“Clothing can be seen as a vessel that holds the human spirit.”
-Rebecca Lyon (found at the National Museum of the Native American)
There are many problems that one can, will and must encounter when traveling. One of which is the opportunity to only present a small fraction of yourself to the ever expanding oyster that you have placed yourself within. This small fraction, represented through clothing, controlled by airline luggage limits as well as the personal issue of strength, is usually a rather practical fraction.
As those within the radius of my inner circle of likeminded social misanthropes and advantageous butterflies (well let us be honest here, even those people in the deep recesses and the cavernous periphery of the spiral that is made of brief encounters and snippets of conversation), will know that I am not, as such, a terribly practical person.
Vague, self concerned and smiley? – yes.
Open to new experiences, happy to be the fool and suspicious of, yet intrigued by, academic banter? – yes.
Floral, passionate and at times sensitive? – I would like to think so.
Connoisseur of jazz ballet, indefinitely indecisive and flip flopper of the English language to the point of absurdity minus the humo*r? – But of course.
Logical thinker, maker of sense, and practical in life’s mundane and ordinary sequence of events? - …
…
Me thinks not.
The truth is naked and cold like a stone but I piffed that stone into a river many moons ago with a Shakespearean flourish when grappling with the science of ‘skimming’.
The point of this trivial blather (however contrived through encumbered and fraudulent prose) is to state that the hour of my discontent is due, primarily, to the unsatisfactory selection and the lack of spicy variety which informs my glad rag choice for this trip. If this devastating, if not highly overrated and exaggerated, lack of self expression amongst the plethora of “rehearsal” clothes or “warm” jumpers – never to have been worn in ol’ Melbourne town prior to this journey, but alas are painstakingly practical – is the hour of my discontent then the minute hand that chips away at the marble of any self assurance or sense of character remaining is unquestionably my new hair cut!
I can’t put it up, I can’t put flowers in it (!), it makes my face look round and chubby not slender and oval shaped and my mum has made Janette Howard comparisons…what more can I say!
If clothes, as Rebecca Lyon hypothesizes, have the capacity to contain even the notion of the human spirit, then not only am I stripped down like a lump of plasterscene (plastercine?) before Gumby, unanimated and soulless left to the machinations of outside judgments, but also the small fraction of personality that I can expound to the world is one not dissimilar to a cabbage patch kid doll.
In summery, I am tired of my clothes and I don’t like my hair cut.
*insert ‘u’ at will.
**New York Fashion Police Department, but you worked that out already, right?
-Rebecca Lyon (found at the National Museum of the Native American)
There are many problems that one can, will and must encounter when traveling. One of which is the opportunity to only present a small fraction of yourself to the ever expanding oyster that you have placed yourself within. This small fraction, represented through clothing, controlled by airline luggage limits as well as the personal issue of strength, is usually a rather practical fraction.
As those within the radius of my inner circle of likeminded social misanthropes and advantageous butterflies (well let us be honest here, even those people in the deep recesses and the cavernous periphery of the spiral that is made of brief encounters and snippets of conversation), will know that I am not, as such, a terribly practical person.
Vague, self concerned and smiley? – yes.
Open to new experiences, happy to be the fool and suspicious of, yet intrigued by, academic banter? – yes.
Floral, passionate and at times sensitive? – I would like to think so.
Connoisseur of jazz ballet, indefinitely indecisive and flip flopper of the English language to the point of absurdity minus the humo*r? – But of course.
Logical thinker, maker of sense, and practical in life’s mundane and ordinary sequence of events? - …
…
Me thinks not.
The truth is naked and cold like a stone but I piffed that stone into a river many moons ago with a Shakespearean flourish when grappling with the science of ‘skimming’.
The point of this trivial blather (however contrived through encumbered and fraudulent prose) is to state that the hour of my discontent is due, primarily, to the unsatisfactory selection and the lack of spicy variety which informs my glad rag choice for this trip. If this devastating, if not highly overrated and exaggerated, lack of self expression amongst the plethora of “rehearsal” clothes or “warm” jumpers – never to have been worn in ol’ Melbourne town prior to this journey, but alas are painstakingly practical – is the hour of my discontent then the minute hand that chips away at the marble of any self assurance or sense of character remaining is unquestionably my new hair cut!
I can’t put it up, I can’t put flowers in it (!), it makes my face look round and chubby not slender and oval shaped and my mum has made Janette Howard comparisons…what more can I say!
If clothes, as Rebecca Lyon hypothesizes, have the capacity to contain even the notion of the human spirit, then not only am I stripped down like a lump of plasterscene (plastercine?) before Gumby, unanimated and soulless left to the machinations of outside judgments, but also the small fraction of personality that I can expound to the world is one not dissimilar to a cabbage patch kid doll.
In summery, I am tired of my clothes and I don’t like my hair cut.
*insert ‘u’ at will.
**New York Fashion Police Department, but you worked that out already, right?
posted by Sarah Hillman-Stolz at 4:02 PM
1 Comments:
Amen to that!
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