Don't expect this blog to be filled with intellectual content or sage analysis. I'm not in the mood for that. I want to just write and let my words take me where they will and that spot will not be anywhere great. Academia took the joy of writing succinct analysis out of me and left me with a rambling stream of consciousness. Of course, I have never been a classical logical thinker. I sometimes wish I had been, but my mind takes off into flights of fancy and meander from one place to another. I painted the same way, as I have mentioned. As an undergraduate, pursuing my BFA, I painted with wild abandon. My paintings and drawings were loose and sometimes unfinished and a bit unpolished. Then, when I trained under my artist mentor, he taught me to be very precise ...making things more real than real. This technique suited his mind and style perfectly but, over the next few years, I came to see that I was becoming a poor man's imitation of him. He was a great artist. I knew that and I still think that though he's been dead close to a decade and my apprenticeship ended in the early 80's. I have to relearn how to paint as myself rather than doing visual tricks to amaze. He had things to say with his work. I floundered as I looked for something to say with my work. Frankly, I was a somewhat cossetted young woman who had not experienced enough of life and pain to have much to say.
Once, the artist told me, that in order to really have something to say, I would have to go through a crisis that would challenge me; my sanity or my survival. Of course, that event eventually arrived and I did have things to say. The problem was this: I could no longer bring myself to paint. The very act of picking up a paintbrush caused my hand to shake and my muscles to tense. I have the painter's block of all time. I think, sometimes, of painting again, but cannot, despite my efforts, get past that terrible feeling when I pick up my brush and dip it into a bit of paint. I am reminded of too much. I am reminded of dreams dashes and mistakes made. I find myself no longer a middle aged woman but a young woman again ; one filled with terror.
You see, I missed the gogo yuppie 80's entirely. A few days before the 80's began, I began my apprenticeship and left my safe life at the university, my family and friends, my favorite joys of Austin, and settled in a tiny Texas town. I lived in an old Victorian house that had terrible vibes (later I would learn a tenant, before me, had committed suicide in my bedroom). I worked in a studio far out in the country and down a dirt road that hid the studio even further. I loved that studio. I loved the stucco walls and tin roof an wood stove. I loved the acreage that surrounded it.
While my friends and family were beginning their climb up the career ladder, marrying, and having children, I was, more of less, blissfully single, and spending my days in my old hippie clothes of ragged jeans, tee shirts, and big hoop earrings. My hair was allowed to flow down my back or worn in a braid of pigtails. I was not a part of the whole yuppie scene. What little I saw of yuppiedom was not in the least appealing. I didn't know what the hell I wanted, but I knew I did not want a marriage based on compromise of a house full of children, or, heaven help me, a climb up the corporate ladder. I was not a part of the culture of the 80s and I was living somewhere in the 70s as I painted an read, and fell in love with the woods.
The studio was surrounded by the most lush and beautiful plants and trees an flowers I had ever seen. I explored every morning and afternoon and picked blackberries, wild plums, passion fruit, peaches, wild garlic, and wild grapes. Every morning I filled an old coffee can with an array of wildflowers that were as beautiful as they were varied. I fell in love with nature. It was so quiet in the woods. No cars drove down the road and, except for the conversation my mentor and I had, I mainly listened to the sound of birds and insects. I watched birds with binoculars and learned their names. I saw baby deer walking within yards of the studio and, one time, we saw a wolf on running through the woods. It was a strange new life for me. I had been a small town girl who grew up in a very tight, very narrow, and very comfy world. My childhood and teenage years were populated by friends whose parents were doctors an lawyers and oilmen. I was among the fortunate; although I didn't know it then.
In my final year of high school, I had begun to question the smug righteousness of this small town. Influenced by a trip to New York City and a new best friend who had moved from Austin, and the reading I was doing, I became the closest thing to a hippie in our town. I'll never forget that summer of 1969 when I threw out the curlers that I had slept on every night for years, and donned old jeans that I found at Goodwill. I pushed my nice girl clothes to the back of the closet and opted to wear tee shirts and work shirts and huarache's. I was bursting to leave the small town behind and find my way to New York or LA or San Francisco or Austin. Austin seemed the easiest route for me since it was only 225 miles from home and I had friends going to UT already. So, I began making trips to Austin in that summer of 1969 to visit my friends and began to partake of all the vices and joys that the culture had to offer at the time. I was not a full-fledged hippie but I wasn't a weekend hippie either. I was, as usual, somewhere in between and hard to peg.
When I finally graduated high school in May of 1970, I grudgingly endured all the teas and parties hosted by my mother's friends and guiltily raked in the presents with glee. So, I wasn't a non-materialistic hippie. What would you expect from me? And, then, I was free. Or free in some sense to follow my path wherever it might go. Well, it didn't go very far. My parents, afraid to let their first child venture too far from home ( especially a child who showed signs of rebellion that would only worsen away from their watchful eyes) laid down the law. I was told that I had to attend the local community college ..."Harvard on the Hill" as we smirkingly called it. I was sullen but did enroll for classes and a new world began to open..even if it was at Harvard on the Hill. For one thing, I, who had always been something of a pacifist, and most definitely was against he war in Viet Nam, and had supported civil rights with my whole heart met the larger role. Yes, under the influence of my liberal father, I was a fortunate southern girl who was taught early that the fight for civil rights was a moral fight an I must be on the right side of that fight. But, the fact remained, that I went to a high school named after a southern civil war general and which had a rebel flag as it's mascot. We were, for all practical purposes segregated and I knew no blacks my own age. Our worlds were still split by the geography of the town. I live in the south part of town and African Americans lived in the north side of town and never the twain did they meet except in unequal terms. However, in college, there was no more segregation. I met young blacks who were kind enough to help me learn more about race and to heighten my sensibilities and to challenge my narrow existence. I was in a whole new world and I both thrive and was constantly challenged.
After a year of community college, I was allowed to go to the university and live in the dorm. That was one horrible year. I was shy and I was an oddball even then. I didn't make friends easily. I definitely was not a part of the sorority crowd but i was uncomfortable with the militant feminists. I had a few friends, not the least of which was my high school boyfriend who had grown his hair to Willie Nelson length and wore a long braid or pigtails. He was enthused about the prospects of moving to a commune and I was less than thrilled. I was a social cultural activist an he was a back to the land hippie. We couldn't find a middle range and eventually we broke up. At first, breaking up was heartbreaking. We had been together since I was 15, but, as I put together my first apartment and met new people, I came to the realization that my high school boyfriend had spent most of his time making me feel bad about myself and I realized that I was neither dumb nor ugly as he had often told me.
Coming into full womanhood in a liberal college town in the year 1971 and 1972 was a heady experience. Remember, AIDS was not the horror that haunts us now. The women, like myself, who had been pigeonholed as future school teachers and nurses, began to see that we had other choices. The road to happiness did not necessarily involve "marrying well" as soon as possible and begin a life replicating our mothers. It was heady....perhaps too heady for some and I include myself in that group. But, it was a fun time. We went to class and then rushed home to watch the news, we rallied against the war, we stayed up all night getting high talking about heaven knows what.
I had never been a drinker in high school and I had looked down on drinkers from my lofty hippy dippy perch as "juice freaks." However, I discovered the joys of music at the hippie bar and concert venue and began to drink beer and wine coolers as i listened to the best damn music in the world and laughed with my new friends.
This is a long story and I have much more to say. It's 4 am in Phoenix, Arizona, and I am tired. More of this crazy tale later.
Thursday, March 26, 2009
Monday, March 16, 2009
A Handy Beginner's Guide To Buying Vintage Clothing
I am a dedicated thrifter, packrat and collector of vintage clothes. I started by following my grandmother around the Canton, Texas, First Monday. This was in the days before Canton's First Monday Trade Day's became an enormous and popular affair. Back in those days, the event was only held on Monday and took place round the town square. My grandmother was never one to throw money to the wind. She was sharp eyed, though uneducated in the finer details of antique shopping. She, however, did well for herself and for me. She taught me how to tell cut glass from pressed glass and presented me with a 25 cent vase of cut glass that I still have today.
My grandmom was also a seamstress and, though I had absolutely no intention of learning to sew, I was fascinated by the feel of fabric in my hands and the colors and patterns. I loved buttons which she kept in a small button jar. And, I loved fashion with a passion. It didn't matter that I lived in the sticks of East Texas. I watched tv and saw fashion shows on women's shows and came to love Jackie O's sense of style beyond all others. Jackie, before she was Jackie O, was my first style role model (except, of course for my mom). Personally, I like the Jackie O look ala the days Onassis when she was casual and hip and a bit bohemian.
Back to my thrifting. Sorry I got carried away on a Jackie O jag for a moment. As I mentioned, I lived in a small Texas city that thought it was the center of the world. It wasn't and it damn sure wasn't the center of fashion. I cried everytime mom and I shopped for school clothes. I looked at Glamour, Seventeen, Cosmo, and Vogue and had pictures of what kinds of clothes I wanted pasted in my head and, believe me, they weren't to be found in our little spot of East Texas. It was maddening.
To further add to my clothes anguish, I was skinny as hell. I grew to my full height of 5'6 by 6th grade. The rest of me remained as the body of an overly skinny preteen with braces and pimples. It was awful. We couldn't find cool clothes that fit me (I doubt there WERE cool clothes in our town).
With the advent of Twiggy my fashion life took a giant step forward. It was my moment in the sun. I was built exactly like Twiggy..right down to the freckles on my nose and the big staring eyes. Mom took pity and let me buy Yardley and Mary Quant makeup and took me to Neiman's in Dallas to buy my school clothes. I was in bliss upon discovering Neiman's. I looked at the super chic women shopping there and the saleswomen and vowed to one day possess an element of European chic rather than redneck chic.
Into this awakening I had the further good luck of finding a good friend who had just moved from Austin and she told me all about how we could go to Goodwill, Salvation Army, and various thrift shops and find really cool things . Now, of course, I moan when I think of all the things we passed by. But, we not only scored Big E Levis and western shirts and cashmere sweaters, but we'd also buy 40's and 50's dresses and 30's bias cut nightgowns. We grabbed 40's platform shoes, cowboy boots, and evening shoes. We also picked up navy sailor's pants at the Army Navy store, old military full length coats, and olive drab pants and jackets. We embroidered our military things with peace signs and flowers and added all manner of things to our jeans. Meanwhile, I found out that I loved kimonos and began buying these along with any 30s, 40s, and 50s things that struck my fancy(a lot I passed up and that makes me want to whack myself over the head today).
By college in the 70s, I was a dedicated thrifter, packrat, embroiderer, and follower of my own particular brand of fashion. By the 70's I had a large collection of 20s, 30s, 40s, and 50s goodies. What can I say? There were the gas shortages and the recession and Watergate. I needed money to pay the rent on my attic apartment and to finance my weekend trips to Austin. So, in a moment that haunts me today, I sold the whole collection to a Dallas vintage store for pennies on the dollar.
However, I didn't stop thrifting. In fact, a new boyfriend who shared my love of thrifting, facilitated my shopping habits....mainly because he had a car and I didn't. We would prowl every weekend at Canton Trade's Days and every Goodwill within a 50 mile radius of the town where we went to college. This time around, I was shopping armed with a good bit more knowledge than I had in the past. I spent a whole summer taking a costume course in college and reading every fashion book in the university library. I also spent long hours in the library looking at old copies of Vogue and Vanity Fair. I didn't know it then, but I was educating myself for the future.
I'm now past 50 and thrifting is a part of my life that has not gone away. It has little to do with money now and much more to do with the thrill of the hunt and a genuine love of the well crafted clothing before we became a throwaway culture. I've done the ebay thing and the vintage store thing. I am not ready to be curator of the Fashion Department at the Met, but I rate my knowledge as somewhat higher than most. And, I often have people ask: how do you find these things and what do you know what to buy?
That's always the question: Teach me how to thrift for vintage. I look them in the eyes and say, I can give you pointers, but it has taken me 40 years to accumulate the knowledge I have and most of this has been self taught. You can't become an expert overnight. And you must have a passion and zeal for fashion. There are, however, a few simple things I tell the new collector to head them on the right path. And they are listed below:
1. Never judge a store by it's looks or even what you find on the racks. You have to DIG to find the goodies. I estimate I look at 100 things before finding something I want to buy and 10000 before I find something amazing. So, take your time. Look at everything. Don't be fooled by categories. People tend to hide their finds until they have the money to buy and you'll often find cool stuff hidden in the childrens' department or men's tee shirts. Dig through all those purses, shoes, costume jewelry and scarves. And don't think you can do this without getting dirty.
2. Be willing to go into the "bad" parts of town and some pretty strange stores and shops. My personal best finds come from my secret favorite thrift that's in a downright dangerous area and where most of the people snarl at me. To avoid being snarled at, please underdress. This is not a place to bring your Louis Vuitton Speedy. I always wear a tee shirt and skirt and sandals. This makes it easier to slip things on and off without the hassle of the dressing room. Don't give up. I once was ready to give up when I saw a bright orange and green nightgown ahead of me....score!....it was a Pucci for Formfit Rogers and cost 95 cents. This is when I had the rare but pleasurable "thriftgasm"..when I find something really, really great like a 1950's New Look Dior Suit. I become lightheaded and giddy and it's a rush.
3. Sizes are notorious unreliable. Women used to wear corsets and girdles to suck in their bellies and it's hard to find things to fit today's waist size. A vintage (50's or 60's ) size 12 is about a size 6 today. This can be discouraging and is one reason I gravitate to shoes, purses, scarves, and jackets and blouses...not to mention jewelry and coats.
4. Do not buy something because it seems vintage. Do you like it? Does it speak to you? I've bought 80's clothes because I see that they are iconic. Don't hold yourself to any strict timeline. You aren't going to find the 20's, 30's and 40's things, most likely, today, at a Goodwill etc. But keep your eye open for 80's and 90's items that speak of that time. A designer name is great but not the be all and end all. The question is : Is this something interesting, unusual, and something I like? If so, buy it.
5. READ READ READ . Go to the library and check out every book on fashion you can find. Just look at the pictures and absorb what you see. Then, go back and read about the designers. Take notes. I always wrote down the names that I was most interested in. I can't emphasize this enough....to READ READ READ.
6. Go to Saks or Neimans and look at the couture clothing. You can then get a feel for real quality and will be more likely to recognize it when you see it.
7. When thrifting use your senses. Touch and feel the fabric. Is it soft and luxurious? That's a hint right there. Read the labels. Learn to recognize the feel of cashmere (personally I liberate all cashmere that I find in thrift stores except the most moth eaten). Look at the designers label (if there is one) and figure out if this is a couture item are from a secondary brand (nothing wrong with lots of the secondary lines). You will find that really fine clothing has satin labels that are hand sewn into the item. Another tip.
8. Metal zippers are a sign of age. And, zippers on the right side are an almost sure sign that something is older. Look at the fabric content. You'll learn in your studies that certain artificial fabrics were not invented until the 60's or 70's.
9. Check for damage. If it's for your personal use, as mine is, you may decide those tiny moth holes don't bother you and you buy the sweater. If buying for resale, then a whole other mind set is in order. You want things in good shape.
10. Nine times out of ten, when I see a faded dry cleaners tag, it's a tip off that the item has been taken care of and worth a second look.
11. Don't expect every day that you will find a treasure, and yes, the dedicated thrifter makes the rounds every day. Some days the thrift gods smile on you and others they don't. The answer is to be flexible. Keep an open mind. So, if you are looking for something specific, good luck. You probably won't find it. But, you might find something you never dreamed you'd find like a old Vuitton trunk from the 50s . Gasp, sigh........
12. Pay no attention to the inflated prices that are seen in vintage guides. These prices are usually the prices charged in a specialized vintage store. You are unlikely to see such returns.
13. Love what you are doing. You must. You may spend a lifetime learning but, if you enjoy the hunt and the quality of older clothing, then it's a hobby that is rewarding and worthwhile.
Go forth and thrift.
My grandmom was also a seamstress and, though I had absolutely no intention of learning to sew, I was fascinated by the feel of fabric in my hands and the colors and patterns. I loved buttons which she kept in a small button jar. And, I loved fashion with a passion. It didn't matter that I lived in the sticks of East Texas. I watched tv and saw fashion shows on women's shows and came to love Jackie O's sense of style beyond all others. Jackie, before she was Jackie O, was my first style role model (except, of course for my mom). Personally, I like the Jackie O look ala the days Onassis when she was casual and hip and a bit bohemian.
Back to my thrifting. Sorry I got carried away on a Jackie O jag for a moment. As I mentioned, I lived in a small Texas city that thought it was the center of the world. It wasn't and it damn sure wasn't the center of fashion. I cried everytime mom and I shopped for school clothes. I looked at Glamour, Seventeen, Cosmo, and Vogue and had pictures of what kinds of clothes I wanted pasted in my head and, believe me, they weren't to be found in our little spot of East Texas. It was maddening.
To further add to my clothes anguish, I was skinny as hell. I grew to my full height of 5'6 by 6th grade. The rest of me remained as the body of an overly skinny preteen with braces and pimples. It was awful. We couldn't find cool clothes that fit me (I doubt there WERE cool clothes in our town).
With the advent of Twiggy my fashion life took a giant step forward. It was my moment in the sun. I was built exactly like Twiggy..right down to the freckles on my nose and the big staring eyes. Mom took pity and let me buy Yardley and Mary Quant makeup and took me to Neiman's in Dallas to buy my school clothes. I was in bliss upon discovering Neiman's. I looked at the super chic women shopping there and the saleswomen and vowed to one day possess an element of European chic rather than redneck chic.
Into this awakening I had the further good luck of finding a good friend who had just moved from Austin and she told me all about how we could go to Goodwill, Salvation Army, and various thrift shops and find really cool things . Now, of course, I moan when I think of all the things we passed by. But, we not only scored Big E Levis and western shirts and cashmere sweaters, but we'd also buy 40's and 50's dresses and 30's bias cut nightgowns. We grabbed 40's platform shoes, cowboy boots, and evening shoes. We also picked up navy sailor's pants at the Army Navy store, old military full length coats, and olive drab pants and jackets. We embroidered our military things with peace signs and flowers and added all manner of things to our jeans. Meanwhile, I found out that I loved kimonos and began buying these along with any 30s, 40s, and 50s things that struck my fancy(a lot I passed up and that makes me want to whack myself over the head today).
By college in the 70s, I was a dedicated thrifter, packrat, embroiderer, and follower of my own particular brand of fashion. By the 70's I had a large collection of 20s, 30s, 40s, and 50s goodies. What can I say? There were the gas shortages and the recession and Watergate. I needed money to pay the rent on my attic apartment and to finance my weekend trips to Austin. So, in a moment that haunts me today, I sold the whole collection to a Dallas vintage store for pennies on the dollar.
However, I didn't stop thrifting. In fact, a new boyfriend who shared my love of thrifting, facilitated my shopping habits....mainly because he had a car and I didn't. We would prowl every weekend at Canton Trade's Days and every Goodwill within a 50 mile radius of the town where we went to college. This time around, I was shopping armed with a good bit more knowledge than I had in the past. I spent a whole summer taking a costume course in college and reading every fashion book in the university library. I also spent long hours in the library looking at old copies of Vogue and Vanity Fair. I didn't know it then, but I was educating myself for the future.
I'm now past 50 and thrifting is a part of my life that has not gone away. It has little to do with money now and much more to do with the thrill of the hunt and a genuine love of the well crafted clothing before we became a throwaway culture. I've done the ebay thing and the vintage store thing. I am not ready to be curator of the Fashion Department at the Met, but I rate my knowledge as somewhat higher than most. And, I often have people ask: how do you find these things and what do you know what to buy?
That's always the question: Teach me how to thrift for vintage. I look them in the eyes and say, I can give you pointers, but it has taken me 40 years to accumulate the knowledge I have and most of this has been self taught. You can't become an expert overnight. And you must have a passion and zeal for fashion. There are, however, a few simple things I tell the new collector to head them on the right path. And they are listed below:
1. Never judge a store by it's looks or even what you find on the racks. You have to DIG to find the goodies. I estimate I look at 100 things before finding something I want to buy and 10000 before I find something amazing. So, take your time. Look at everything. Don't be fooled by categories. People tend to hide their finds until they have the money to buy and you'll often find cool stuff hidden in the childrens' department or men's tee shirts. Dig through all those purses, shoes, costume jewelry and scarves. And don't think you can do this without getting dirty.
2. Be willing to go into the "bad" parts of town and some pretty strange stores and shops. My personal best finds come from my secret favorite thrift that's in a downright dangerous area and where most of the people snarl at me. To avoid being snarled at, please underdress. This is not a place to bring your Louis Vuitton Speedy. I always wear a tee shirt and skirt and sandals. This makes it easier to slip things on and off without the hassle of the dressing room. Don't give up. I once was ready to give up when I saw a bright orange and green nightgown ahead of me....score!....it was a Pucci for Formfit Rogers and cost 95 cents. This is when I had the rare but pleasurable "thriftgasm"..when I find something really, really great like a 1950's New Look Dior Suit. I become lightheaded and giddy and it's a rush.
3. Sizes are notorious unreliable. Women used to wear corsets and girdles to suck in their bellies and it's hard to find things to fit today's waist size. A vintage (50's or 60's ) size 12 is about a size 6 today. This can be discouraging and is one reason I gravitate to shoes, purses, scarves, and jackets and blouses...not to mention jewelry and coats.
4. Do not buy something because it seems vintage. Do you like it? Does it speak to you? I've bought 80's clothes because I see that they are iconic. Don't hold yourself to any strict timeline. You aren't going to find the 20's, 30's and 40's things, most likely, today, at a Goodwill etc. But keep your eye open for 80's and 90's items that speak of that time. A designer name is great but not the be all and end all. The question is : Is this something interesting, unusual, and something I like? If so, buy it.
5. READ READ READ . Go to the library and check out every book on fashion you can find. Just look at the pictures and absorb what you see. Then, go back and read about the designers. Take notes. I always wrote down the names that I was most interested in. I can't emphasize this enough....to READ READ READ.
6. Go to Saks or Neimans and look at the couture clothing. You can then get a feel for real quality and will be more likely to recognize it when you see it.
7. When thrifting use your senses. Touch and feel the fabric. Is it soft and luxurious? That's a hint right there. Read the labels. Learn to recognize the feel of cashmere (personally I liberate all cashmere that I find in thrift stores except the most moth eaten). Look at the designers label (if there is one) and figure out if this is a couture item are from a secondary brand (nothing wrong with lots of the secondary lines). You will find that really fine clothing has satin labels that are hand sewn into the item. Another tip.
8. Metal zippers are a sign of age. And, zippers on the right side are an almost sure sign that something is older. Look at the fabric content. You'll learn in your studies that certain artificial fabrics were not invented until the 60's or 70's.
9. Check for damage. If it's for your personal use, as mine is, you may decide those tiny moth holes don't bother you and you buy the sweater. If buying for resale, then a whole other mind set is in order. You want things in good shape.
10. Nine times out of ten, when I see a faded dry cleaners tag, it's a tip off that the item has been taken care of and worth a second look.
11. Don't expect every day that you will find a treasure, and yes, the dedicated thrifter makes the rounds every day. Some days the thrift gods smile on you and others they don't. The answer is to be flexible. Keep an open mind. So, if you are looking for something specific, good luck. You probably won't find it. But, you might find something you never dreamed you'd find like a old Vuitton trunk from the 50s . Gasp, sigh........
12. Pay no attention to the inflated prices that are seen in vintage guides. These prices are usually the prices charged in a specialized vintage store. You are unlikely to see such returns.
13. Love what you are doing. You must. You may spend a lifetime learning but, if you enjoy the hunt and the quality of older clothing, then it's a hobby that is rewarding and worthwhile.
Go forth and thrift.
Thursday, March 12, 2009
Time Flies When You Aren't Paying Attention
Well, damn, I sometimes realize I'm not 21 anymore or even my favorite age of 32. I look in the mirror and see a few gray hairs and I probably could use a brow lift. But that's just the outer appearance. What has happened that really floors me is the change in my ways of thinking, the bubbles that have been burst, the illusions that have been uncovered and the joy that lurked amidst the rubble of it all. Born at the very heighth of the baby boom, I thought all things were possible for me except having a career as something other than a elementary school teacher or a nurse. I was schooled by my mom to marry well. I did marry well eventually, but she was dead and I was much older. And, I married for love rather than money. As someone once said, "i've been a fool for love many times but never a fool for money." I was the baby boomer, the semi hippie chick, the political anti-war protestor, the fighter for civil rights, the young woman who loved the blues and Austin music, the artist who had no belief in her own abilities and a host of other things.
One of my oldest and dearest friends referred to me as living my life like a movie in my mind. And yes, this life seems to have encompassed several movie plots, Sasha the nerdy kid, Sasha the teenager madly in puppy love with her high school boyfriend....picturing a life with picket fence and babies and ...well...I didn't go much further than that, Sasha the hippie and political activist, Sasha the music follower in Austin during the very best time to be in Austin, Sasha the black sheep of the family, Sasha the superior student, Sasha the artist, Sasha the apprentice of her hero, Sasha the woman who suddenly lost it all and could not leave her bed for months , crippled by depression, Sasha the 4.0 grad student, Sasha the technical writer, Sasha the celibate, Sasha the community college teacher, Sasha the wife of a man 20 years older, Sasha the caregiver of her dying parents, Sasha the grief stricken, Sasha who picked up and moved from her long time home and friends to Arizona....1000 miles west, Sasha who converted to Catholicism, Sasha who married the man on the internet who she loved, Sasha the vintage clothes collector and dealer and Sasha who is waiting for the next chapter.
I'm sure I have left out some of the incarnations of this woman I call Sasha, but it boggles my mind when I think of all I have seen and all I have done and the fact I am where I am right this very minute. If someone had told me that I would find a home in the desert with a German/Catholic/Jewish man born 10 days before I was, I'd say they were crazy....even though I have had a crazy life.
When quite young, influenced by Jackie O, Isadora Duncan, and many other woman, I decided I wanted a full and extravagant life. I wanted to taste and savor all that life had to offer. The Sasha who lived in small town East Texas could not see herself living there forever. She wanted to see the world, to learn, to experience, to feel, to have great loves, to suffer, to bleed, to laugh, to drink, to smoke, to laugh madly and to escape the nice, safe existance that my mother and dad had plotted for me.
I, Sasha, did manage to escape the trap that I saw in an early marriage to my high school boyfriend. He went to the commune and I went my own way and explored life on my own terms. I looked around, in my twenties, and couldn't imagine myself married in the way my friends were married. I wanted something grand. I wanted a great affair of the heart. I did not want mediocrity. And, I did not find mediocrity. I found all I was searching for in those long ago days. But, what I didn't know then, and I'm glad I did not, was that I would pay dearly for taking a big bite out of life. I would have to nearly lose my mind before climbing out of the abyss and becoming who I am now. And, who am I now? I don't know for sure. I'm still changing. I'm still morphing. I'm still eccentric. I still love the big life but I have also learned the value of and joy of comfort of peace. Peace is what I have found in large measure...although I still have my demons...the fears that haunt me deep in the night. But, it's a ride I wanted. And I'm enjoying the ride.
And, while I was living this movie in my mind, I changed in some ways and remained very much myself in others. I still have a soft heart, I still fight for the underdog, I'm still stubborn, I'm still somewhat bawdy, I'm still a lover of black humor and incongruity. I'm still sensitive. I still cry easily. I still love strongly. I have never moved to the dreaded burbs nor bought a SUV.
Today I live a strange life. Not strange to me of course, but not the normal life of most of the world. I stay up late into the night. I am a creature of the night. I do not drink. I quit smoking when I passed a milestone birthday. I still am not a Donna Reed housewife and never will be. I still have a soft heart. I still know how to love and I also know how to finally let go of the hurts of the past...most of them anyway.
I recommend growing older. It's so much more interesting and the world is so much larger. Your thoughts are based on many more experiences. Life does not have to be a cliche. And, I, Sasha, sit here typing away and indulging in cliches while trying to be iconoclastic. Yes, I'm an iconoclast but I can't force it. That's contradictory to be a true eccentric. I have become who I have become and I will become Sasha with other layers added as the years pass by. I once ran from change. I now see that change is inevitable. Some hurts so much that you feel as if you are literally choking and some makes you soar with a joy that knows no bounds. It's an interesting trip and I've enjoyed it in it's whole even though suffering moments of tremendous sadness and hurt.
I guess I am a grown up. But, I'm one of the weirdest grown ups you will ever know. And that's good.
One of my oldest and dearest friends referred to me as living my life like a movie in my mind. And yes, this life seems to have encompassed several movie plots, Sasha the nerdy kid, Sasha the teenager madly in puppy love with her high school boyfriend....picturing a life with picket fence and babies and ...well...I didn't go much further than that, Sasha the hippie and political activist, Sasha the music follower in Austin during the very best time to be in Austin, Sasha the black sheep of the family, Sasha the superior student, Sasha the artist, Sasha the apprentice of her hero, Sasha the woman who suddenly lost it all and could not leave her bed for months , crippled by depression, Sasha the 4.0 grad student, Sasha the technical writer, Sasha the celibate, Sasha the community college teacher, Sasha the wife of a man 20 years older, Sasha the caregiver of her dying parents, Sasha the grief stricken, Sasha who picked up and moved from her long time home and friends to Arizona....1000 miles west, Sasha who converted to Catholicism, Sasha who married the man on the internet who she loved, Sasha the vintage clothes collector and dealer and Sasha who is waiting for the next chapter.
I'm sure I have left out some of the incarnations of this woman I call Sasha, but it boggles my mind when I think of all I have seen and all I have done and the fact I am where I am right this very minute. If someone had told me that I would find a home in the desert with a German/Catholic/Jewish man born 10 days before I was, I'd say they were crazy....even though I have had a crazy life.
When quite young, influenced by Jackie O, Isadora Duncan, and many other woman, I decided I wanted a full and extravagant life. I wanted to taste and savor all that life had to offer. The Sasha who lived in small town East Texas could not see herself living there forever. She wanted to see the world, to learn, to experience, to feel, to have great loves, to suffer, to bleed, to laugh, to drink, to smoke, to laugh madly and to escape the nice, safe existance that my mother and dad had plotted for me.
I, Sasha, did manage to escape the trap that I saw in an early marriage to my high school boyfriend. He went to the commune and I went my own way and explored life on my own terms. I looked around, in my twenties, and couldn't imagine myself married in the way my friends were married. I wanted something grand. I wanted a great affair of the heart. I did not want mediocrity. And, I did not find mediocrity. I found all I was searching for in those long ago days. But, what I didn't know then, and I'm glad I did not, was that I would pay dearly for taking a big bite out of life. I would have to nearly lose my mind before climbing out of the abyss and becoming who I am now. And, who am I now? I don't know for sure. I'm still changing. I'm still morphing. I'm still eccentric. I still love the big life but I have also learned the value of and joy of comfort of peace. Peace is what I have found in large measure...although I still have my demons...the fears that haunt me deep in the night. But, it's a ride I wanted. And I'm enjoying the ride.
And, while I was living this movie in my mind, I changed in some ways and remained very much myself in others. I still have a soft heart, I still fight for the underdog, I'm still stubborn, I'm still somewhat bawdy, I'm still a lover of black humor and incongruity. I'm still sensitive. I still cry easily. I still love strongly. I have never moved to the dreaded burbs nor bought a SUV.
Today I live a strange life. Not strange to me of course, but not the normal life of most of the world. I stay up late into the night. I am a creature of the night. I do not drink. I quit smoking when I passed a milestone birthday. I still am not a Donna Reed housewife and never will be. I still have a soft heart. I still know how to love and I also know how to finally let go of the hurts of the past...most of them anyway.
I recommend growing older. It's so much more interesting and the world is so much larger. Your thoughts are based on many more experiences. Life does not have to be a cliche. And, I, Sasha, sit here typing away and indulging in cliches while trying to be iconoclastic. Yes, I'm an iconoclast but I can't force it. That's contradictory to be a true eccentric. I have become who I have become and I will become Sasha with other layers added as the years pass by. I once ran from change. I now see that change is inevitable. Some hurts so much that you feel as if you are literally choking and some makes you soar with a joy that knows no bounds. It's an interesting trip and I've enjoyed it in it's whole even though suffering moments of tremendous sadness and hurt.
I guess I am a grown up. But, I'm one of the weirdest grown ups you will ever know. And that's good.
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
Now That I've Started I Don't Want to Stop
For me, writing is something akin to sex. In other words, the more I write, the more I want to write. It's not that I have anything earth shattering to relate. If I do have great thoughts, I'm totally unaware of it. I don't pretend, despite my academic background, to be a great writer, or to spell perfectly, or to be one to parse words. Blogging is much like painting was to me (yes, i was a professonal artist before I turned my back on that life and joined the academic world). With painting, I never knew what might emerge. I let the ideas flow and the paint do what it would. My mentor, who planned everything with exactitude was driven wild by my emotional approach to art. Face it: I'm more emotional than cerebral. That's what makes me tick and I can't do a hell of a lot to change that nor do I particularly want to change this deeply embedded part of my personality at this late date.
1nd I had to find my own way in art and in life. And that is what I did. Not without pain. God, it was painful to leave that place and that man but I had to. I had to save what was me and to keep myself into merging into his strong persona. So, I went back to college and received my masters and began teaching. And, he thought I was a sell out and I thought I had finally found my place in the world because I knew I was a nurturer at heart. Those were good years teaching my 18 and sometimes many years older, students. They were, for the most part, a joy and kept me young and my mind was far more nimble and agile than it is today. But, when I met my husband, we had a problem. He lived in Arizona and I lived in East Texas. After some debate, I decided to move to Arizona, to give up my job, and to marry this strange man that loved me and that I loved. But that really is another story entirely. It's much more complicated than I make it sound. And, I will have to explain later about the tangled path that brought me to him.
1nd I had to find my own way in art and in life. And that is what I did. Not without pain. God, it was painful to leave that place and that man but I had to. I had to save what was me and to keep myself into merging into his strong persona. So, I went back to college and received my masters and began teaching. And, he thought I was a sell out and I thought I had finally found my place in the world because I knew I was a nurturer at heart. Those were good years teaching my 18 and sometimes many years older, students. They were, for the most part, a joy and kept me young and my mind was far more nimble and agile than it is today. But, when I met my husband, we had a problem. He lived in Arizona and I lived in East Texas. After some debate, I decided to move to Arizona, to give up my job, and to marry this strange man that loved me and that I loved. But that really is another story entirely. It's much more complicated than I make it sound. And, I will have to explain later about the tangled path that brought me to him.
Why am i doing this again ?
How many blogs have I written on various blog sites; only to lose them when I forget my password? I blogged continuously on myspace for several years and, then, in a moment of supreme madness, closed my account without saving my blogs. Those blogs were certainly not crown jewels and I suppose I don't need them but I want them. So here I sit at 3:45 a.m., deep in the desert, trying to write a sensible blog. Frankly, I'm not good at sensible blogs and analyses. I can do that, but my years in academia have ruined all my desires to prove I am intelligent. I figure I am intelligent enough and don't need to prove it. At this point in my life, I'm more filled with with memories; both good and bad. Sometimes memories are all we have left.
For example: Both my parents died in 1998. I loved them dearly and was shaken to my core by their deaths. I clung to anything that belonged to them as if they were first degree relics (yes, I'm Catholic of the cafeteria variety). Now, I am letting go of those things that make no sense to keep forever enshrined. Things don't bring back my parents but memories do. So, I guess I have moved along somewhat in the seemingly neverending grief process.
I'm a very happily married woman and I love my memories of my husbands
and my courtship and that heady feeling when we first met, when we decided to make a life together, when we married, when I realized someone finally loved the wicked black humor and slight oddness that is me.
I have lesser memories of the few men I loved before I found my one and only and I sometimes think of them in a strange detached way. But I like those memories and I am actually glad that I was a little bit wild during my late teens and early 20's. I lived in Austin at just the right time...when Willie was singing at the Broken Spoke and the world hadn't come and knocked down the doors. Austin was like a small town then and everyone seemed to know everyone else. And, it was heading being young, a bit wild, and discovering the power of femininity. However, even then, I was a duck out of water as I've always been.
I can't be pigeonholed. People try but they are wrong in their guesses as to what makes me ME. I'm either so out I'm in or so in that I'm out or none of the above. I seem to be one step ahead of the times but don't know how I got to that place. I've been a lucky woman to have been loved and to be loved and to give love. After all, I do realize that love is really what matters in this life. Yes, it sounds trite, but without love, life has little joy. So I am thankful for the love I've given and that I have received and for the good man I found in my middle years.
For example: Both my parents died in 1998. I loved them dearly and was shaken to my core by their deaths. I clung to anything that belonged to them as if they were first degree relics (yes, I'm Catholic of the cafeteria variety). Now, I am letting go of those things that make no sense to keep forever enshrined. Things don't bring back my parents but memories do. So, I guess I have moved along somewhat in the seemingly neverending grief process.
I'm a very happily married woman and I love my memories of my husbands
and my courtship and that heady feeling when we first met, when we decided to make a life together, when we married, when I realized someone finally loved the wicked black humor and slight oddness that is me.
I have lesser memories of the few men I loved before I found my one and only and I sometimes think of them in a strange detached way. But I like those memories and I am actually glad that I was a little bit wild during my late teens and early 20's. I lived in Austin at just the right time...when Willie was singing at the Broken Spoke and the world hadn't come and knocked down the doors. Austin was like a small town then and everyone seemed to know everyone else. And, it was heading being young, a bit wild, and discovering the power of femininity. However, even then, I was a duck out of water as I've always been.
I can't be pigeonholed. People try but they are wrong in their guesses as to what makes me ME. I'm either so out I'm in or so in that I'm out or none of the above. I seem to be one step ahead of the times but don't know how I got to that place. I've been a lucky woman to have been loved and to be loved and to give love. After all, I do realize that love is really what matters in this life. Yes, it sounds trite, but without love, life has little joy. So I am thankful for the love I've given and that I have received and for the good man I found in my middle years.
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