Thursday, April 23, 2009
On reflection, it all came down to nylon -
stockings, bras, pants.
Of course, there were the other things -
swing of buttocks, flap of breasts,
a whole shape of arc and indent.
But somehow, it was the synthetics,
hitched by nylon, an erotic mechanics,
that set us light years apart.
What did we have when we undressed?
Socks. Jockeys. A string vest.
But when they stepped out
of shoes, blouse, and skirt -
voila! The French maid: that circumflex
of taut stocking-band; knickers
sheeny as a courtesan's; the stripper's
unhooking acrobatics; and the Lautrec
girl stooping as puckered hose slithers.
They held us in a man-made scissors.
Robert Maitre (1944- )
I reached into my closet today took hold of the brown and white polka dot dress, ready to put on comfort & glamour. However I've had too many of these days and both of the shoulders are complete worn out. I know that I can make this repair easily, but it's fun to dream of new ones (along with new accessories I can't possibly afford.) This seems to be the trend with most of my clothes these days, as I have a really large bag filled with, "fix it" items. Will I ever?
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
I find that when I dream about my boudoir I, romanticism takes over my brain. It's as if I'm Madame Bovary and I desire violet cotton handkerchiefs, soft pink silks that look like ballet slippers, breezy lace curtains, wooden hand-painted fans, bolts of red toille, glamorous glass bottles of flowery perfumes, grandiose mirrors with gold leaf frames, and delicate gloves with buttons on the side. What is it about romantic items like these that make a gal's heart flutter? Is it the care we imagine we will take to dress ourselves in a boudoir? It is that we imagine we will emerge flawless and more elegant? Will picking out clothing be easier? Or will we continue, in the rush of the morning, find our clothes on the closet floor or hastily slug on wooden hangers? Will our shoes be gleaming on the organized shelves? Or scattered across the carpet with dirt stuck to the stiletto heels?
Sunday, April 19, 2009
Friday, April 17, 2009
Black and white musicians jived between each other. All were artists, playing foolish, having fights and making love." Chuck Berry
As a girl in Texas, I used to love to run back to the chicken coop and watch the hens meander about. There was something about the one that was black and white that I liked best. She was the biggest, so we named her Big Mama Dot, a name she carried well. I loved to go visit her on hot summer afternoons, to open the latch, and walk into their little wooden haven. It was cooler in there and smelled of crispy hay. Big Mama Dot would always greet me at the door eager for the days kitchen scraps. In exchange for carrot tops, egg shells, lettuce, onion peels, and other vegetable scraps, I would get to reach in the wine boxes that held the nests and grab a warm freshly laid brown egg. I think I got the best part of the deal.