Old skin

It's funny....It's been a while since we broke..yet, once in a while, I find myself missing HIM. Like a whiff of a stranger's perfume or a fleeting image, a memory of him appears and creates a ...pause.

I shake it off. Memories of him no longer make me sad...or even melancholy. I can listen to, what used to be, our song and not feel that familiar stabbing pain in my heart I learned to count as my own when we were together.

But once in a while...once in a while a song comes along and I revert. Memories of our wintery love flash back...I long for my friend. I long for the  LOVE I had with a handsome man who loved me so passionately. I mourn what we used to be. I close my eyes...and wish I was back in his arms and all was right with the world. The future that I once held in my hand...the future with grey eyes and soft lips...is gone forever. It was never "to be"...but the pain remains. Despite how strongly I convinced myself that it was the right choice.
I KNOW with the entirety of my being that it was the right choice. But my heart misses nonetheless...especially on cold dark nights like tonight.

I blink and the moment passes. He was not the ONE.
...all the is left now are killer songs.

Black is the new black.

I have been feeling strange lately...I have lived in scrubs for so long that I have began to forget my own sense of style. I spent my free time wearing the same dull outfits that fulfilled a function but have criminally lacked any passion or individuality.

I am an avid shopper. Ravenous fashion fiend. That has not, nor will ever, truly change. And I get easily inspired...the spring and fall couture collections are literally my porn. I love in-depth discussions on colors, profiles on designer inspirations, arguments on which trend will dominate our lives for the next year. You have your sport scores...I have Marc Jacobs and Uncle Karl.

Like any fashionista worth her salt I have my icons. The girls that have, and always will, inspire countless generations to aspire to the level of chic-ness once attained by these ethereal beauties. The danger lies in letting aspiration become imitation. In an effort to change...to evolve...I have sought out bohemian dresses...punk rings...hipster tops...and, God help me, COLOR.
I defied my body shape, my measurements...even my inherent darkness, to create a "festival-living, trust-fund girl on a year sabbatical, living on music and cigarettes" wardrobe...that hangs lifelessly in my closet. Stylish pieces undoubtedly...but not ME. I honestly do not know why this happened. In part, probably because i truly LOVE (nay, live for) fashion and "experimenting" is the name of the game. Partly, I must admit, because at some point the all-black, sleek silhouettes with low cut backs and high slits, leather and cashmere...tattoos and cat eyeliner...get old. Become an imitation of what you thought you were. Become boring...and invite rebellion.
And this constant search for the new...ME? ...became exhausting too. And it made me forget a part of me that I really liked. Does that even make sense??

I went out with some friends the other night... I came running from work, frustrated at not knowing what to wear...confused about the appropriate amount of what to reveal (more on that to come)...I reached for my favorite black skinnies. A black sleeveless cashmere turtleneck. Tousled hair, black eyeliner, a couple rings. Simple, comfortable...like a second skin. As I walked through the square on my way to the restaurant I heard whistles from ages 18-45 and saw jealous glances from my gender. My gait was strong, my eyes lit up, I  ...I felt like myself. (Not that this is the one true measure of an outfit but stated only to give the complete picture. Even if the aforementioned did not happen I would've still felt the same. Moving on. )And I realized that at this stage of the game my style is set. I do not know why I fought my nature when it was never wrong. My fashion sense has never been critiqued...it has always been admired and desired by others. Yet I fought against it because I thought it too basic to suit what I saw my life being.
But when I reached out for it, it was there, like always. My second skin.

Style is not something one should actively think about. It MUST be organic to work. Anything less will look too poised and will never belong to you. It is perfectly and expectedly natural to look at trends and appropriate the major themes. But it is futile to try to emulate every look of one's icon to the tee -- all it will become is a fun-house mirror image of the truth. No one grows up wanting to be a mime, right?

So there it is. I am back to black. Back to reaching out for things that slither...hug every curve...and envelop in luxury. Back to the deviant and slightly obscene. Back to utterly chic and unmistakably dark. That is who I am....and I shall no longer fight it. My style will evolve -- but on its own. There will be more couture, more sophistication...but there will always, ALWAYS, a tiny streak of the dark, for one cannot deny one's nature.

Los Caprichos

Masks...all I see around me is masks. 

They begin floating around me, perfect white faces that exude a light that can only come from quality porcelain. They are somewhat plump, illuminated, yet without definitive characteristics.
They spin and spin around...despite my best efforts to focus on the lush darkness I crave they force themselves into my vision again and again. Not offensive but definitely NOT helpful.

Suddenly black streaks of paint begin to appear on their faces. A streak here...a streak there...the masks do not seem to notice. But the black paint spreads...it discolors them and makes them change...
as if in a reaction the masks begin to shrink and grow...they wither away only to come back enlarged...they run away and come right back, incessantly. I reach out for solace. My thoughts won't let me rest.

They aggressively mutate into distorted faces that now show expression. They scream and laugh...they push themselves into every corner of my vision...they bring forth thoughts I've worked all day to suppress. I turn away...I push them away...I hide to no avail.
They mock my efforts to silence them. Over and over they change, they spin and fly, they taunt...And no matter how hard I shut my eyes they are omnipresent. My darkness...my lush darkness disappears. It cannot compete with filthy little masks that shut it out.  Ravenous masks devour my darkness...the rip it to shreds and fill it with bright white.
I toss and turn...Hours fly by.

...a little furry paw stretches across my face. I hear soft purring- someone obviously has no problems sleeping. How I envy her sometimes...to me sleep has been an elusive retreat for so long. I chase it nightly. That peaceful rest that makes one feel refreshed and satisfied... is a rarity for me.

Perhaps tonight it will come...Lofticries.

nurture my nature

I cannot deny my roots. I do not want to.
Yet I instinctively balk when someone asks me where I am from....I find the question repugnant. I become defensive...
they must be questioning if I belong.. identifying me as a stranger amidst their kind.
Ostracizing me for the faint accent they hear...How dare they! haha

Of course, I am sure that is a gross over-reaction. I do not look American. I do not talk or dress like the girls that surround me. I am undeniably, clearly... Russian. But I loathe that "Russian" has become synonymous with fur, and glitter, and garish opulence. With loud voices and rude behavior. With too much make-up and flashy...everything. Worldwide we are represented by the few who are able to travel and flaunt their wealth dripping in distaste and bad manners...which, unfortunately, is not who we are as a people. We do not live on vodka and potatoes. We do not throw tantrums like petulant children or become a spectacle of poor taste. We love culture and value intelligence...but we are often not seen amidst the Euro trash that has infected every country on the planet under the guise of the "Russian invasion."

ugh. KILL ME NOW.

At my core I am so deeply PROUD of my blood. My blood, that spawned a great Imperial power. My blood that birthed great poets and composers.

My Russia is hard to describe. But when I close my eyes and think of my home...this is what I see...

                                     

                                     

These are my people...

Sometimes I long for my childhood...for the amazing food that quenches the soul. For the music that makes me feel like I belong. For the beauty that can only be found in my continent. (Yes, continent. Twelve time zones people. Not filled with bears walking the streets or permanently covered in snow)... The stereotypes that fill pop culture are partly our fault...we do nothing to dispel them and choose to ignore rather than to correct. As if talking about the truth will somehow betray our secrets.

I guard my heritage, I do not talk about my past...nor do I flaunt it like some other cultures, only to alienate those around me because they are less "ethnic." Tres gauche mon ami.

I carry it with me...I love the Russian tid bits that sprinkle randomly into my life. I never pass up a chance to speak with those who understand me. I SAVOR the jokes and, embarrassingly, the epic curse words. I am proud that Russians are known for their strength and their beauty.

Unfortunately I do not have Russian friends. I do not surround myself with Russian music or literature on a daily basis...but when I happen to hear a song from days long gone I miss my home. My heart aches for the country that no longer knows me...the country that I will never live in. I miss the humid summer nights scented by field flowers, the crisp dark snow-covered nights, the antique perfume permeating the halls of the St Petersburg subway...the comradery of a Russian gathering where laughter and wine are never-ending and every person treats you like family.


My blood cannot be denied..My offspring will know our past - they will represent the land I love to my core, with dignity and a superiority created by good breeding and a noble past. They will never be "nouveau." They will quietly build our legacy and will never be a caricature of those that came before them. And perhaps, one day, "Russian" won't mean "spy," or "drunkard," or "mafia"...it will mean "interesting," "intelligent," or "exotic" again.

I know, I will return...if not permanently, at least enough to feel at home again. To feel like I belong to something much greater...a collective "Borg" that thinks and feels as one.
Suffers as one.
Loves as one.
Survives and prospers together...as one.

because sometimes I am a joiner

                           

15 things you may not know about Bellatrix (interspersed with pictures of mini fashionistas, because why not- here's your daily dose of chic lilliput realness):

1. when I was 5 I thought it was the greatest idea to tie myself and my giant stuffed dog to my mom's tiny foot in the hopes that she would walk and carry us with her. It never went well.

2. I hate clowns. Terribly, inexplicably and with the entirety of my being. I blame watching "It" when I was a child. I can be covered in blood/emesis/poop or watch "Church of Fudge" (do NOT look that one up. Ever.) and not blink an eye but clowns make me physically ill.

3. There was a time when I wanted to be a cat so much I actually forced myself to sleep in contortionist positions like my kitten hoping that the practice would make me more akin to my favorite creature. Neck cramps happened.

4. I could not/can not eat something sweet on it's own. I have to have meat. Oatmeal? Sausage accompaniment. Cereal? Bacon. Salad? Heresy without protein. :p

5. I can dance straight for 8 hours without a break but if you ask me to run half a mile I will die. My cardio situation is a puzzle.

 6. I often cannot tell the difference between appropriate and not. I do not mean fart jokes or other simpleton fodder...I mean I do not know when laughing at the insignificance of humanity by describing the blood and gore of my job will be appreciated by my audience or met with dismay...and more emesis.

7. I thinks animals can feel. And think, on their own level. They respond...they love...they hurt. And I will never understand people who do not. That said...I am not vegan nor do I trust people who do not eat meat. There is a difference between being a natural killer and a martyr. I am the former.

8. This has been said before but bears repeating because it is integral to who I am. I live to travel. I NEED to travel. If I was forced to live and die in the same city, even if it was New York or Paris...I would slit my wrists immediately. Life is not a life well lived if you have not seen the world. I would crawl...beg, lie and steal to do that. Trust.

9. No matter what I say or do...at my core I truly want to be a descent human. Not perfect or overtly moral...Just a good human that contributed something to the world.

10. I live and die for my friends. What's mine is yours. To Russians friendship is sacred. It must be protected and honored to the last breath. Our friends are our blood...and they know that.

11. My favorite time? A summer dusk as it becomes night. I love sitting outside...barefoot...feeling the hot day melt into a smoldering night...hearing the cicadas chirping as your thoughts run away... I could spend eternity sitting by a fire pit with my glass of wine, looking at the stars...

12. I love black. Black has been my companion for a very long time. And yet, as I have mentioned before, I am also bound by it. I feel trapped in that nothing but black feels normal. Nothing feels like it fits unless it's black. I love the way all black makes anyone look incredibly chic....but I often fear on me it has lost the effect after years of living in it's shadow.

13. I want a fox. I will not live my life without owning a domesticated red fox from a Siberian institute. It is, perhaps, eccentric...unnecessary...silly?...but I need it. This is happening.

14. My favorite book is " The Little Prince." I read it every couple of years and it always reveals nuances missed previously. It is deliciously well written and absolutely fabulous in its simplicity. It has quotes for every situation in your life. And, of course, a fox. Boom.

15. I fear...not finding love. I always find romances...fleeting relationships...brief, exciting affairs. But I am afraid that I will go through this life on my own as I have done thus far. I do "solitary" impeccably...but I do long for a lasting love. A partnership that I have only seen in movies and books...for I have yet to see it in real life.

Ma belle enfant

Spring is coming...and with that many of my friends will become mothers. It is the natural course, I suppose...after all we are all now of the age when child-bearing takes precedence. Careers are in full swing, accomplishments pour in, love...well, for the lucky ones, love blooms. How incredible it must be to create a human being with the one you love most in the world?

I have always known I would have a child. Nay, I have always known I would have a GIRL. It may sound strange but sometimes I imagine what it will be like...to have a mini-me so perfect that each day will be spent marveling at the beauty that my body gave me. To have my entire happiness wrapped up into a single tiny being who thinks of me as the her universe. Her alpha and omega. At least until she grows up and knows better :)

I imagine the trips we will take to the sea...not unlike the ones I have spent with my mother. I remember being held in the powerful tide by a beautiful girl, MY universe as it were, and knowing that I was protected...utterly loved. I felt the sun shinning on my face and I laughed as the water hit us...My mother gave me an unforgettable childhood.

I think of the child I shall have if I am lucky enough. I have often dreamt of her...I had this dream of travelling with a little blond doll..serious and incredibly curious. I struggled in my sleep when she asked me to explain why water and oil could not mix. She sat next to me on our plane and impatiently kicked her tiny foot clad in a mini horse-riding boot while I waxed on the principles of hydrophilicity. Silly, I know.

I imagine dancing while holding her in my arms when we both can't sleep...her days are going to be filled with incredible music. Her life will be spent with iconoclasts and outcasts...she will see more of this world than many dare to dream of...she will always be warm, always safe, always surrounded by quiet luxury. She will be able to pursue whatever passion overtakes her...she will have access to information and culture and privilege. And I know she will make the most of it for she is going to be much more beautiful and intelligent than I.

That is part of the reason why I have worked so hard...why I have bled and fought and sacrificed for what I have achieved. So that when she finally joins me our life will be...perfection. And though I know I cannot protect her from the world (nor would I want to) I will ensure that my little clone is well equipped to make the most of her time on this glorious rock. And if I am able...I shall spend every day trying to make hers just a little bit better than mine.

I believe children wait for us. Wait for us to be ready...chose us if we are worthy. Love us...just because.
She is waiting, I know it.
And I am almost ready. Purr.