(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.
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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.
.
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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
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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
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song for this:
Desperately Trying by Club des Belugas, Anna Luca

10p.0615

This happened last Fall, during Thanksgiving break.

Lisa and I were at the MET (The Metropolitan Museum of Art), with her family, at an exhibit of Art Deco sculpture. Lisa and I came out of a gallery and there was a group of older adults gathered near a bar.
“Hermé!” Lisa suddenly squealed. “Come on,” she said, dragging me towards the group. “I want you to meet one of my favorite people in the world!”

We crossed the room and found ourselves at the back of a large group, Lisa nodded to highlight a 60ish (I’m being generous here) lady. She was wearing a midnight blue Givenchy asymmetric midi dress and way too much jewelry. Both arms featured large and small gold bracelets that jingled when she moved. “She’s a friend of my grandma's,” Lisa said, “she’s off the hook.”

Hermé was chatting with those close to her and after a minute, Lisa said, “I’ll get us a drink, wait here,” and headed for the bar. Watching Hermé, I decided that she embodied the 4 fashion-aesthetic-principles: 1) dress for the occasion, 2) look good, 3) feel good, and 4) be seen looking good. She was definitely the center of attention.

People peeled off the group, one or two at a time, as people will do and as I got closer, Hermé was saying, “Russians - the way human history repeats itself, it’s like we’re in a time loop.” There were sounds of agreement.

When there were only a handful of us, I was the odd one out, being under 60. Hermé asked me, “And who are you?”
“A friend of Lisa’s,” I glanced over and waved at Lisa, who waved back, “Anais,” I finished, offering my hand. She was wearing little white gloves which suddenly seemed like genius (in these virus times).

“What did you think of the exhibit?” She asked, looking through the ½-frame glasses perched on her nose.

“Art Deco Sculpture?” I shrugged, looking around at the room’s remaining art lovers, “It looks like men doing heroic things with their clothes off.. like always?” The silence that followed seemed to beg for words, but I felt like maybe I’d said too much.

Then she laughed. The laugh was as measured and controlled as an opera singer’s vibrato. There were a couple of other chuckles too. Then she became serious, “What do you think of the Ukraine mess?”

“I’m a pre-med major,” I started to demur, but her gaze was on me uncomfortably, “Putin *****,” I answered.

She smiled, this time with no hesitation. “You’re a Yaleie - with Lisa?” She followed up.
“Yes mam,” I answered. I guessed she’d seen Lisa steer me over. She was sharp as a tack - I decided I liked her.

Her cell phone chirped then, and she excused herself. I mean she said, “excuse me” and everyone else made themselves scarce. As I took a few steps toward the bar I overheard her telling the caller, “Tell him he can just have it..” and after a split-second she added, “at cost.” I had to smile, no one’s as cheap as the rich.

I reached Lisa as she picked up our drinks, two American martinis (gin, vermouth and olives).
“Hermé has a ‘gild’ complex,” I whispered, indicating the glittering, fake gold fashion on display.
“No!” Lisa said in shocked amusement. This was more than repartee, it was 411.
“I’d be willing to bet.” I assured her, quipping, “fashion is my passion,” before I sipped my drink.
Lisa moved around to where she could inconspicuously observe Hermé better - we didn’t want to be rude.
“I like her, but her Louis Vuitton “Ponthieu” handbag is fake,” I said in a low murmur, “the pleshette’s wrong and the logo etching is too deep and reflective.
Lisa sipped her drink with an “mmm,” as she appraised Hermé anew.
“Her bracelets and necklaces are fake too,” I continued, “fake gold glitters, reflecting light like a mirror, real gold lusters, it caresses and almost deflects light.” After a second I nva’d, “Of course, she might be afraid of being robbed.”

An elderly man, about 90 (my guess), who’d been in Hermé’s group a minute ago, was making his way, slowly, in our direction. He was wearing a suit with black, tuxedo pants and a deep-red crushed-velvet coat with black trim.
“Who shot the couch?” I whispered to Lisa. We thought he was headed to the bar. But he stepped right up to us.

“What are they teaching you girls at Yale these days?” He asked. He had a ******-mary in one hand, so I opened up.
“A load of science, and how to do laundry,” I said, and wanting to escape the usual questions, I added, “and there’s a lot of drinking.” Leaning in confidentially, I added, “It’s opened me up, emotionally.”

“I was raised in the old ‘carnage on the highways, broken lives, stay away’ days,” he revealed, winking.
“But you got over it,” I nodded at his cup.
“We evolve, you know?” He said.
“Yes sir,” I grinned, “I hope so.”

As we talked, Lisa’s dad, Michael, joined us. “What are you two up to,” he asked, then, under his breath he added, “you seem conspiratorial.”
“Nothing,” Lisa said. “We’re taking fashion.” I updogged.
“Better lose those,” he nodded to Lisa indicating our drinks, “before your mother and Leeza get here.”
We’re under 21 and she doesn’t like us to drink in (Manhattan) public.
.
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Songs for this:
Dat's love (From "Carmen Jones") by Lesley Garrett, Andrew Greenwood & Philharmonia Orchestra
Far Far Away (Charles Tone Mix) [feat. Brenda Boykin] by Tape Five
Martino Cafe by Gabrielle Chiararo

It’s Harvard VS Yale this weekend, the vibes are just starting now. Everyone - and I mean everyone - has been asking about my game tickets, because guest tickets are $25 a pop. I’m more interested in the parties than the game, so I donated mine (Students get 1 free ticket and they can buy 2 for $15 each) to Lisa (one of my suitemates) for her family.

Lisa, Leong, Anna and I are getting ready to go down to the dining hall. Lisa asks the room, “Harry Styles’ new buzzcut - Yes, or No?”
“No,” Leong said, not looking up from her teen fashion magazine.
“Oh, no - God no,” I answered, “The worst decision of 2023.”
Anna blows a raspberry, “I think he’s trying to ditch his ‘pretty boy’ image and go hard rock.”
Lisa followed up, “And?..” “And NO, disaster NO, jump the shark NO,” Anna answered.
“I’m a NO also” Lisa admitted, and she’s a h-core Styles fan.

Later, Lisa was reclining on my bed, using every pillow I own to turn it into a chaise lounge that wouldn’t wrinkle her outfit. Her heels were on the floor and her bare feet were dangling in the air. Her toenails were a French tipped twinkly-pink.

She was slurping on a Coke-Zero - again - for a much-needed kick of caffeine before the night's events - which made me feel guilty, because she picked that up when I took her to Paris last summer. I’ve told her (a million times) how bad it is for her metabolism and endocrine system.
“How could you do this to me?” I asked, as if exasperated - which is currently our in-joke for everything.
“Now-now-now now-now,” she says, in self-defense, “what SHOULD I be drinking then?”
“H2-oh,” I say. “H20, as in water,” she sort of inquired, she then asked, “What’s the ‘2’ stand for?”
“Twenty,” I think, snarking back.
“Oh, you fancy, huh?” she laughed.
“I’m in college.” I shruggingly bragged.

I was shuffling through my closet, trying to pick out an outfit that would, at least, look ‘ok’ next to Lisa’s ‘in your face’ fun mix of pinks and purples sprinkled with neon greens.
Barbie herself could never.
I doubted I could keep with the theme.

My secret to dressing for these endless ‘theme’ parties, is to just tune out the noise and focus on your feels. If you give too much weight to how others will judge you, it’ll ruin the moment. I ended up wearing a vintage, deep blue, Betsey Johnson dress with matching tights and black ballet flats. Glittery, smokey-eye makeup and messy curls completed the 'très bien ensemble'.

I looked in the mirror, hoping for glam, and shrugged, “the scene’s going to be moody-lit anyway,” I said, as an excuse to the universe.

“You’re going to ******-der-der,” Lisa pronounced, as we gathered our bags to leave. “******-der-der?” I chuckled.
“******-der-der,” she confirmed, as if it were obvious.

h-core = *******