Excerpts from Journals

Heroes and Heroines

Anaïs; Marguerite; Sylvia — these are the first names of my most beloved novelists. All feminine in language and form, one might say. On the other hand, in film I retreat to: Bresson; Fassbinder; Bergman. All male, all quite effortless in their respective portrayals of despair. And despair is a characteristic that seems to appear within all of my self-confessed favorites. I like to feel moved and I like to feel that something, anything, is being evoked: brought to life.

In music I wouldn’t know which ones to turn to, which ones to award love and praise. There are frequent pauses in my listening to and caring for music. I’ll admit to being completely unaware of what is now and what is current: I have had the same singers and songs on repeat for years. Polly Jean, dear Piaf and Dylan; Leonard of course. Lately succumbing to the charm of Venus de Milo as well as songs about weeping.

In clothing — in clothing there is a lot I enjoy sinking into, be it in person or in mind. Over the years mostly admiring Alber and Charles and Yves. The old, quirky Marc. Fabrics, fabrics! Chiffon, silk, lace, velvet. Learning the advantages of fine quality over poor. Finding value there alongside visual stimulation.

I would have liked to drown inside a Vionnet, set sail wearing Schiaparelli: if there had been a me seventy-five years ago.

I apply to these great women, men, clothes: my senses. Their treasures come alive through the onset of my human senses. And what pleasure lies not within this! Using more than one’s sight. More than the habitual use of sight. The pleasures found through the other human senses often surpass that of seeing, of observing. Am I alone in thinking this? Longing for this? No, hardly, yet I feel starved of genuine emotion in literature and fashion, and films today. They disappoint me. I don’t strive backwards, leaning into romanticism – I simply am not a fan of the practical, not a fan of the mechanical but of fleeting moments of divine soul in form as well as in thought. I would lean into otherworldly realms if I could.

But I can’t.

I can merely trust Marguerite and Veronika Voss to inspire me; murder me internally. Knowing they will always encourage me to: build own character, allow layers to be built upon me, go off in pursuit of beauty and vivid life as they would; as they did. To think beyond habits for a while, be lead forward by senses.

Somewhere There’s a Feather

Moving through piles of wet leaves, crossing over fire and fine gold.. Clouds merge in thick masses as if gathered by watercolor strokes. A string quartet follows, compelled to unleash divinity upon us. An elderly lady stares into ancient worlds, eyes half closed; hair braided neat and thick down her spine.

Months ahead lay cold, resting. Awake are our limbs. Faces bitten and hair ravaged by wind; evoking as it does, on short travels between home and libraries and lovers, instincts of the survival kind. Seeking sources of warmth with fury, and delight — delight as one begins to near its edges. Finding comfort there as if met by the arms of a mother. By senses escaping hibernation.

Within the calm of winter an ocean unfolds.

I Heart Sofia

Zoo of Brooches

Here — a pitch black coat whose buttons are shaped like small mushrooms; they appear to rise from the wool surface, by nature perfectly aligned into rows. Beside them is another kind stolen from the green world: a spider, a blue-eyed frog, or a leaping gazelle.

I would like to own an entire zoo of animal brooches, set to lend their characters to clothes. They are objects to stare at when bored. Gems to grab and maybe twist when nervous, hoping they won’t fall off. My buttons, my stones – they are suggestive of beauty and brilliance. An overture to me.

A Short Reminder

Forgive me for my absence. Away I have been immersed in Strindberg, dark dim evening walks and the act of submitting-to-every-literary-contest-I-can-find. Busy being a whimsy child within the shell of a meagre woman, perhaps. Seeing the trees in their finest autumn dresses. Out, out. And I have been happy, quite pleased. Fallen into words as I have fallen into fabrics and textures and paint.

And.
In November, beginning so soon; I want to post more frequently on here. I want to talk to you. This is merely a reminder to myself. I tend to forget, tend to damn my own interests and thoughts. All that about feeling inferior. I suppose I am not. And I definitely hope that you, dear readers, find and will find my small entries to reach beyond the content of your average style/inspiration blog.