Lately, most of my words have been expelled from my head and put onto a page, a screen, into a book or soaked up by someone else's ears. I think for the nest few days I may keep some words to myself and just fill this blog with pictures instead.
ruby x jacket and purse, zara vest and belt, vinatge dress, nine west shoes, chinatown earrings
I remember going on vacation with my parents. Every summer we would drive to the British Columbia interior and stay at a hotel called the Capri. my parents would eat sandwiches served to them by stoned teenagers and drink margaritas poolside. My sister would be constantly jumping in the pool, coaxing my parents to watch her next dive, because as she promised, 'it is going to be the best dive ever.' They watched behind their sunglasses and beer goggles.
She dove and got a tan and made friends.
I always sat under the umbrella, with a large brim hat, layered in sunscreen and hidden behind a book.
I was usually in a trance all summer long. I usually didn't speak to anybody, unless I wanted something or I just wanted to sass my parents or someone else who I thought was against me in some way.
I remember as a kid, when the school year came to an end every May, I would give myself a mission. One year it was to get my learner's permit, another year it was to learn how to be a professional equestrian vaulter. The year after that it was how to be sensual; so I would inevitably attract a boyfriend, of course.
Every May I would rally up my newest ambitions and then head to the library. I would read books and write ideas for 2 months almost every summer. By August, I would try to execute some of these half-baked and fully researched ideas.
August. The sweltering month of trial and error.
The month that tested my retention.
I remember sitting poolside at the Capri, reading about training horses and parallel parking and masturbation under a wide-brimmed hat, eating meatless club sandwiches and sneaking sips of my dad's pina colada.
I remember at the end of every day, I would make it a point to try and apply what I had spent the day learning. So I would whine until my parent's let me park the car or I would take the bus out of the Capri to a nearby farm where I would look at the mares and the stallions and they would look at me back. I would dream of taming them.
I would wink at the waiters as they dropped off at our food at restaurants and I would make small talk with the bell boy at the hotel, just to test if the books I was sneakinng past my parents were doing me and my ambitious sexuality any good.
One day I was running down the hall of the hotel, racing my sister back to our room. My mother and father dragged behind. As I neared room 528, my father yelled,
"Ashley, you are a hideous runner. You need to be more graceful," from room 510.
Grace. Shit. I never considered this quality before that moment.
Grace would become my newest obsession.
So, in my ignorant youth, I studied grace.
I had been a dancer since I could walk, but I always associated it with power, and not so much grace.
I started to wear dresses. I started to wear heels. I thought brushing makeup on my face was graceful.
I walked, moved, ate and gestured dainty-like. Lady-like. Whatever I thought was graceful.
I often try to recall my reasoning as to why I like fashion and beauty and this memory of grace always pops up when I start to retrace my steps.
No. It is not the most beguiling moment of my past, but it is a real reason as to why I am the way I am. The search for grace, or at least some illusion of grace, has perhaps made me pursue the exterior ambitions of fashion and beauty.
Grace may have nothing to do with most ideas surrounding clothing these days.
In fact, I wear studded leather and sloppy t-shirts and shitloads of jewelry more often than not, but somehow I still attempt every fashion do or don't with a sense of elegance. Not guts, not vanity, not exhibitionism, but grace under fire.
chanel coat, maryann harris vintage dress, club monaco belt and gloves, aldo clutch
Friday. Lots of wine. Blackbook party at Bode Spa. Clove chocolates. Planned out my next tattoo. Listened to cautionary tales of love.
Saturday. Barefoot. Pacing my apartment. Should have been painting, but made excuses not to. Kitten playdate. Found out one of the kittens is playing a game of naughty cat and mouse with a much older man.
Sunday. Interviewed the first person for the big article I am working on. Leopard print gifts from my dear dear friend. Bukowski's Ham on Rye.
Gotta a little love on the brain these days? I certainly do. Here is a list of my favorite, modern on-screen couples and films that embody my perfect idea of that mushy-gushy feeling we all fall victim to this time of year.
What could be more romantic (and identifiable) than an anxious, romantically-scarred woman meeting a fedora-clad soulful man, and the neurotic, hit & miss relationship that ensues. Set against a sexy soundtrack by Scratch Massive, this film depicts my ideal romance.
Natural Born Killers.
Mickey and Mallory Knox. “'Til you and I die, and die, and die again; 'til
death do us part” These two have developed a cult following. They are quoted,
idolized and put on a pedestal for all the people who live in love’s fast lane.
and Alabama Whitman. Because nothing can sour a romance that
browns boots, DKNY coat, zara skirt, CM blouse, vintage gloves|hat, gifted necklace
I spent the weekend mostly indoors, despite the glimpse of pre-spring weather we were experiencing in Ottawa. I think I left my house a mere half dozen times, mainly to purchase food, wine, magazines, bought a white 60s Danish-designed couch and had a meeting in chinatown.
I actually had the perfect opportunity this weekend to elegantly dispose of a whole bunch of shit in my life, speaking both psychically and materialistically. I made a deal with myself that I was going to minimize and get rid of everything that is not serving me a purpose and this was the weekend to pony up and make good on that deal.
It is in my nature to keep things. I like to stay away from the term hoarding, since it has such an ugly ring to it; rather, I like to consider myself more like a spider web, unable to let go of anything or anyone all that easily.
My habits have been analyzed many times over, and it all leads back to one simple reason. I have a BAD memory.
I need ephemeral and notes and pictures and reminders of all the things that I've said/done/thought/experienced/etc.
I hang on to a lot of things because I am afraid of losing the memory, and sometimes the lessons learned. I keep dresses because they remind me of nights spent dancing til dawn, notes on napkins because I need a paper trail and email correspondence to reconfirm why I made the decisions that I did.
I used to think that if I kept these pieces of my past, I could harness the happiness, nostalgia or even pain that I once felt and use it.... somehow. Or at least in the case of the painful memories use the memory to avoid repeating the actions that got me into such a situation in the first place.
But as everything starts to move faster, the pieces that I'm holding onto are actually dragging me behind; the pieces that once held so much emotional value are bogging down any sort of advancement that can be made. So, for 48 hours, I deleted, recycled, cut up, erased, and drop kicked all the unnecessary shit out of my life. And let me tell you, it was completely liberating to wake up and not give a single fuck about certain things anymore.
Sometimes forgetting is not such a bad thing. Sometimes forgetting is a just a sign of moving on.
Why hello hello hello. Seems like I have been treating this lil blog like nothing more than an after-thought as of late. But, I can finally start to see a silver lining in my work load, so with all hope, proper blogging will be back in order.
Until I get self sorted out, here is an editorial I styled for Assignment Fashion, a Vancouver-based site.
Just in time for v-day, a visual story of a guy with a wandering eye and a penchant for girls who have fine taste in lingerie.