine months, the relentless suburbia and the ultra-casual corporate dress code has left me feeling...hemmed in. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwDBLnduZ6Ao61IuOamZoiY3a3awQKntbbIbhy2KOEZ33JBaQkbzEsK3STiE0qRfJHfpxZ6BMHbdI1O0niXJ0N1vjNc1-kSMc03lF66yqOuZ6B3VWCJdeZ1PPE-VduT2vkRjPR0_m5zDY/s1600/0D96753B-37B9-4966-8382-2BF3FC8A684C.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1280" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwDBLnduZ6Ao61IuOamZoiY3a3awQKntbbIbhy2KOEZ33JBaQkbzEsK3STiE0qRfJHfpxZ6BMHbdI1O0niXJ0N1vjNc1-kSMc03lF66yqOuZ6B3VWCJdeZ1PPE-VduT2vkRjPR0_m5zDY/s400/0D96753B-37B9-4966-8382-2BF3FC8A684C.JPG" width="320" /></span></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-a_J5evSIS-KBDujFJGClAT6fwwEFX1-KjVE7SVrnclxyzJkIJErEOCnByz9M2qMEmqt4Iy6y66NV8jZSXgIRQaBbxQA5g4v9irixK0N7ukgeBmeho9vRj8r33G6uA0CnQN27IvzTCPw/s1600/IMG-1827.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; display: inline !important; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-a_J5evSIS-KBDujFJGClAT6fwwEFX1-KjVE7SVrnclxyzJkIJErEOCnByz9M2qMEmqt4Iy6y66NV8jZSXgIRQaBbxQA5g4v9irixK0N7ukgeBmeho9vRj8r33G6uA0CnQN27IvzTCPw/s400/IMG-1827.JPG" width="300" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">One thing you <i>don't</i> see here very often is hot pink. Or dresses. Or neon orange. Or basically anyone taking fashion risks. The leniency in office dress code seems only to apply if you're forgoing professional attire in favor of the hyper-masculine anti-fashion uniform of hoodies and puffers, t-shirts, nondescript pants, and sneakers. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">I want to reclaim my fashion independence. I want to fearlessly wear what I want without worrying about who I'm shocking. This was rarely a worry for me in the past, but now I feel like I need to work myself back up to not giving a damn. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">My first step to re-embracing femininity and flamboyance has been painting my nails hot pink with disco sparkles. This color combo looks like a tacky Barbie car, but every time I see it (especially when I'm at the office) it gives me a private sense of satisfaction. Look at me, sticking it to the hoodie-clad man. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Hot pink has become a sort of <a href="https://www.instagram.com/p/BsBcXTVgTct/?utm_source=ig_web_copy_link" style="background-color: #b4a7d6;">power color</a> for me. Pink (also my last name) used to be one of my least favorite colors. It felt too girly, too frivolous, too sugary sweet. In the last year or so, though, I've realized that there is power in campy, saccharine performances of femininity. Especially in environments like Silicon Valley, where masculine norms permeate expectations for everyone's behavior, claiming and performing femininity becomes radical. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">In an attempt to emancipate myself from the false liberty of the Silicon Valley uniform, and in an attempt to reclaim a lost sense of self, I've set myself the task of dressing more flamboyantly for just a week to see what progress I can make. Here's what I've worn so far. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyFMV07lxA29DxpuJYLiEuXl7456rq2jUmILX4VSHLmp4iheW0BXWIU4GpwzmPDaYeFP4KuAYvQOz2bzHqQ4zrED5sXCGl4AVRUumdIC54Mn7lDuZ462DoWJWQw75l5I_apPUjDq4w5uQ/s1600/IMG-1882.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyFMV07lxA29DxpuJYLiEuXl7456rq2jUmILX4VSHLmp4iheW0BXWIU4GpwzmPDaYeFP4KuAYvQOz2bzHqQ4zrED5sXCGl4AVRUumdIC54Mn7lDuZ462DoWJWQw75l5I_apPUjDq4w5uQ/s640/IMG-1882.JPG" width="480" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="text-align: center;">The first day on my anti-corporate hegemony dressing journey, wearing a vintage fuschia top with flocked black polka dots and Armani Exchange jeans, </span><a href="https://www.instagram.com/p/BqGt16nggHv/" style="background-color: #b4a7d6; text-align: center;">Donald Pliner</a><span style="text-align: center;"> boots, and of course sparkly hot-pink nails. </span></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiCfC__pJm2aKMK1yXwZgpdi2ISVdbJotvAcDhR_R-k7or827E860EA0-D4Jx4DLMSH4Ov5EF1L0ni8I0yyGnP7KUiEBlZRHhQT-mpmWTXR_Zgkw7vpcIRGEunJSLICcoPFsk4C4RHBBs/s1600/64E175EA-CB25-4F9C-8C8E-DD23DE8C359A.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="900" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiCfC__pJm2aKMK1yXwZgpdi2ISVdbJotvAcDhR_R-k7or827E860EA0-D4Jx4DLMSH4Ov5EF1L0ni8I0yyGnP7KUiEBlZRHhQT-mpmWTXR_Zgkw7vpcIRGEunJSLICcoPFsk4C4RHBBs/s640/64E175EA-CB25-4F9C-8C8E-DD23DE8C359A.JPG" width="360" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Day two, wearing a vintage tiger-print cotton jacket, vintage cherub earrings, black <a href="https://www.stories.com/en_usd/clothing/tops/turtlenecks/product.fitted-rib-knit-turtleneck-black.0680688001.html" style="background-color: #b4a7d6;">& other stories</a> <span style="background-color: #b4a7d6;"><a href="https://www.instagram.com/p/BrMYgYtAB5_/">turtle neck</a></span>. In my book, fantasy, camp, and high-femme elements are, in their flamboyance, all frequently grouped as "frivolous," and are therefore all similarly radical. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">And finally, day three: a very disgruntled shot of me looking into the sun (at long last!). Wearing my vintage baby blue <a href="https://www.instagram.com/p/BsjHtVCAgFU/" style="background-color: #b4a7d6;">housecoat</a> with gorgeous embellished collar, my <a href="https://www.instagram.com/explore/tags/ghostoffrys/" style="background-color: #b4a7d6;">Ghost of Fry's</a> tee, a <a href="http://glowygirl.blogspot.com/2017/04/neckerchief.html" style="background-color: #b4a7d6;">Van Gogh scarf</a> in my hair... embodying grace and femininity in small ways while wearing a picture of <a href="https://www.alexandrapink.com/" style="background-color: #b4a7d6;">Valentina</a> (an expression of my most fantastically feminine self) plastered across my shirt. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="text-align: center;">Thank you for reading! Are you a femme-identifying person working in tech? I'd love to hear your thoughts about</span></span><span style="font-size: large; text-align: center;"> gender expression through fashion in the workplace.</span></div>
-alexandra-http://www.blogger.com/profile/14926537295771480468noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1160463857280746024.post-39442919439691998262018-05-21T11:00:00.000-07:002018-05-21T11:00:00.715-07:00CLOTHES AND INTERIORS, BODIES IN MOTION<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Clothes amplify a body in motion. Yesterday as I walked the streets of San Francisco's Mission district, my pink skirt billowed and whipped in an unseasonably strong wind. The fringe on my jacket jumped and swayed with my stride. My handbag, which I held by its straps beside me, swung to and fro as I moved quickly up Valencia Street. My outfit, animated by my movement and by the conditions of my environment, was acting as a corporeal extension. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">This particular choice of skirt and jacket (both susceptible to energetic activation by the force of the wind) on this particular day significantly altered my experience of my body in space. With the skirt flowing around me, I became more acutely aware of the lyricism of my movements. And as I walked along the street, into and out of shops, up stairs, and along train platforms, I was aware of a rhythm and grace to my own motion, as if my body and my clothes were performing a swirling, improvised duet in front of me. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Much like my interest in clothes, I am drawn to spaces for their potential to transform one's bodily awareness. In the case of my clothes yesterday, my skirt made me feel as though I was moving in communion with the wind. The wind's force, my skirt's billowing, and my light step created a cluster of articulations that, taken with the movements of the city around me, accumulated into a greater cloud of motion and noise. Though they were perceptible to me and perhaps those around me, on a grander scale my movements were lost to the general chaos of the outside world. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Designed spaces, however, refine our attention. They direct or limit the potential for those aforementioned accumulations of motion. Perhaps a space makes us feel small, enveloped in vastness. Or perhaps it purposefully pins us shoulder to shoulder in narrow passageways thronged with other people. Or perhaps we are confined to a space whose walls are just wide enough to allow the passage of our bodies, raising goosebumps as we brush past drywall or stone. In each case, the spaces we find ourselves in offer a tertiary level of corporeal experience. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Perhaps this is why some spaces, like some outfits or items of clothing, have the potential to excite a sort of bodily ecstasy. Spaces and clothes both broaden the scope of our embodied sensations, creating situations of heightened spatial, bodily, and visual harmonies that I find both exciting and deeply satisfying. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Yesterday was my third visit to <a href="http://500cappstreet.org/">500 Capp Street</a>, the home and life's work of the late artist David Ireland. Like his work at the Headlands Center (<a href="https://glowygirl.blogspot.com/2017/12/headlands.html">read about my time there</a>), Ireland's attention to his home chronicled and beautified the house's state of flux as it aged. 500 Capp Street has always been a deeply moving space for me. <span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">Capp Street is particularly unique due to the way it has been wrought: Ireland spent nearly 30 years meticulously crafting the home’s interior as a living installation, and the fruits of his labor and the tenor of his presence remain in the house years after his death. The ochre walls, narrow Victorian staircase, and piles of Ireland’s concrete dumb-balls and found-object assemblages take ownership of the house in lieu of their creator’s presence.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">On every visit to the house, I've wanted to move about the space and document my presence in it. Yesterday, I was lucky enough to do just that. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">If you're in San Francisco, <i>don't miss</i> 500 Capp Street. You can arrange your visit <a href="http://500cappstreet.org/plan-your-visit-2/">here</a>. </span></div>
-alexandra-http://www.blogger.com/profile/14926537295771480468noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1160463857280746024.post-17143693983151897742018-05-10T11:00:00.000-07:002018-05-10T11:00:07.194-07:00THE COLOR OF POMEGRANATES<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgy8FO0GmHuZB_0Y3XH5S1OOz8witKgUafRT3QA8LiTys3KFS8GpJDT9bg9WzGbv6Mlh4xJYpNc7_I14TJ4ROXr7MK6zl_zNnTmJxXCBsFqkNQsuavXsDDtyRjs9HHS4zGbJjAWwrbXyjw/s1600/12.15.15__Screenings.Thecolorofpomegranates.I_am_Armenian.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1065" data-original-width="1600" height="424" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgy8FO0GmHuZB_0Y3XH5S1OOz8witKgUafRT3QA8LiTys3KFS8GpJDT9bg9WzGbv6Mlh4xJYpNc7_I14TJ4ROXr7MK6zl_zNnTmJxXCBsFqkNQsuavXsDDtyRjs9HHS4zGbJjAWwrbXyjw/s640/12.15.15__Screenings.Thecolorofpomegranates.I_am_Armenian.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<b><i><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Color_of_Pomegranates">The Color of Pomegranates</a> </i>(1969, 73 minutes) </b><br />
<b>Written and directed by Sergei Parajanov</b><br />
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<i>On the tails of the Met Gala and the opening of the Met Costume Institute's <b>Heavenly Bodies </b>exhibition, it seemed appropriate to start this series (<b>Summer Movie Nights</b>) with <b>The Color of Pomegranates</b>. The film, like the Costume Institute's new exhibition, occupies itself with the intersections of divinity, ritual, and human life. </i></div>
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Intended as a biography of the Armenian poet Sayat-Nova, Sergei Parajanov's master work, <i>The Color of Pomegranates,</i> winds its exquisite way from childhood to death. Though it gestures to the arc of a lifetime, the film<i> </i>is more accurately a collage of rich tabelaux and surreal depictions of Eastern Orthodox ritual touchstones that occur over the course of a person's life.<br />
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<i>The Color of Pomegranates </i>is permeated by a deeply moving, melancholic otherworldiness that emanates from the matter-of-fact performance of sacred rituals. The fantasy of the film's costuming, its considered, painterly compositions and its focus on strange yet beguilingly familiar ritual performances of Eastern Orthodox Christianity create a vision of a world totally removed from our own.<br />
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<i>The Color of Pomegranates </i>is a visual feast. Every actor's movement is slow and considered. In every frame, it appears as if an illuminated manuscript or perhaps a gilded biblical painting from the wall of an ancient cave church has been reanimated. Scene after scene captures highly charged moments of the human relation to and creation of divinity.<br />
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Just beneath the surface of the film's loosely biographic narrative lies a broad-sweeping account of divinity and humanity. The film's depictions of the menial and the sacred illustrate the intrinsic link between man's knowledge of self and man's concept of God. The anointment of the quotidian, in which we see books, bread, and birds as religiously charged objects, is a gesture to man's capability to channel meaning through objects and actions. Man's ability to know himself and to derive significance from his interactions with the world he has built mirrors his ability to conceptualize and physically render divinity. Though it seems to hover above the human domain, the divine is innately human, as it was created by and for humanity.<br />
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<b>To watch <i>The Color of Pomegranates </i>online, click <a href="https://youtu.be/4PYE1k2yF3Y">here</a>. </b><br />
<b>If you are a Bay Area local, don't miss the opportunity to see the film at the Pacific Film Archive on June 8th or June 9th, 2018. You can purchase tickets <a href="https://bampfa.org/event/color-pomegranates-2">here</a>. </b><br />
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<b><br /></b>-alexandra-http://www.blogger.com/profile/14926537295771480468noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1160463857280746024.post-65030737297748244962018-05-05T14:31:00.001-07:002018-05-22T09:41:10.528-07:00LA DOLCE VITA<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I'm feeling like an Italian film star today! What better way to feel?<br />
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This sweet blog has been silent for the last few months. The last six months have been ones of huge change: deaths, a break-up, and graduation from undergrad... can you tell I'm a month away from 22? Though this winter and spring have been marked by loss and change, I'm looking towards the future with a renewed focus on optimism. The new purpose of <b>glowy girl </b>is to document the new goals I have for myself: How do I live beautifully? How do I live warmly? How do I pursue my own happiness with courage? </div>
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In what will surely be a period of growth, exploration, and continued (but worth it) difficulty, I hope to bring you all along on what I get up to and how I'm choosing to shape my future. </div>
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To kick things off, I'm wearing this very Italy-circa-1958 outfit, with these glorious new earrings I found just yesterday. They are definitely not understated. In fact, they sort of remind me of the postmodern baud of the Cheesecake Factory! Anyway, I've decided that the only place I can handle drama is the wings on my eyes and the accessories hanging from my ears. </div>
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See you soon and happy May! </div>
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<i>P.S. If you haven't already, give <b><a href="http://www.instagram.com/glowygirl_">glowy girl</a> </b>a follow on <a href="http://www.instagram.com/glowygirl_">Instagram</a>! </i></div>
-alexandra-http://www.blogger.com/profile/14926537295771480468noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1160463857280746024.post-27861821780279529062017-12-25T18:00:00.000-08:002017-12-25T18:00:29.792-08:00THE RETURN OF BETTINA<div style="text-align: center;">
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<i>made in collaboration with <a href="http://www.hoganfulton.weebly.com/">Hogan Fulton</a></i></div>
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Bettina is a wild, clown-like yet surprisingly delicate facet of my own identity. In a way she is my id. She is more expressive, vibrant, violent, and feverish than I am. Here, we see Bettina intimately. She is at home, alone in the process of becoming herself. </div>
-alexandra-http://www.blogger.com/profile/14926537295771480468noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1160463857280746024.post-63031841013584913172017-12-22T18:00:00.001-08:002017-12-22T18:00:33.237-08:00THE LAST SIX MONTHS<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I'm always amazed by how much and how little can change in six months. While there have been few tangible changes, the last six months have been marked by a significant change in my understanding of myself and my future. I have been trying to reconcile the art world and the fashion world, trying to understand myself as a verbal <i>and </i>visual thinker. I've been trying to fashion a future, however near or far, in which my academic interests are not pushed away by my creative pursuits. I'm learning it's all about my voice and my vision and it's about the world I choose to create. </div>
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<b><i>GIRL IN THE CITY</i></b> </div>
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This is me, sitting in a little hallow in Central Park, just two days after moving to New York. Do I look confused? Jet lagged? I am both. I remember getting dressed in this outfit thinking that I wanted to spend my first free day on my own shooting some photos in Central Park. This was an interesting in-between period for this blog, where I wanted to take photos specifically for <b>glowy girl</b>, but I wasn't really sure what the point of the blog was. It was unclear if I was trying to document my every day outfits, or if I was trying to dress specifically for this blog, and after all of that... who was I anyway, to the world and to the narrative of this blog? Was I just a person getting dressed, or was getting dressed what I did as a person?<br />
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<b><i>THE CINDY SHERMAN QUANDRY</i></b></div>
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Accompanying the questions about my own identity and the purpose of documenting dressing (could it be called styling at this point?) was the messy question of how this project fit with my art practice. I have long admired <a href="https://www.moma.org/interactives/exhibitions/2012/cindysherman/gallery/3/#/6/untitled-299-1994/">Cindy Sherman</a>. You may remember <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhn9NugGtNsMpcz7G1o5pmYGzHD9pseC4K1UQtn0jAxliVleoUOGwEmH7m9i4s_-9uAHUAQaA5WMGkp1XqAwjcWs3XllmpQsm67Ca29lqwTLNXgQw0Bq3v1G69-G0nSEJGiyHb8ED-O8Xc/s400/2017-04-21+02.30.35+1.jpg">this tote</a> I have with her name on it. I'm a big ol' fan girl because there is something about her images and her way of creating characters and environments that's always made me excited. When I saw her show at the Broad last June, I just sat in the gallery, surrounded by her work and thought, <i>How can I do </i>this<i>, because this is what I want to do</i>. So in styling myself and documenting those looks, it was inevitable that Cindy's influence would permeate the way I approached creating images. But I was unsure about where to draw the line. What was copying Cindy, and what was me? Did she have a hold on styling and fashion imagery in the art world? </div>
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<b><i>PRACTICE AND PROCESS</i></b></div>
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And.... cut back to Berkeley. Three months in New York had opened me up to costuming in everyday life. I was thinking about drag and Cindy Sherman (still). I was curious about how I could take the photos I had been making for this blog and pivot that into my thesis project. I wanted to bring styling into my art practice. The only problem was that my art practice up to this point had been heavily focused on art objects and the art economy. So, whatever work I did with fashion would immediately be read in the scope of capitalism and the monetary value of images of women. I quickly realized that what I had been working on for <b>glowy girl</b> needed to stay separate from the academic art sphere. While this is a creative endeavor, and my styling choices are impacted by my understanding of art and art history, keeping this work out of an art discourse gave me the freedom to let myself proceed uninhibited by the scruples of the art world. </div>
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<b><i>WHERE ARE WE NOW?</i></b></div>
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In short, we're (I'm) moving forward. The beauty of <b>glowy girl </b>is that it isn't really a fashion blog. As much as I <i>love </i><a href="http://www.shotfromthestreet.com/">Lizzy Hadfield</a> and <a href="http://www.meganellaby.com/">Megan Ellaby</a>, this blog will likely never be the highly produced, aesthetically unified big-time blog that either of those girls are able to run. I don't think that means, though, that I don't have something to say. <b>glowy girl</b> is a place for <a href="https://glowygirl.blogspot.com/2017/09/bettina-unleashed.html">Bettina </a>and Alexandra to live side by side, as equally viable entities. So to those of you reading this, thank you. If you are a friend, I hope that this blog reflects the Alexandra you know. If this is your first time here, welcome. I'm an artist, a thinker; I'm a girl getting dressed. Now you know what you're in for. </div>
-alexandra-http://www.blogger.com/profile/14926537295771480468noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1160463857280746024.post-5981771967984120962017-12-20T18:00:00.000-08:002017-12-20T18:00:54.051-08:00SHORT HAIR SOUNDS<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Hello hello! If you follow me on <a href="https://www.instagram.com/apunk_apink/">Instagram</a>, you'll know that I recently chopped off <i>a lot </i>of hair and made the somewhat terrifying decision to get bangs for the first time in over 15 years. I'm taking strides!<br />
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I've had a bob like this a few times. Actually, this haircut was my go-to for the better part of the last five years, since I rarely let my hair grow far beyond my shoulders. But in the last year or so, I began to really enjoy my long hair. Particularly this summer, I started to realize the potential of having long, curly blonde hair like mine: it was the ultimate romantic, high renaissance accessory. I've often joked that my personal style can sometimes best be described as the attire of a young prince. I've always been draw to romantic details: eyelet lace, gold, brocade... if I could raid Louis XIV's wardrobe, I would say let me have at it <i>immediately</i>.<br />
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As my hair got longer, I became more and more engaged with this idea of romance and dressing. But at a certain point in November, I knew it was time to go short again, and a couple of weeks ago I was <i>gripped </i>by a vigorous, reckless need to just chop of all my hair <i>as soon as possible</i>. So, I booked an appointment for the next day and went to bed feeling nervous (I woke up feeling nervous, too). I was both scared that I would hate having my hair short again, but I was also worried that I would miss dressing like a princess (ha!). I knew that the hair cut would come with a bit of an attitude adjustment.<br />
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With my long hair and romantic outfits, I would listen to opera and sonatas to get me in the flowy glowy mood. Now, with my bangs and my bob, I'm tuned in to a more modern masculine-feminine balance. Naturally, my music needed to be updated with my hair.<br />
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Drawing upon the starlets of French New Wave film and an 80s rock n roll vibe, I've made a new playlist dedicated to dressing with short hair. Give it a listen and let me know what you think! And if you have any suggestions for additions to the playlist, send them my way.<br />
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-alexandra-http://www.blogger.com/profile/14926537295771480468noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1160463857280746024.post-60211703875986354622017-12-18T18:00:00.000-08:002017-12-18T19:56:28.343-08:00GOLDEN GIRL<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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This is what I wore to the opening of my thesis show. My gold blazer, white turtle neck, hand-me-down green men's Levis, and my white Steve Madden boots. There's not much to add about this, save that I wanted to capture the beautiful golden light on this perfectly crisp Berkeley afternoon. There are times when I'll be walking through campus, in the right place at the right time, and I will see things anew. This is a building I walk past fairly regularly, but I'd never been so struck by its color or its perfect placement among the trees. Moments like this one, when I see familiar places in a new way, are my favorite times to pull out my camera and document myself in the scene.</div>
<br />-alexandra-http://www.blogger.com/profile/14926537295771480468noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1160463857280746024.post-15686785859829371412017-12-16T18:00:00.000-08:002017-12-16T18:00:16.658-08:00HEADLANDS<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Finally, a blog post about one of my all-time favorite places in the Bay Area: the <a href="http://www.headlands.org/">Headlands Center for the Arts</a>. There are a few reasons I love this place: 1) It's <i>absolutely </i>gorgeous... out in the middle of Marin, the Headlands Center is one of the most idyllically Californian places I've seen. 2) The Headlands is one the foremost art organizations in the Bay Area, and hosts incredible residencies with huge, sun-flooded studios for visiting artists from around the world. 3) The Headlands was an old fort that was repurposed in the 70s by the artist <a href="http://500cappstreet.org/">David Ireland</a>, another Bay Area favorite. </div>
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All the buildings in the Headlands complex have been sort of half-way restored, in typical David Ireland fashion. The walls are sealed, cracks and flaking paint and all, with Ireland's signature ocher varnish. The whole place is in a perfect state of preserved disrepair, which I find to be super beautiful, moving, and (oddly) invigorating. The preservation of the building's natural state of decay resonates deeply with me as it is reminiscent of the sort of honesty I often seek in dressing. A natural, stripped back way of dressing that doesn't seek to hide one's natural imperfections is much like David Ireland's treatment of the old buildings that make up the Headlands complex. Ireland recognized and highlighted the grace in entropy. </div>
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This was my second time visiting the Headlands during one of their biannual open house events, and I knew I wanted to really take advantage of the setting to wear this incredible yellow dress I had just found at a little thrift store in Berkeley. It is one of my holy grail finds: it fits me like it was made for me, and is one of those amazing anachronistic pieces that makes you feel like you're living in a movie. The sun shone on the sea and the breeze shaped my skirt just so and it really felt like the hills were alive with the sound of music. </div>
-alexandra-http://www.blogger.com/profile/14926537295771480468noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1160463857280746024.post-12396898629359383692017-12-14T18:00:00.000-08:002017-12-14T18:00:11.353-08:00PATTERN ON PATTERN<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<i>photos by <a href="http://www.hoganfulton.weebly.com/">Hogan Fulton</a></i></div>
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Just a few days ago, I wrote about <a href="http://glowygirl.blogspot.com/2017/12/bright-light-and-wedded.html">working with Hogan</a>. Something that continues to be characteristic of our work together is the improvisational energy that accompanies our endeavors. On this day, for example, we got out of class at the same time and met up with no plans in mind. Thirty minutes into messing around with movement experiments on unused pedestals in an big empty room, we decided that wasn't working and maybe it was time to head home. As we headed down the hill towards home, we noticed this disused ornamental balcony on the side of the old women's gym, designed by <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Julia_Morgan">Julia Morgan</a>. It seemed like the perfect location for an impromptu photo shoot, and so that's what we did, capturing this pattern-clashing outfit. I think my favorite thing about these photos is the way the colors turned out. That butterscotch tone is so warm and sweet!</div>
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I'm wearing a vintage dress and vintage blazer, hand-made skull bolo tie, and <a href="http://amzn.to/2zd3FDG">K-Swiss trainers</a>. </div>
<br />-alexandra-http://www.blogger.com/profile/14926537295771480468noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1160463857280746024.post-11117154019827835412017-12-12T18:00:00.000-08:002017-12-12T18:00:29.929-08:00RED DANCE<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Do you remember what you did over summers as a kid? Or what you did when you had a free few hours to yourself as a 10 year old and you could do whatever you wanted? I remember doing one of two things: I would either sit and read through a huge stack of books I had checked out from the library, or I would shut myself in my room with the radio on and get dressed, my closet and box of fabrics close at hand.<br />
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As a child who was inexplicably drawn to fashion, I would frequently get asked if I wanted to be a fashion designer when I grew up. I didn't really know any better, so I probably responded that yes, I <i>did </i>want to be a designer. Though I'm still occasionally drawn to the prospect of design, what I actually enjoyed, and what I continue to enjoy, is what I was doing on those summer afternoons. The pure joy of constructing outfits (along to music--this just as important now as it was then!) kept me occupied for hours. I would layer dresses and tights and booties and a big fur coat (mind you, I grew up in Southern California) and then would dance around in my room, adding to my outfit as I discovered new things that I could repurpose as improvised garments. It was enough for me to just stay in my room, listening to music and imagining outfits in a perfect, protected creative enclave.<br />
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This isn't to say that I feared approaching the outside world in my outfits. On the contrary, I <i>regularly</i> wore off-kilter outfits in my daily life, probably earning myself the reputation of an odd-ball as a middle schooler. Luckily, side-eyed glances and comments from peers, teachers, friends, etc were not enough to put me off the great pleasure of dressing.<br />
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This process of dressing to music in my room is still an integral part of my daily routine and is my favorite way to spend time with myself. When I started this blog, I wanted to create the sort of blog I remembered reading in 2009, before brand deals and native marketing were the <i>raisons d'</i><i><span style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">ê</span></span></i><i>tre </i>of fashion blogging. I just wanted a place to document what I, a super normal person living a non-influencer life, was wearing and feeling good in. As I continued posting, however, this blog became less of a documentary outlet and more of a motivation to create specifically for glowy girl. Suddenly, though I had been getting dressed as I always had, the sense of play and possibility re-entered my experience of dressing, bringing me back to a similar head space as when I had dressed up as a kiddo.<br />
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These photographs and this video both document the progression of my experience with an outfit from creative-enclave to outside world. As I got dressed, I was really enjoying layering lots of red. I had just taken a couple of quick photos purely as documentation of what I was wearing. But then I saw a small 6-inch cube I had made in a beginning sculpture class a couple of years back, and I wondered what it would look like if I performed a dance using only that cube as my stage. Thus, the video and the majority of these photos came into being because of that curiosity. After I felt I'd fallen off the cube enough times to be satisfied with my experiment, I left for my the destination I'd been getting dressed for all along: the grocery store.-alexandra-http://www.blogger.com/profile/14926537295771480468noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1160463857280746024.post-73190761847733674432017-12-10T18:00:00.000-08:002017-12-10T18:00:23.036-08:00ICY GATORADE MOMENT<br />
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If you ever want to find me at my most belligerent, just pick a hot day in an environment with no air conditioning. Voil<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">à</span></span>, an irritable, befuddled, and undoubtedly sweaty Alexandra with no solace but to sit in a dark room with a cold drink. This day was one of those unbearably hot late-September days that hit the Bay Area right when you were ready to just resign yourself to having had no summer at all. </div>
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It follows, unsurprisingly, that in my heat-clouded state this afternoon, I found my way to a refrigerator case full of Gatorade and purchased a huge one for myself. I think I got the white one because they were out of the blue (my preferred Gatorade flavor, if we're really going to get into specifics). Wonderfully, the bottle of Gatorade ended up coordinating with my outfit. I like to coordinate my ice-cream cone selections to my outfits, but taking Gatorade as an accessory was a new step for me. </div>
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I got home, rejoiced in the shade of my room, and drank down that sugar-water and electrolyte concotion more quickly than I care to think about. I'm so glad it's not going to be this hot again for a good, long time!</div>
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P.S. Does anyone else coordinate various food items (ice cream, Gatorade, slushees, bottled drinks, etc.) to their outfits or is it just me? I'd love to know.-alexandra-http://www.blogger.com/profile/14926537295771480468noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1160463857280746024.post-16225300126329309222017-12-08T18:00:00.000-08:002017-12-09T18:49:18.733-08:00BRIGHT LIGHT AND WEDDED<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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These images are from one very energized day: the first day I worked with <a href="https://hoganfulton.weebly.com/">Hogan</a>, my now-frequent collaborator. We met to discuss what each of us was working on and how we could meet each other in the middle to make things together. This day, I got ridiculously excited and realized there was so much I wanted to do with Hogan. We got straight down to business with an impromptu(ish) photo shoot featuring this vintage wedding dress and a liberal amount of coconut oil on my face.</div>
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What was so exciting about this day, and what continues to be so invigorating about working with Hogan, is the speed and energy with which we work. We went from sitting on the couch gabbing to styling this look to shooting it to then shooting a dancey video all in the span of 25 minutes. Though these images and this video are all sort of one-off experiments, I think they really capture the spirit and excitement of creating collaboratively.<br />
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I can't wait to show you more of what Hogan and I have been working on! </div>
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<iframe allowtransparency="true" frameborder="0" height="80" src="https://open.spotify.com/embed/track/3cCxoOgfi6hgt8MNteuiiD" width="600"></iframe></div>
-alexandra-http://www.blogger.com/profile/14926537295771480468noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1160463857280746024.post-2853970768019843092017-12-06T17:23:00.001-08:002018-05-03T17:48:34.769-07:00HEAVILY BLUSHED IN THE HELTER SKELTER<br />
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My last <a href="http://glowygirl.blogspot.com/2017/11/bergamot-neutrals.html">post </a>was about readjusting to California after moving back from New York, and this is much the same. Coming back to my apartment with all of my things stashed away was so strange. On the one hand, it felt as if I had never been gone. There were all the same smells, the same light in the kitchen, the same paths tracked back and forth over our green carpet and green linoleum. But all of my things were packed up and put away in the little corners where I had left them, only to be rearranged and rediscovered three months later. These images are from the day after I returned to Berkeley. I was reorienting myself. I went grocery shopping, I went for a tea at the museum, I went for a stroll through campus as the sun washed everything in gold. And through it all, with my bed non-existent and my closet similarly in disarray, it was important to me that I hold down the fort, so to speak, with a classically "Alexandra" outfit. A bit academic, with oversized proportions and delicate details, and of course...glowy skin and lots of blush.<br />
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Coat: Vintage (<a href="http://amzn.to/2nBQ84v">similar</a>) Shirt: Old Navy (<a href="http://amzn.to/2krC8cz">similar</a>) Pants: Uniqlo (<a href="http://amzn.to/2kq5o3h">similar</a>) Necktie: The Met Shoes: Urban Outfitters (<a href="http://amzn.to/2BH5fMp">similar</a>)</div>
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Blush and lipstick: <a href="https://www.target.com/p/pixi-by-petra-multibalm/-/A-51119615#lnk=sametab&preselect=50836725">Pixi by Petra Multi Balm in Wild Rose</a></div>
<br />-alexandra-http://www.blogger.com/profile/14926537295771480468noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1160463857280746024.post-28241872056152788982017-11-29T10:39:00.000-08:002017-11-29T11:02:21.663-08:00BERGAMOT NEUTRALS<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<i>From a hot day in mid-August, just after returning to California from New York. </i><br />
This is how to dress for California heat: a loose, light dress, a simple belt, flat shoes, and the most important element of all: a wide-brimmed, sturdy straw hat. As I think I've mentioned <a href="http://glowygirl.blogspot.com/2017/04/dewy.html">before</a>, (and as you can read in my editor's letter <a href="http://www.baremagazine.org/wp-content/uploads/2017/08/Issue21_v1.compressed.pdf">here</a>) dressing simply and naturally is how I feel most powerful in my body. This was a good one.<br />
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-alexandra-http://www.blogger.com/profile/14926537295771480468noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1160463857280746024.post-77710445399255135162017-09-18T22:02:00.000-07:002017-11-29T11:42:03.285-08:00THE BEST MEDICINE <br />
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You know what they say. Laughter is the best medicine. I love to laugh, giggle, and guffaw, snort, smirk, and snicker, tease, look, and linger. I'll see you next Friday for Ladies Laughtor Nite at the Laughtor Palace. xx</div>
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-alexandra-http://www.blogger.com/profile/14926537295771480468noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1160463857280746024.post-42092947073190015932017-09-14T13:26:00.001-07:002017-09-14T15:06:54.719-07:00BETTINA, UNLEASHED<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Bettina comes in through the window, her body crumpling briefly into a fetal bundle as she makes her passage through the portal. Alighting on the sill, Bettina rests on her haunches, surveying the space before her. There she finds paint and a fan and an electric guitar. First, she stands before the fan, basking in the artificial breeze. Immersed in the fantasy of a steady wind, she reaches for the paint. She slathers sky blue on her eyelids. Looking a bit gaunt under the influence of the bright blue, she reaches for the cherry red and traces over her lips again and again until the surface of her painted lips begins to protrude, millimeters thick. Her lips are tacky and heavy with paint. Her arm, slender and serpentine, stretches for the electric guitar. She spreads her legs and bends her knees, sinking into a powerful, stabilizing squat. She holds the guitar against her and as it slips down her thigh the guitar pulls her lower. She is curled protectively over the thing and with a blissful, crooked smile Bettina plucks out a tinkling melody. The music stays close to her body and dissipates before it can reach the opposite end of the room. In spite of their faintness, Bettina continues her strokes. </div>
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-alexandra-http://www.blogger.com/profile/14926537295771480468noreply@blogger.com0