Love a la Instagram

He woke up suddenly...startled. That fact alone shocked him. He was not the kind of guy to respond to fear, nor were there a lot of things in the world that scared him. He slowly opened his eyes and looked around the room. "His girl" was sleeping soundlessly next to him, her fine blond locks in disarray on the pillow. The bedroom was quiet and calm...except for a very quiet crackling, like a small fire, that he noted on the side of the bed closest to him. He turned his head to find a large, deep red, glowing sphere floating in the air next to the bed. It was the color of the last rays of sunset -  blood red, burnt orange, deep purple...it hovered next to him and changed in size slightly with each movement. It made no noise to speak of but it's surface crackled and popped like pop rocks mixed with soda. Nothing about the orb seemed sinister...it simply was. 

Curiosity peaked, he got up to examine it closer. As he reached for it, the sphere moved away, as if refusing his touch. In order to figure out this strange phenomenon infringing on the peace of his slumber V decided to think logically - what hovered before him could not have been a figment of his imagination. True, his headaches have gotten worse with each new concussion, and sometimes he could not see anything at all unless the team physician thrust his hands into a bucket of ice to shock his system into performing til the game was over, but hallucinations were never a symptom he experienced. This could not be the result of a hangover - he did celebrate the start of the summer with quite a few sleepless, drug-filled nights but has since returned to his meticulously clean lifestyle and daily training in order to ensure that next season he would be a vital force on the team. He took no medications, did not smoke...no, nothing could explain this mini "sun." Wide awake he walked past the sphere to the kitchen. Strangely the sphere did not immediately follow. It slowly floated into the bathroom and came very close to his grooming kit...perhaps looking for something. It circled around the room to the side of the bed with "his girl" and lingered for a few seconds next to her. It flew into the closet and slowly hovered around his suits, examining, searching...perhaps remembering. It finally met him in the kitchen where V, not witnessing the strange trajectory of the orb, was busy making coffee. As he stared past the sphere and mindlessly drank he suddenly understood what this was. That fucking piece of shit Instagram VR love note!!!! Fan-fucking-tastic.

It all started out innocently enough. After acquiring 6G many social media platforms were able to expand their reach to unimaginable distances and advance their technology to create phenomena only described in sci fi novels. Emojis became live and floated from one user to the next; likes and dislikes were hovering around influencers like a swarm of bees; adorable, albeit annoying, puppies and kittens filled the streets as they rushed from sender to receiver to send a paw print or a lick.
Then came the ability to send people notes through the air which opened on contact and disappeared as soon as they were read. True DIRECT messages. Dating was never the same!

All of this was building up to the crown jewel - the ability to not only send someone a love note but to do it in such a way as to actually show them, and the world, exactly HOW much and HOW deeply you love them. IG made it possible to actually SHOW your feelings. The rollout was huge, of course. An initially nervous public embraced the idea of sending these spheres to "safe" targets - parents flooded the world with pastel pink and blue balloons that flew towards their children and upon touch exploded in gold confetti and fizzed in small bubbles making more than one baby giggle in absolute joy. Older parents were able to send somewhat stern looking spheres of love to their college grads and career warriors - these seemed to be smaller and slightly aggressive, in that they pushed themselves into the receiver in order to break apart and disappear. "I love you, but call me." "Don't disappear for a month again, I miss you." Then sports and celebrity fans discovered the power of sending LOVE to their icons. Every big sporting event was inundated with spheres made of team colors, every movie premiere an explosion of rainbow spheres from admirers of movie stars and directors. And V, being slightly famous in his field, received a good share of these...black and gold from fans of the team, a couple blue grey and green from family, a handful of small funny ones from kids who look up to him.

...and, unfortunately, quite a few from girls he conveniently forgot to call after a night or two of his usual fun. You wouldn't call these little planets "love" though...perhaps they were cries of anger or anguish. They were chocolate brown and black, dark purple and burgundy...they sped through his house and often knocked down the vases and moved the furniture from the force of the impact before exploding into little sharp tacks or shiny black hearts or whatever other bullshit these girls thought would make him take notice.

But who could blame them for wanting to try? They met a tall, charming, successful athlete who told them everything they wanted to hear. Who seemed to be able to read their thoughts and asked interesting, thoughtful questions. Who made a joke or two so nonchalantly that their guard inevitably came down...and who slipped out before the sun rose while they still dreamed of what could be.
They were understandably angry. Because none of them every knew about "his girl." None of them knew that he was master liar when he saw the opportunity for a perfect night. Not one could imagine that this handsome, strong, genuinely kind man has spent his whole adult life collecting women like trophies. No...collecting is the wrong word, for he never kept what he acquired. He spent his life using women as a conduit for his pleasure. When the need arose he went on a hunt to find the perfect girl to help him reach ecstasy.

And "his girl" knew...of course she knew. But she understood that ignoring his indiscretions was the price for becoming THE WIFE. She was willing to pay, of course, but she refused to have her face be thrust into it. Thus the spheres became a problem. She yelled, she cried, she chased them around the house wanting to strangle them and make them disappear...but they kept coming. The app was popular and the users rabid which flooded their home with incessant colorful balls that seemed to arrive at every inopportune moment. But, like all good and bad things, eventually they stopped.
Until this morning...
The sphere in question was more intense, both in color and size. And its behavior thus far was suspect, to say the least. For it seemed to have a purpose for being there. And he wasn't sure how this sphere was supposed to show him love.

He knew it would follow him so he quickly showered and slipped out of the house before "his girl" woke up. The orb followed him to the lake where he always went to clear his mind and escape what bothered him. It watched him load the boat into the water, assemble his lines, check his bates..and took off after the him as soon as the motor started. It never interfered with his actions or hindered his path through the water. In fact, it almost knew what he was going to do next, as if it has been on the lake before. This was definitely not a classic love note.

For hours he fished and tried not to think. The sphere's presence eventually stopped being a nuisance and he even began to think of it as a companion...like the family's dog that could sit next to him and stare at the water as he searched for specific fish he wanted to capture that day. He caught and released them, marvelling in his ability to outsmart nature and capture that, which did not want to be captured. Like the girls in his life the fish were only a temporary pleasure...the thrill of the hunt more important than the result. So he released each one into the water, never to think about them again.
As the sun began to set the water around him gained intensity. The blues and greens deepened and darkened and he marveled at the simple perfection of the lake before him. When he turned to put away his rods he gasped, for the sphere was now the color of the lake. A deep, fervent blue that glistened like mercury. Slowly it began to lighten to a piercing blue, the color of the sky.

And suddenly he KNEW. He knew who made the sphere. For it was now the color of her eyes. The color he tried to burn out of memory almost as soon as he left her that morning. The sphere grew larger and finally approached him. It slowly touched his body and when it did it began to rapidly disappear, fizzing and hissing as it turned a deep pitch black. He tried to hold on to it...to make it stop evolving but it was too late. He felt a small ache where the sphere touched his left nipple and when he looked down he saw a little white scar on his chest...the pace where her head used to rest.

Whenever she disappeared into the abyss of her monstrously giant bed he would call out into the darkness in a hoarse whisper - "come into my arms"...and out of the dark came her tiny hands that wrapped around his neck. Her lithe, muscular body would follow to press itself along his, as her always cold toes snuggled on his perpetually overheated body. A wild cat seeking comfort from the storm...she wrapped herself around him and rested her head on his chest and her lips always tickled his left nipple... a feeling he hated at the time but now missed. This was her sphere. It was the last message she wanted to send. Not to remind him of the intense love they shared for a brief time when both seemed free...not to appeal for a return. No. This was a simple declaration that her love for him was no more. The last time she could show him how deeply and passionately she loved him and missed him when he left her with a false hope and a suitcase full of pain.

This love was beautiful and it was now dead.

And even the little scar he thought the sphere left faded by the time he turned the key and entered his home where "his girl" was busy making dinner.

He opened his phone and started to write her...but stopped when he realized that there was absolutely nothing he could offer her. So he quietly showered and poured himself a glass of her favorite whiskey.
"To Instagram" he thought to himself as the liquid burned his throat.

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.

un solider d'amour

Do you know this fabulousness?? This is ARMY OF LOVERS kittens.

Let me introduce you. A cultural phenomenon in Europe...and strangely, Russia, this group of glamorous creatures took over my childhood with their surrealistic videos, glam costumes and a frequently rotating cast of supporting divas.

The founding members were Alexander Bard, Jean-Pierre Barda and THE Camilla (Camilla Henemark).

                                      Worship. 

5 studio albums, over 20 videos (many banned by MTV) and oh so many delicious memories.

       
                                                          I was OBSESSED.

There were many times when I clutched their little cassette tapes (yeah, 'member those?) as I ran home to meet my best friend so that we could change into "chic" outfits found in our mothers' closets and re-enact the videos we saw. I never understod the lyrics so I used to make up storylines to the music that in my mind the group was singing about.

I would be a lonely 4 year old orphan making my way on the streets clutching to hope of a happy end and a soft bed... while strangers threw dirt onto my perfectly made up face...

A ruthless solider in a fabulous fluffy skirt, fighting against the oppressors of the world...

A dancer with cat ears writhing to "Israelism"...

A man singing about an unrequited love...

They killed it with every song. Every performance was over-the-top, amaze-balls, sensory overload with an underlying creepiness and eccentricity. Lady Gaga wishes.

Even now, when I grew up, I still go back and watch their videos again...for me they stand the test of time. They are so vibrant, so full of life and glitter...so deliciously gaudy and yet they cannot be called entertainment fluff. They were incredibly active in promoting gay and lesbian rights at a time when it was still taboo. They were creative because that was their nature not a publicity stunt.

They lived with abandon. They never apologized for being fucking brilliant.
That's why I will always be one of their soliders tee hee

Do yourself a favor and watch.

My Choupette

Do you know Choupette Lagerfield? She is the precious kitten of Uncle Karl and is the it "girl" of the fashion world.

Choupette has 3 nannies, private visits from her personal doctor every 10 days, and Goyard dishes for her croquette and water. Oh, and she knows how to use the iPad (per Karl).
Then there are the never-ending magazine spreads because there are people like me who love reading about this adorable fluff ball. She is a beautiful lilac Siamese that has become the daughter Karl never had. She is adored, spoiled, and worshiped.

True, it is easy to judge...to fault someone for lavishing attention and funds on a kitten with no true intellect or personal contribution...to say that these efforts should be spent on people who need them. But you know what?? She makes him happy. She loves him unconditionally and makes him laugh with true joy. For someone who has lived a long life and has literally seen it ALL, it is hard to find true happiness. To really laugh...spontaneously, without looking around....without worrying about appearances.

When he comes home she runs to him without abandon. When he sleeps she wraps her tiny fluffy body around his head and purrs quietly like a little motor. She curls up on his lap when he spends hours working on his computer. And when he brings home a new toy her playful hunt entertains better than some stale cocktail conversation.

Her blue eyes look up at him when he wakes...and all he sees is a little innocent animal that needs him to protect her, to hold her, to LOVE her. That is all. What more can anyone ask for?

This is my Choupette. A Siamese as well, except she is a sable which means a darker tail and ears with snow paws (little socks) of her front feet. Her name is Kisa and she is already terribly spoiled.

Having been a cat person all my life getting a kitten was never a question of education or readiness. I worried that I would not be able to spend enough time with her...that taking care of her would impinge on my limited and terribly valuable free time.

And she definitely did not disappoint. She needs constant attention...she is always ready to play and is VERY vocal when ignored. She has not honed her leaping or gripping skills and thus scares me with frequent falls and head bumps on sharp corners.
She follows me everywhere. ALWAYS. And even when I am in the shower I am forced to look out from behind the curtain to show her that I have not, in fact, drowned, and am only a few feet away.

She rests her head on my shoulder when I study. And when I sleep she purrs softly into my neck. I am constantly surprised how happy she has made me. When my love is away and my friends dispersed throughout the world, this little kitten greets me when I walk through the door and forces me to take care of her instead of feeling sorry for myself. All she wants is my love. Simple, n'est pas?

My little kitten. My fluff monster who, I dare say, is much prettier than Choupette.


KO: Does she meow a lot or is she a purrer?
KL: No, no, no - everything is done with the eyes. She knows exactly what she wants.

KO: She must have met a lot of people in the fashion industry by now.
KL: Yes, everybody wants her, but I say NO! She is really a stunning beauty. Her eyes are blue, blue, blue. And also her movement is so beautiful. 

Mirror, mirror...

This is probably going to sound pretentious to you and some may not even get past a few lines...but here goes.

Growing up beautiful is...complicated. Most of the time you have disdain for your face...your body...yet you are keenly aware that you are not like others. Your face is unique. After all, they tell you so, every day. From before you can form a sentence you are on the receiving end of countless compliments, gifts, favors, etc. You get used to people staring at you like an animal at a zoo. It is what you have always known because you were raised by a beautiful mother. Her path was yours to follow.
It is unnerving at times...dangerous at times...it invites more hatred and anger than one could imagine.
Eventually it all becomes background noise that fleetingly peaks your interest...

As you grow up the beauty blooms. Every year, it seems, your face and body give more...prosper more...beckon more attention. The face that stares back at you in the mirror each day is yours...your identity, your true self. No matter how you feel inside it is always there, unchanging, unwavering in it's constancy. You do not see what others admire and covet...you see YOU.
This is where the seed of fear is first planted.

Time marches on ruthlessly. And one day you see it - the first sign of age.
That one tiny, invisible wrinkle that has traitorously taken hold of valuable real estate on your face. More shall come soon enough. And suddenly you realize that you are now an adult...the blooming phase shall soon peak and then the petals will start to die. The feeling of regret that you have not even begun to truly live your life makes this discovery all the more unbearable. Can life be so unfair? Have I truly wasted my beauty behind books only to have it start to disintegrate before I even had the chance to LIVE???!!

What a price to pay for intelligence and ambition.

This, my dear reader, is why fairy tales still exist. This is where a girl who always thought herself a Snow White becomes the Evil Queen lusting for virgin blood. It is nature's greatest cruelty that a beautiful woman becomes wise as her beauty is fading. How many virgins' lives are worth one year living with what you know now in a body of your 20 year old self?
This is why skincare and make-up industries make billions. This feeling is not unique to the beautiful nor the rich. Every woman (besides those "close to nature" types that do not shave/pluck/groom and let nature turn their raven hair gray without a second thought) will fight age. Some will fight for blood - gritting their teeth, holding on with bare nails to what is rightfully theirs. Some will gracefully succumb, allowing nature some victories, yet never fully conceding defeat. Where the balance lies is unique to each woman.

I would not be me had I not a strategy. Mine is still evolving, as I am still quite young and not that wise.
The women I admire have given age a formidable fight. Their secrets are theirs to keep...and obvi sleep/water/sunblock are essentials no woman should live without. Was there surgery? Of course! No human can look like this without an outright pact with the devil unless a scalpel was involved.
There were also countless creams, spa treatments, exercise regimens and diets. (Talking about this in the open though is VERY poor form. )
Looking at these women one also sees a common thread. Their eyes give it away.

They enjoy life. Every. Single. Day.
The "fight" is not their life. It is a necessity that must be acknowledged yet never allowed to overshadow time spent with friends and family pursuing life's pleasures. They know that time will inevitably march on.. and the best offense is to embrace each decade entirely. Accept the changes, alter them as much as possible, and stay ahead even but a few years. Because life does not end with wrinkles.
They will not allow "the fight" to rule their daily existence (ahem, Demi). They do not become a caricature of their former self in the hopes of retaining what looks they have left (cough, Madonna, cough).

They know - men will and do still love and want you...women will and do still want to be you. Your beauty will live on forever in pictures and memories of those who love you.

Those young girls you resent for not appreciating what they now possess? They will get old as well. And most of them will let age take them by surprise before they manage to accomplish anything of value.


And if you are really lucky, your beauty will live on in your daughter. She will be smarter...more beautiful...more accomplished than you because you gave her the start your mother gave you. And as her beauty blooms you will take pride in your legacy...your mark on the world that shall live on forever in her children and those beyond. Eternal youth indeed.

Girl on the Bridge

Today...i don't want to talk. But i needed to see this again.
This is one of my favorite movies...and definitely one of my favorite scenes. It's perfection.

"

A lazy morning

Day in Paris #3:

Today you woke up later then expected...perhaps it was because the rain drops softly thumped on the window pane lulling you to a dreamy haze...the sky is overcast but it is warm and breezy.

You grab a cup of coffee and head for a walk along the Seine. To some this is probably just a river. It can be a bit stagnant and sometimes murky. There are no sunbathers or row boats filled with Wasp-y graduates  in their pastel polos. An occasional riverboat slowly waddles by carrying along tourists taking pictures of every foot.

It is just a river you say. But you keep walking...each of the 37 bridges along the Seine are different..interesting...unique in their construction and appeal.
The Invalides bridge is spectacular.
You walk along the river past Notre Dame and cannot help but marvel at how beautiful "goth" can be. Pont Neuf peaks your curiosity..in the distance you get a peak of La Tour Eiffel.

You browse the books and art from centuries past that is sold by the bank on Sundays. Here perfectly preserved 18th century anatomy pages neighbor Marilyn Monroe kitchen magnets and post cards from the 20's. The banks are filled with people...couples in love, couple in rage, families.. and loners like you.

You don't notice but as you walk and stare at the water memories flood your consciousness. You feel fleeting sadness and happiness, nostalgic for a time that seems perfect through the looking glass of time. You feel calm and strangely happy.
This is the Paris not everyone will see. This Paris does not intimidate you with it's cornucopia of lights and sounds...it is softer. Unobtrusive in it's elegance. Confident in it's timeless perfection.

This water has flown through these walls for centuries. It has seen flourishing kingdoms and gruesome revolutions...it has been saturated with blood and memories and managed to absorb them seamlessly beneath its weight. It is magnetic.
Strangely, you feel inspired to write something...anything...to capture this mood because you know that as soon as you walk away the hectic world will engulf you again and this brief glimpse into your own self will fade under the mandane tasks of the everyday.
You take a picture hoping that looking at it will remind you what you felt that day. How you were just walking along a river in this beautiful city enjoying a simple lazy morning...

Jardin de Luxembourg

A day in Paris #2:


Built in 1611 by Marie de Medici in an homage to the Pitti Palace in her native Florence. It initially contained a fountain built by Salomon de Brosse and 2000 elm trees. 

When you first come to Paris do NOT go here first. This place...it must be savored. You must come here when the beauty of the city overwhelms you and you feel that if you see another magnificent palace or quaint street you will explode from being overjoyed. (run-on? def. moving on.)

When you first walk in you BREATHE. It is quiet despite being quite vast. It is completely filled with people, all the time, yet it never feels crowded. It is stunning. Bar none, you will never see a more beautiful park (yes, including Central Park).

The foliage is perfectly groomed but in that way models off duty look - perfection without trying. There are sculptures and art installations dispersed throughout. They change frequently and they are always amusing.

My favorite part is the pond. (Not the OTHER pond - that one is surrounded by thick aged oaks and is the perfect place for a picnic and a good book). I like the open pond. It always has the most visitors and you are lucky if you can snag a chair. It has not changed since Louis XV...oh what I would give to stroll by it then...amazing ball gown glistening in the sun while I listen to a poem written for me by an admirer.  

                                                                          Sigh.   haha

                               The pink light is here in all its glory. The whole place is drenched in an ethereal pink luminescence that takes your breath away. This is coming from a misantrope! It is just...so...perfect. How terribly lucky the French are - to be able to sneak away to this place during lunch...or even walk through it on the way home...you would not dare to say you've had a bad day.


I miss this place painfully...I miss Paris. It is the only place that makes me melancholy and happy at the same time. Perhaps next year I'll return...

La Belle Mort

A day in Paris #1:

This is Cimetiere du Pere Lachaise. The resting place of many great authors, poets, composers, artists...and one of my favorite places in the world. It is filled with giant oaks and incredible sculptures. Around every turn is a quiet secret left only for you. The whispers of those long gone can still be heard. Their memories felt as if they were still near.  It is quiet...peaceful...poignant.
You may think it morbid of me to love a cemetery. People often wonder why some of us are drawn to places of final rest for others. I cannot speak for others but for me this is not a fascination with death. It is an affirmation of life.

Seeing the tombs of the people that created history, that wrote the books that made me, that created the music that shaped my memories...brings them closer. Makes them human. Honors them.

It is very difficult to have a beautiful life (whatever your personal definition of that would be). It is almost impossible to have a beautiful death. Not many are lucky to be immortalized in a fiery plane crash or a crime of passion. Even fewer are able to take their life with dignity and grace. Most deaths are senseless, unfair...they degrade the life they take by their commonality.

Perhaps that is why suicide clubs were so popular in early 19th century England. Populated by young men and women who gathered each week to have fate select one of their own to take as death's bride/groom. The selected would then return home to compose their poetic masterpiece knowing that he would not live to see the sunrise. These poor souls, taken at the prime of their lives, forever young. Forever beautiful.

I'm listening to Chopin. His music survives centuries because it is perfection. It is so melancholy, so so truly sad. You can hear it at Pere Lachaise when the wind rustles the tree tops. Thinking about death is not morbid...it is a way to re-evaluate one's own existence. To see what really matters. What contributions has one made to this life...what shall they remember when you're gone? Will they remember you at all?