can you tell me
why all these
young girls
with long
beautiful hair
soft luscious cheeks
sumptuous curves
adoration for vegan
virtuous fighters of oppression
woke to the point of irritation
their love for queer
impeccable music taste

can you tell me
why they
drape themselves
in death wraps
secondhand
blood-infused frocks

insidious corpses
stitched together
for what
to keep warm
when it drops to -2

can you tell me
why complacency wins

Stitch by stitch,
fingers move like ghosts in dim-lit rooms,
eyes strained, backs bent,
breath laced with dust and silence.

A label whispers luxury,
a name stitched in gold,
but behind the seams,
a child traces hunger with trembling hands.

The clock does not sleep,
nor do the hands that sew,
woven into fabric priced in dollars,
while wages shrink to cents.

Promises drape the storefronts,
Ethical. Sustainable. Fair.
But behind factory doors,
needles pierce more than cloth.

Somewhere, a thread unravels,
and a name is lost in the weave,
a worker, a mother, a child.
Their voices fade,
but the machines never stop.

(a holiday vignette)

I’m taking a chunk of my holi-days to work on my thesis (So is Lisa). Without classes we can fully devote our minds to them.
My senior thesis hangs over me, I can’t ignore it.

I banged my funny bone - what even IS a funny bone? My entire arm is tingly and numb.
This song is playing → ’Talk talk featuring troye sivan by Charli xcx & Troye Sivan” I’m feeling so happy—it’s electric—peridot—it’s good.

I’ve got a buffalo. (a buffalo is a cool, high or positive event)
It’s really not that much of a story.
Lisa and I were walking down 5th avenue and there was like, this old man, who was standing out by the curb with a camera—in kind of an adorable way—looking for things to take pictures of—so I smiled as we walked by. Not Lisa though, she’s from Manhattan. Manhattan girls don’t smile on the street.

Then he was like, “Stop, STOP! Stop right there!” I stopped, Lisa walked on a step or two.
“I take street photos, and I want YOU TWO to model in them.”
I was like, “OH, oh NOOO, I don’t know about that.” I looked to Lisa, who looked aghast.
“I use the pictures for street fashion layouts - have you seen New York Magazine’s ‘Street Style?’
“What are you stopping for?” Lisa whispered to me exasperatedly.” She has a horror of modeling.
“He’s kind of adorable, don’t you think?” I asked in a ‘come on,’ pleading voice.
“Most of the time they don’t even use the faces—and I can give you one if you’d like,” he said.
He handed me a New York Magazine business card, he’s on Insta, so he wasn’t some crazy homeless guy.
“Ok, I said,” after a moment, shruggingly. He smiled and backed off several feet, getting ready.
"Anais!" Lisa said, shocked at my ‘out of towner’ naiveite, “I’m not,” she shorthanded, stepping away.

So, for a couple of minutes he took a potpourri of pix, posing me with comments like “turn sideways, pout, pop your waist,” and “look bored.” Now it was cool and windy, I was wearing a hoodie and jeans, and he was never creepy or anything, but I thought, ‘how do you pop your hip in a hoodie?’

As we walked away, Lisa said, “Why’d you agree to do that?”
“Charles is here,” I said defensively, “he had a card and book,” I shrugged. If anything, Charles was amused.
He gave me a couple of pics - cringy and un-model-ly. I think he really wanted Lisa (duh). Anyway, that was my New Year’s Day buffalo. I felt glamorous—for a minute.
Then we went for apple-brandy slushies—which were pretty buffalo too.
.
.
Songs for this:
Glamour Girl by Louie Austen
Street Life by Randy Crawford
Talk talk featuring troye sivan by Charli xcx & Troye Sivan

Maybe you’ve gone with Moss Bros
Or you’ve stuck to trusty M&S
But I can point to a surer way
to ensure you’re dressed for success

No matter how long you’ve spent
Adjusting your silks and laces
No matter how hard it was
to talk him out of his lairy braces

Whether you selected a Windsor knot
Or your favourite velvet bow tie
[A bold choice, Toby.]
I can share some well-worn wisdom
By which you should always abide

I know a dress code tested by time
Simple words to which we should hold
Simple but essential for all of us here
So let’s check we’re all properly clothed

Next time you’re walking down the red carpet
And they ask, ‘Who are you wearing?’
There's no need to look for the neckline label
Don’t waste your time with checking

Every day you both put on Christ
You kit yourselves out with the King
Knowing this is all that you’ll need
For whatever the day will bring

But like royal robes or battle armour
His garments come in layers
Put them on in careful sequence
Buttoned up with tailored prayers

You begin with feather-lite Compassion
Laced with silken Kindness
It’s followed by soft Humility
A garment that’s forever timeless

You add to this tough Gentleness
That’s core to the Saviour’s style
With a lining of weighty Patience
So you can each stay versatile

You ensure the ensemble’s been well steamed
With a fierce, cleansing Forgiveness
You set the dial high enough
To remove past creases of grievance

Now, some might think this will be enough
That that is ample fussing
But there’s one remaining layer
That you know isn’t worth you rushing

Over each of these rich garments
to keep them all in place
you put on the strong bond of Love
like a long full-body embrace

Then whatever the weather or season
on each and every occasion
You can both enjoy the Peace of knowing
You’ll never need alterations
*
You may have heard it said
And with Thanks we can affirm
Some fashions do remain timeless
And this one's designed for long term

I let Fast Fashion pass me by
I choose a slower way
I watch the needle drop right down
And I while away the day

I choose the Slowest Fashion
The one grandmother wore
I now knit at the slowest pace
With no desire for more

I knit and purl to my content
This is my path to peace
But don't ask me to knit for you
This one is for my niece

My skin bleeds in anguish,
I do not understand my eyes.
My lips are charred,
My legs are aching.
Perhaps because for a long time they have been carrying the burdens of beauty.
I feel ugly to my core,
It's a truth I have accepted.
I see pretty girls in glamorous fashion,
I look down at my worn shoes and jacket.
I don't like my body.
Perhaps we can exchange our mortal trappings.
Then I could be the beauty with a brain,
And I won't have to compensate
For the ugliness running in my blood veins.
My hands are trembling,
I dislike my ****** structure .
Nobody could love my body, they could perhaps love my soul.
It's a compensation that I always pay.
For If I am ugly and mean,
I think I will be a bigger loser.
Somewhere I have to win.
Pride is a false illusion that I feel for my medals and trophies.
Nothing matters because
My body cannot be loved in this lifetime.

Leeza, Lisa’s 14-year-old little sister, is anxious about the first day of school. She didn’t tell me that, I’m not sure 14-year-olds talk anymore.

Now that I’m almost 21, I can roll my eyes, like everyone else, and say, “Teenagers.”

Leeza’s a jingli, all-angles, taller than I am (when did THAT happen),
redhead who’s fast becoming a Lisa-like beauty.

School starts, for her, in 11 days and every piece of clothing she owns is draped across the furniture in her room or the floor, as she organizes her skool outfits.

There’s a pile of rejected apparel in one corner - the outcasts -
and a stack of magazine cutouts showing the clothes she plans to buy.

I wandered into her room that afternoon and she watched
me suspiciously, like I might steal her nonexistent baby.

“These might go together,” I said, holding up a top and skirt as a combo.
She winced, involuntarily, as if exposed to something distasteful.

Apparently, I’m getting old and my teen-taste is attenuated or worse yet - past its expiration date.
.
.
A song for this:
Houdini by Eminem [E]
Smells Like Teen Spirit by Nirvana

Vintage Chanel lives rent free in my mind
the colors are deep, subtle and magical.
Over time, the originally soft textures,
become luscious, like a lover's caressing touch.

In college, you dress down,
you want to blend in, not stand out
gods forbid you flag entitlement
and draw envy's barbed compliments.

The simple styles bear the twin burdens
of camouflage and practicality.

In Paris, fashion can be capricious,
but elegance is a silent conversation,
with its own intricate vocabulary in drape,
line, fabric and in painstaking choice.

In places where fashion matters - Paris, Manhattan, the Hamptons,
it can signal position, the way uniforms signal authority everywhere.

A splash of fashion can not only have a fabulous effect
on how its wearer feels, it can tell important stories.

I’m told that, in back rooms, where fortunes are awarded or lost,
fashion can announce arrival, rank, and intent.
It can whisper new wealth, in upstart display
or a threadbare, silent duel with mounting debt
.
.
Songs for this:
The Way It Is by Bruce Hornsby & The Range
Read Between the Lines by The Bingtones

As we sailed the fast river of Rhône
the steady sun bleached it a sparkling gold
like the treasures of Caesar’s kingdom

A curtain of fawn-silken tackle, shaded
back the fervidly garish star scatter,
and cooling flower-scented airs tickled
the senses like touching down-soft silk

"zhuang hong zhuang sheng" (Chinese)
“Put on airs’ - Peter and I are Gatsby gilded.
Why not dress - on luminous forenoons?

Pick a heart, any heart and ***** it, sharply,
with the sight of a handsome man.
I yet breathless, breathe

What weapon is sharper than libido?

I defend myself, with fashion’s sartorial sparkle.
Frankly, I was hoping for something passively ******,
you know, foment a false perception - dazzle
with fancy outwork to tip the cosmic balance

Men will witness what they believe
.
.
song for this:
Desperately Trying by Club des Belugas, Anna Luca

10p.0615