bright as laughing day, hopeful as a star

Are you breathing just a little, and calling it a life?
How can I know, truly, who I am, where I am meant to go, and what I am meant to be?
As I grow older, the world changes as only a matured set of eyes can see; the whimsical haze of childhood wanes like a tired filament crackling inside its lamp, fading to pale and left behind to be swept into the dusty corners of memory's keep.

lay in the stillness of a fighting-saints fairytale

Waterslide architects have been spying
the smooth of your back


Mapping blueprints
from the finger trails
adoring up your spine


stealing your design


(Derrick Brown, "Waltzing the Hurricane")





Here is an externalization of where my mind goes sometimes. What I see in my mind's eye. A world of ghostly, floaty colors and fantastical things.

On a summer's eve, this molten night

I'd like to escape from earth a while
And among the cliffs and whiskered rocks
Lost as a light is lost in light
Dance with you till day--








There's something so pure and resonating about these photos of Lily Donaldson, my words seem to stop in my throat and catch behind the cage of my teeth. It's beauty that goes to the body, deep and warm, imprinting in the brain like a pattern on foil.













(photocredit: Fashion Gone Rogue)

weekend, weekend

A weekend afternoon in Manhattan is my favorite time to shop.

Especially if that weekend happens to bring one of those perfectly lazy, honey golden Saturdays in early fall when the sun is everywhere and the weather is just warm enough to warrant coaxing that little sundress out of your closet one last time. And especially if said sundress is one of these frothy concoctions I found in Soho: dresses with impossibly, impeccably beautiful layer upon layer of wispy gauze and weightless silk; pin-tucked, be-ribboned necklines sitting above delicately ruched bodices and flowing skirts; delicate straps that are simple and whisper-thin.

These dresses take me back to the ballet days of my childhood when I would go, all excited and grown-up in my patent leather shoes and my mother's perfume, to the theater where I would see ballets like Swan Lake, Don Quixote, and Giselle (my favorite). I would fall in love over and over again with the stories of courtly princes, waifish damsels and star-crossed lovers that were danced before my wide eyes by the most beautiful people I'd ever seen. And my captivation for the art was held, in equal measure, by the costumes as well as by the dancing.

These dresses take me back to the times I would sit in the velveted theater seats and picture, wish myself into a wistful pas de deux where I would also get to wear one of those floaty dresses in cotton candy colors that would tie in ribbons about my waist or puff out like clouds from my shoulders, and swirl about like air around my knees and hips. In my adolescent mind, there was nothing more romantic or prettily feminine a girl could own than a swirly, twirly dress. And thus began my obsession.

So when I stumbled across these lovely things in Soho, I swooned. I just couldn't resist trying a few of them on and putting them to the "twirl test." My verdict? A perfect pouf from the hips. Not to mention the fabrics are creme brulee shades of the most deliciously rich, buttery golds. Sweet enough to eat, indeed.

Swedish designer Ida Sjostedt also does a lovely rendition of the ballerina-princess look, and her collection as a whole is just wonderful.

new york, je t'aime

Photo of Jane St, Greenwich Village, NYC.

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