As You Wait For Him

Back in March--maybe April, I can't remember now--Coach held a contest as part of their Poppy campaign to write the ending to a story about a Saturday in New York City. It was written by Irina Reyn, who I took my first writing class with at the University of Pittsburgh. I have no idea if she read the submissions, but I decided to write an ending, mostly for kicks, but also because there was a little self-centered, irrational voice that kept telling me Irina would read it and remember me and my story about gay, high school cross-country runners, persuade whomever chose the winners to pick me, pick me, and then I'd be famous and rich and world-renowned, etc. Oh well. I didn't win. But I liked my entry, nonetheless.

(Irina's story: A woman walks through New York on a Saturday morning, shopping, eating, drinking. In the evening, she ends up at a cafe eating olives and red wine and gets a call/message from a man. She waits for him.)

As you wait for him—no, you are not waiting for him. You haven’t waited for him since the end of September. Still, your fingers remember how to pick at the pale grey polish on your nails and you feel the minutes passing, silent and slow.

You choose a fat, purple olive. Its flesh is sour and salty and you savor it. You roll the pit with your tongue, you dare it to break the skin of the roof of your mouth.

As a trumpet hovers again above the hum of early evening, the door of the bar opens with a whine and silences it. You wonder if it's him and you smell the sugar and the pine of his skin, the sweat and the warm air he used to carry after biking across town.

You look, it is not him. You leave the bar and begin to walk. A drummer busks a block ahead and when you fall into rhythm with him, your heels hit the concrete with the control of a metronome. You let New York carry you.

I read this again, and it's not perfect, I want to change it, but I am so excited about New York. 

Hot Hot Heat

This is the last post I wrote, on April 1, 2010, started but never posted...

A few weeks ago I wrote about how painful early Spring feels in Pittsburgh, how slowly and clumsily the city wakes up from winter, how Spring doesn't really feel like it's here until June and then all of a sudden it's Summer. Well, Pittsburgh is still waking up, but maybe it had a mimosa or something because today, tomorrow, and this weekend will be sunny and above 70, oh my!

I was right about how June arrives and then all of a sudden it's summer. If this first week of Summer is any indication, it's going to be an angry one. I'm already feeling quite uninspired by my wardrobe, mostly because the heat and humidity that sit over the city for three months make me want to not wear any clothes at all, and especially not leather shorts and thigh-highs, which Refinery29 thinks is a good option for summer.  Unbearable heat along with pale skin that just feels paler, frizzy waves that just get frizzier, and not a single toned muscle can quite easily turn my excitement for summer plans into pure disdain. Don't get me wrong, I still love summer destinations like the beach, summer cocktails, and yes, fine, even that moment after I've climbed inside my parked car and the heat is overwhelming but I sit there, windows up, AC off, to see how long I can stand it. It's just that I give up on feeling attractive pretty quick, every single year.

I have to remember that I'm not the only one who's sweating. Yes, my shirt is wet down the middle of my back, but yours is too.

Another Post on Being Nostalgic

I Have To Tell You

I have to tell you,
there are times when
the sun strikes me
like a gong,
and I remember everything,
even your ears.

It is not so much that I miss you

It is not so much that I miss you
as the remembering
which I suppose is a form of missing
except more positive,
like the time of the blackout
when fear was my first response
followed by love of the dark.



DOROTHEA GROSSMAN

Spring Sprang Sprung

When Spring begins in Pittsburgh it feels like the city has woken up with a really ugly hangover. The potholes are miles deep, getting deeper, and spewing out bits of loose asphalt for months before winter's bad decisions have been forgotten for good. The days are warmer and longer and so there's this feeling of hope and everyone's smiling and saying things like "The sunshine today turned my frown upside down!" but the fact remains that the hills are always gray and brown until May so it's like we're all just trying to convince ourselves that things are getting better. In Pittsburgh, Spring is a state of mind (barf) until it's definitely summer, potholes patched and black snow gone and it all kind of happens at once.

So needless to say, I'm still drinking red wine at night and hot coffee in the morning--I know it's definitely summer when I make the switch to white wine and iced coffee--and getting all hot and bothered by Fall 2010 RTW collections. I painted my nails with Tropical Temptation by Revlon last night as part of the convincing-myself-it's-spring process, but then I saw the Fall Hermes collection and I just want to wear leather and black tights and top hats again. A whole lot of good Tropical Temptation did. If there was such a place as Menswear for Broads Heaven, Hermes would own it:

Ok, fine. I will try harder. 3.1 Phillip Lim Spring 2010 RTW:

All photos via Style.com

Warm and Fuzzy

While in New York last December, I met this girl who was wearing an oversized, cream-colored cotton sweater, which she shed once inside a warm bar and revealed a black blazer underneath. It's important to note that this girl was was very thin, and I never would have guessed she was wearing anything under the sweater, especially something as bulky as a blazer. I thought it was a great and unexpected way to not have to deal with a big winter coat all night, but I decided then and there that the 20 pounds I had on this girl would not adapt very well to two heavy, non-form-fitting layers. Didn't your mother ever tell you cable knits were bad for your arms, along with cap sleeves and tank tops? Yes. Well. I've concluded that I can do the oversized sweater, because it is comfortable and warm but I probably won't wear it over a blazer. Obviously, the look is not about showing the shape of your body. Didn't your mother also try to tell you that boys didn't like to see everything, that a little conservative dressing added intrigue and drew them to what they knew was there but couldn't see? Yes. Well.

Below is the oversized sweater look that I've been thinking a lot about lately. Dries Van Noten RTW Fall 2009 has been in the back of my mind all year. I loved the colors--each look contrasted a subdued taupe or beige or other pastel with a bright lavender or bold teal, royal blue, mustard yellow, etc. The masculine cut of the all the trousers, jackets and blouses contrasted the feminine red/orange lips and messy, loosely pulled back hair with side swept bangs.

(via Style.com)

I also really like these oversized sweater looks from Reed Krakoff RTW Fall 2010:

(via Style.com)
The wide leg trouser is a huge step away from all the leggings we've been wearing, and not wearing if you're a shorts with tights or no-pants-at-all kind of girl. This outfit makes me want to crawl up into a ball on my couch for the weekend while winter carries on with its strength and fury. Come Monday I'd wrap a belt around my waist and I'd be ready to go.

Another luxurious sweater, this time as a dress, with a leather bomber jacket and lace-ups:

(via Style.com)

I think this look would be interesting with Vena Cava's fishnets, also it would be warmer. Powers that be, I'll take a few more weeks of winter, please, but you can keep all the snow. Thanks.

Can we talk about Vena Cava for a minute?

Great, thanks. I've felt conflicted for a long time about fishnet tights. They always seem necessary at Halloween, but then when I try to incorporate them into my day-to-day, problems arise. Namely, that I look and feel like I'm about to turn some tricks, and not in the Secret Diary of a Call Girl way. Nope, more like look down there, on the corner, in the cold, there I am shivering because all I'm wearing is a loosely woven pair of fishnet tights! This might sound a bit drastic, but I'm so excited to announce that Vena Cava RTW Fall 2010 has completely changed my perspective, and I'm feeling that fishnets are my new favorite way to politely add some melodrama and a tablespoon (or more, depending on your audience) of sexiness to an outfit. There is something very austere about fishnets, something promiscuous but also classic, timeless, and mindless--that is, of course you're wearing fishnets, what else would you wear because you've been wearing them forever and ever, etc. Bask now, in the glory that is the following excerpt from Vena Cava RTW Fall 2010:

(via Style.com)

(via Style.com)

(via Style.com)

Really, what I love most, is that I already own shoes similar to those worn in all of these looks, and that I can skip on over to Goodwill and replicate the rest for under $10. FTW.

Happy Valentine's.

Dear Mr. McQueen:

What are we supposed to do.

I'm sorry if that sounds accusatory, or if it appears to imply that your death is not about you but about me and all of the other women and men you've inspired and impassioned from the beginning of your time. I'm sorry, that's not how I meant it. It's just that I can't imagine reading about another Fashion Week without also reading your name. Fashion goes on, you do not.

Word on the street is that you took your own life, and if that's the truth I know you didn't do it on purpose. That is, I trust that in that moment, as you were deciding that you were going to do it, you really did want it all to end and you were ready enough to do it yourself. But I also trust that you would have chosen to live had living without the pain you felt been a conceivable option to you. I am so sad that it wasn't.

My love affair with your work has been short, but it was immediate and constant. Thank you for this dress, it completely changed the way I think about clothes.


(via The New York Times)

About a year ago I was in New York for the first time in about five years. J's brother had taken us to a bar in the Meat Packing District and then there was your store, lights out, and there was this dress, or one like it, I can't remember and I'm kicking myself for it, I am. My heart beat fast, my hands shook, and perhaps this is sad and telling of something not for this blog, but my heart and hands felt more for your storefront in that moment than they've ever felt for any man. Ew, that sounds like I'm one of those people who falls in love with the Eiffel Tower and tries to marry it, but I promise you it's different. Falling in love with people and falling in love with art are similar in that our bodies sometimes respond in the same way, but I have no plans to propose to this dress. I'd need it in my possession first, of course.

I hope you have found some relief, some rest and some peace. You will be missed.

XOXO

K.

I die.

I love, love, love, one-million-times love these maroon suede YSL ankle strap pumps. Karla Deras wore them so well with navy and white ankle-length trousers, and here is Caroline Issa, via All The Pretty Birds. I love the maroon/rust color against her opaque black tights. I've been trying to incorporate more maroon into my wardrobe because I think it's a great subtle pop of color against all the winter blacks. This shoe is also such a great choice because it's both dramatic and sophisticated at the same time. Caroline Issa's outfit here is otherwise very basic and classic, but her shoes add an element of surprise that both enhances and interrupts the simplicity. Sigh!

Constant Comment

Yesterday, Coco made a list of the things she is thankful for. What a great way to remind yourself of how good you've got it, even if you're in the midst of a mess or just having a difficult day. My life has been disaster free, and my days are only difficult if I make them so. That is, I've got a horrible habit of putting a negative spin on everything. I've got a critical eye that's always criticizing, and a nasty train of thought that always ends up at the worst case scenario. I'm working on it, I promise.

I was especially reminded of how critical I can be, how critical all of us can be, by the explosion of dialogue over at What I Wore. It looks like Ms. Schroeder has since turned her comments off, but yesterday afternoon there were almost 200! Craziness. I'm not a big blog commenter in general, but I follow her blog and this whole situation got me thinking about fashion and blogging and I decided, against my better judgment, to leave my two cents. A snippet of my comment, which probably went unnoticed, but that I hoped would counter or at least balance out the many irrational displays of contempt between Ms. Schroeder and her commenters:

I think we all want to be in this together, but I also think that criticism is a huge part of fashion, as it is of other art forms, because it helps move us all forward. I think we want to believe that fashion has no rules, but we've all got our own set of them, and can usually call someone else out for breaking one of them.

When I was thinking about what to write, I also wanted to find a way to mention that so many of us really internalize our personal style, and so criticism of it, constructive or not, usually feels like someone just stabbed us in the gut. And on the other side of it, when we see someone who's wearing something we wouldn't wear, we react with such disgust and shock you'd think some creeper just showed us their privates!

I think as fashion bloggers, we should save our criticism of other bloggers for drinks with our friends and keep it off the record. And if we want to critique designers and professional stylists, we should be sure to read religiously and take cues from Cathy Horyn of the New York Times. Criticism is essential to fashion, but it must also be thoughtful, respectful, and justified.

PRISM London

Impulsively chose square black frames that slide down my nose last spring. Sort of timeless, definitely designed for men, make my nose look wider than it is. I can’t remember what I saw in them and I’ve lately spent a lot of time fantasizing about new ones. The perfection of Prisms makes me so restless I want to do things like quit my job, move to New York (with or without employment, who cares!), and most of all, buy a pair of New York’s (or Rio’s, can’t pick!) in clear, exchange rate and all!

Halloween Schmalloween.

I spent most of Saturday searching for the shortest, highest-waisted shorts, cheapest fishnet tights and retro-est top to complete my pin-up girl costume, all the while stressing about what I was going to do with my hair--pin curls, tedious, out of the question. I found the shorts at Forever 21 as well as the top and a two-pack of fishnets for under $4. Halloween schmalloween.

My most beloved purchase of the day was unexpected and arguably unnecessary, but nonetheless beloved. Standing in line at Sephora with false eyelashes in hand, I looked to my right to find a display of roll-on perfumes. Kenzo's Flower caught my eye first, only because I was immediately reminded of Kenzo's Tokyo worn by J, selected by me now two years ago. Tokyo is sweet, with strong pine undertones, and it's such a good scent for him, a mountain-man at heart. Flower was also sweet, a little musky, and quickly forgotten as I looked to the bottom row and spotted Fracas by Robert Piguet: gardenia, musk, rose. It's been my mother's scent for as long as I can remember, and she's even got a lovely little story about how she discovered it working at a cosmetics shop in Cambridge in the 70s. It's very clean and sharp, in the same way that black tights with black pumps are clean and sharp, in the same way that red lipstick, the right shade worn with the right complexion, can be clean and sharp, surprising and simple and just always fashionable. So there you have it, that's Fracas, and the velvet pocket the roll-on came in was almost too much.



So, yes, Halloween schmalloween: Plans were made with girlfriends to go to J's work party as a troop of pin-ups. Sadly, girlfriends were accosted by some malicious young residents of the Northside on Friday night--both were okay, amen, but too shaken to participate in Saturday's debauchery. I decided to stick with the pin-up plan. Moments before we were to leave for the party, with J on my couch as a last minute Waldo becoming too engrossed in MTV's My Super Psycho Sweet Sixteen, the zipper busted on my final-sale Forever 21 shorts (surpise, surprise!) so French Maid it was. I was able to put the fishnets to use, as well as the top-hat headband and chiffon and lace apron I bought a few weeks ago in the early stages of costume planning. Also put to use my American Apparel scoop-back dress in black, which so far has only made it out of my closet for costume parties oh and once for a show at the Brillobox this summer. The party was fun, but mostly I stood beside Waldo, sipped on Frozen Brains and munched on Peanut Butter Eyeballs while the Yankees-Phillies game was on in the background.

Excited like Jessie Spano

I'm really excited about the following things: sheer black tights with brown shoes, such as a flat oxford or boot; black cuffed pants or jeans with black socks and black shoes; black lace-up boots that go above the cuff of the pants; black cuffed pants with black socks and brown shoes; red lips with muted colors such as taupe and gray.

Case In Point:


From The Sartorialist.

Polyvore

many little deaths by katsty featuring Zimmermann

Mennonites

Grandmother, Edna Benner Styer, died yesterday, April 15, 2009, at 5:15PM.

I do not know what this means yet. I have many memories of holidays at my grandparents' house on Cowpath Road, Hatfield, PA. I noticed recently that I inherited her cowlick at the front of her hairline, above her left eye. She gave my father the palest skin, and he, in turn, gave it to me. I have been disconnected from her for most of my life, as my parents moved to Indiana, then Massachusetts, from Pennsylvania, before I was born, and raised me and my brother there. She always sent birthday packages with chocolate covered pretzels and Landis treats, I did not send enough Thank You cards. I keep thinking that this is simply how life works, it ends. Hers did not end unexpectedly.

I do not know what this means yet.

Secret Life

I am incorrigibly nostalgic. The worst of it is that regardless of the finality of a relationship, or the time that passes between the end of it and the present, I always long to return to it, to have it again. I am nostalgic regardless of quality; no matter that during it I was miserable, constantly convinced of the wrongness between us. Those I want again were the most urgent, and also the most tenuous. The only way we knew to communicate properly was to stop using our voices and use our mouths and hands instead. And then of course, the things at which we were not good, understanding, agreeing, and laughing, were almost entirely forgotten.

Listen
by Charles Simic

Everything about you,
my life, is both
make-believe and real.
We are like a couple
working the night shift
in a bomb factory.

Come quietly, one says
to the other
as he takes her by the hand
and leads her
to the rooftop
overlooking the city.

At this hour, if one listens
long and hard,
one can hear a fire engine
in the distance,
but not the cries for help.

just the silence
growing deeper
at the sight of a small child
leaping out of a window
with its nightclothes on fire.

Ink

xi
Michael Ondaatje

Life before desire,
without conscience.
Cities without rivers or bells.

Where is the forest
not cut down
for profit or literature

whose blossoms instead
will close the heart

Where is the suitor
undistressed
one can talk with

Where is there a room
without the damn god of love?

This Poem Made Me Think Of You.

Lines for Painting on Grains of Rice
by Craig Arnold

You are the kind of person who buys exotic fruits
  leaves them out on the counter until they rot
You always mean to eat them     sometimes you rearrange them
  rousing over the bowl a cloud of tiny flies

      &

How do they balance    the parrot who chews a walnut
sideways     holding it up in his right foot
the owl perched on a just-lit lamppost
  scratching behind its ear     like a big dog

      &

Your pencil eraser wears down long before the point
  for every word you write     you rub out two

      &

Where the slice of toast rested     the plate is still warm
  a film of fog     little points of dew

      &

Love is like velocity     we feel the speeding up
  and the slowing down     otherwise not at all
the more steady     the more it feels like going nowhere
  my love I want to go nowhere with you

      &

I cannot bring myself to toss the cup of cold coffee
you set down by the door on your way to the taxi
all day I have sipped it     each time forgetting
your two tablets of fake sugar     too sweet

Apart

I am struggling with this separation as I struggled with crushes on boys in high school and college. I am craving your attention, desperately hoping that you will notice me and talk to me. But as it was then, my signs are too subtle and some only exist in my head. That is, it seems I’d rather that you could just read my mind and know exactly when and how you should communicate with me. Maybe I am still getting used to this, but I am feeling like we never should have embarked on this remedy for our plateau of a relationship. I want you back with me, I want to spend every evening with you and sleep with you and just hope, pray now and then, that we’ll find our way to some place like where we began.

Last night I called you about picking up my coffee table in Coraopolis and I very badly wanted to ask you to come with me. I knew I couldn’t for the sake of our separation and so, when you offered before I asked, I immediately refused—we’ve set out to accomplish something, so we ought to stick with it and find out what we’ll be accomplishing, in the end. I've been trying to convince myself of this, but rather than ease my ache to be with you, it makes me frustrated and upset. I’m almost sure we should complete these two weeks apart, but should we really see each other on the weekends? I’m afraid that will be confusing and will erase all that we worked for in the business days before.

Perhaps I should think of this as a piece of writing. I have always put a work-in-progress away for some time and then returned to it, looking for something new I hadn't noticed before, an error in spelling or a sentence that needs rearranging; sometimes, even whole paragraphs are eagerly raising their hands like students, begging to be placed on the third page, instead of the last. What’s different is that I’ve never felt so desperate to return to the work, or excited to find what I may have missed. Usually, I am scared of it.

All my love.

Dear Marlon.

Hello

Glasses are for your asses.