Pace is the trick

Somedays I feel very alone. Somedays it seems like the world is crashing on top of me and I can barely catch my breath. I feel overwhelmed with frustration and anger and despair...I get angrier still that there are so many in this world that can come home to their Love and find comfort and strength...their respite.

When my head is down and my knees are shaking...
that's when I need him most.

And that's when he is at his best.

His calm voice soothes my temper..his words penetrate through my little sharp armor...he looks at me the way only he can and I know all will be well.

This is our song. It was there when we began. It will be there until the end.
When I hear it...those first cords always stop me cold. I hear HIS voice and I feel him near me. Like a movie in front of me I see us...all of our dates...our passionate nights...our crazy adventures...our arguments and separations...our darkest moments when each has crumbled in front of the other only to be embraced and protected.

I see how much we have gone through already and how we have always become just a little stronger with each obstacle.
I am amazed at how deep, how absolutely encompassing, our love has become. Much more than I think either one of us had expected.

This song is not about perfect love. Some may say it's not about love at all. But it is ours and thus it is about OUR love. I cannot put into words exactly why but this song is everything. 
Every note..every word...as if written just for us (silly, I know, but that's the point, isn't it?)
I always go back to it when I need him just a little closer then Skype will allow.



Music can change your mood. It can change your day. And sometimes it can change your life.
ILJ

These are my people...

the Russians are coming! Oh wait...they've been here all along haha

Sasha Pivovarova

Irina Shayk

Natalia Vodyanova

Mila Kunis

Mila Jovovich

and let's give Russian boys some love too.

Sean O'pry

Vladimir Ivanov

Vladimir Males (strange name but ok)

shoe game

A girl walks into your periphery...you glance briefly for general assessment/threat potential. You scan the outfit, take note of accessories and critique the facade (i.e hair/make-up). If bland you move on. If interesting, or better yet, actually stylish you hone in on the SHOE GAME.
This is what separates the amateurs from the pros. This is how you tell if she "put on the first thing [she] saw" or wants you to think she did even though each detail has been meticulously planned (caveat: she may be a "top shelf"  whose closet is brimming with amazing-ness thus making any/every choice a killer).

Why do girls obsess over shoes? Many reasons I suppose. They are beautiful, often uncomfortable but oh so sexy, they are an expression of oneself as much as a car or a chic watch can be for a boy...they are art if done right. They make or break the outfit for those who give a shit about fashion.

But most importantly they do not age. Even when the face or body betray you and refuse to grab on to youth as much as you, your feet stay true. They do not gain weight, they do not wrinkle.. and thus a pair  of velvet hunter green wedge booties you knee-capped a girl on the street of Florence for retains it's value and ability to make you feel...beautiful. Shoes become vintage, never old. 

They are little pieces of art that have the strange ability to make you more confident...stronger...sexier...internally taller. They can influence the kind of day you will have, after all, a pair of worn in leather gladiators that feel like slippers have an inherently different undertone than those amazingly painful pumps that make your legs look nine miles long. A proper pair can seduce...can negotiate...can carry you through a disatser of a day. And when you see, nay FEEL, shoe envy of the girls scanning you when you walk into a room...well that's just the cherry.

Men may not understand, nor should they. But they may not judge when your closet consists of jeans, a few tanks and LBDs and one giant wall of shoes.
That's therapy.
That's girl crack.
That's purr-inducing happiness.

L'eau du ciel

It has been pouring non-stop today. The weekend was soaked in rain as well. My favorite kind of weather...

Ever since I was little whenever it rained I grabbed my rain boots and ran outside. Even if for a minute I needed to be under the water...to feel it on my skin. I used to walk around my block and hum, blissfully happy to be alone on the street when everyone else ran away.

The world gets so incredibly quiet when it rains. A quiet that can only be equalled by slowly falling night snow that covers everything in a plush blanket of soundproof snowflakes. I love that quiet...when all you hear is the teardrops hitting the pavement and your thoughts. Perhaps that is the reason that some loathe rain. To them it's gloomy..too cold, too murky.

For me it has always been a welcomed relief...it is strong enough to wash away one's greatest flaws...nothing man builds can withstand it when it is at its full power....it saturates every thing exposed to it and makes it shine anew. And oh that post-rain smell...if only they could bottle that perfect crisp essence...

My favorite though will always be night rain...the one that rushes you off the city street into your warm apartment, urging you to light the fireplace, pour a glass of red and curl up next to him in complete happiness. The one that lulls to sleep and makes the bed seem like a haven never to be abandoned.

The one that smudges the world's edges a bit...and perhaps mine as well.

what's rain without a bit of trip-hop?? yeah, thought so

New York...

Back to the city I adore.

A wedding...the MET (finally!!!)...kissing in Central Park...and truffled egg toast.

Sometimes one needs a big city to remember that this world is big and promising. It is not filled with people who live and die within one square mile.
New York is always a good time. How could it not be? You need not ever make plans here...it will create your trip for you.

I got my skinnies on, my aviators and a camera. It's on.

PRINTEMPS

I miss spring... yes I know you can't miss something that happens every year like clockwork especially DURING the time it is actually happening.

I miss the spring of my childhood. When you woke up one morning and you knew that the air changed. That it was going to be warm and sunny and colorful. That days would be filled with running along dusty city streets in brand new sandals until they wore out, eating loads of ice cream and literally bursting from energy and happiness. Days were long and fulfilled...pockets were full of petals and pebbles and gum wrappers...sleep was truly restful...

The world was never so big as it was then. It was never so full of promise. It was mine to discover.

I got nostalgic looking at these shots of young fashionistas...not so much because of what they are wearing (though yes, YES please) but because the "street style" often captures the sprit of the actual street.

                    The brand new oaks that endured the winter and burst through cement to proudly show off their vibrant foliage for all to admire.

                    The flowers that managed to persevere through a city winter and now bloom with such vigor it's almost gauche.

                    The sunlight that fills everything with golden light and illuminates every corner with new energy.

                    You can see in the way these girls dress that they feel spring. They are hopeful with the possibility of discovery...of hurried anticipation of this season...a season that could bring a new love, a new adventure to a foreign land...a new direction to their life.

When you live in a place that snows for 9 months and sneezes spring in one day before giving you two hot months of summer or a town where the seasons are basically a slight differential on the humidity scale you miss out on that change...that moment when seasons TURN. When, although you definitely know better, you want to run out into the street and run as fast as you can, breathing in the world around you...reveling in the fact that you are young and still believe the world to be a good place.

That is what I miss.

I also miss wearing actual clothes instead of the same drab uniform every single day.
I wish I had time to play with fashion like I used to...I wish I had more places to go where I was allowed to play with fashion. Someday I guess.

I mustn't complain. This is only temporary and New York is only two weeks away. I'll get My Spring then...

What a doll...

When I first came to US I watched a lot of cartoons. I used them to learn English..to pass the time until school started. Funny enough my favorite cartoons were actually Japanese anime.
Sailor Moon OWNED. 

There was a period where I recorded every single Sailor Moon cartoon, plastered my walls with her posters and stickers and even practiced her transformation sequence from regular girl to superhero in front of the mirror. (I am not proud of this but hey, childhood is made for doing stupid shit.)

Luckily, this was a phase I grew out of. For some people this phase persists indefinitely.

Anime is wildly popular across the globe and in Japan it is practically another religion. And like any popular movement it invites those who seek to profit from it. Enter "Real life dolls."
There is a vast array of these girls on the internet but I shall focus on my favorite (Venus Angelic is a poor-man's Cabbage Patch kid at best).


Meet Kotakoti (surname: Dakota Rose).

This is (supposedly) an American 16yr old girl who just happens to enjoy Japanese culture and dresses up in adorably quirky outfits...a trend which I feel more teenage girls should follow. (The time for tiny dresses, hair extensions and sky-high heels comes quickly enough. One should take the time to be genuinely weird. It is the only time you can get away with it. Once you hit 30 pigtails and bows make you look retarded. Sorry, La Veritas.)

As you can imagine she has caused an absolute frenzy across Asia. She has been called a "Real life Barbie," "Goddess" and, my personal favorite, "Elf Woman." (side note: tee hee)

Personally I think she's adorbs. Stunningly beautiful, incredibly original and overall a precious little child.
She wears thigh highs to school. She has bilateral lip piercings. She also curses like a sailor.
(Bleeding eyeball bows? Christ I want a child like this!)

She has got this down to a tee. The outfits are superbly "anime." Her makeup enhances her genetic attributes to make her an epitome of what is seen as physical perfection in the East.
Watch her videos...even the mannerisms and speech have been exquisitely honed to make sure YOU believe she is a real life doll. She also speaks Japanese in her videos with PERFECT inflection. That's when shit gets real.

Unlike her critics I don't believe she uses a ton of photoshop. One can work miracles with makeup and proper lighting. Trust.

Adorable little girl, right?






Except she's a 19 yr old "scene queen" model from San Francisco. Well played, Dakota.
Slow clap from me :)

Ink me...

 This could be a complicated topic.

Let's do a bit of shorthand?
Tattoos...long history...bad boys...dirty...prisoners and sailors...trashy...art...self-expression...blah, blah, blah.

This is MY tattoo story. When people attempt to explain what their ink means it always ends up sounding silly or juvenile. This is why I shall write about it. I hardly ever show mine...they were done for me not for others. They are my little secrets.

The first one: classic little "tramp stamp." I'm not proud of its genericism but it was my first and thus important. My best friend and I decided to get them after  high school graduation. I bought his and he bought mine. We laughed the entire time and reveled in being young...we spend lots of days together during that summer...No pretense, no double meaning, just friendship.
Funny enough both of us have since developed an addiction to ink. Perhaps that first one was a catalyst.

The second one came spontaneously. I saw this postcard with an Xray of a lily...it was so delicately beautiful...so effervescent. I though it would look fantastic on my foot. This time I went with my mom.
She made fun of me the whole time and tried to talk me out of it until the last second...but she came with me because this one would hurt.
And oh Dear God it did. The foot seemed to have millions of neurons all screaming and burning as the needle pierced my skin over and over again. At first I couldn't breathe...

...but then I had a realization -- I wanted THAT specific tattoo in THAT specific place because I wanted to feel the pain. (this is where you say I'm insane and move on). I had been so well loved and protected throughout my entire life, to that point, that I never experienced pain. I never broke a limb, I never got into fights, I never spent time in a hospital...dancing, thankfully, did not injure me beyond achy knees and busted toes.

                                                  Is my reasoning a bit skewed? Perhaps.

I wanted to feel that pain. TRUE, pure, severe pain. (I would never compare this to a car accident or open heart surgery, I mean only the actual feeling of pain). As I breathed in I imagined the needle ripping through my skin, buzzing through muscles and ligaments, all the way down to the bone...it felt GOOD. It made me want more...made me know I was just a bit stronger than I expected...

My foot is my first real scar. My first true pain that I carry with me forever.

The neck one came suddenly as well. I was in the midst of ending another disastrous relationship, wrapped up in Vegas club life, preparing for grad school, assaulted by a constant stream people/noises/sounds/colors. Sometimes I wanted to scream.
I saw a phrase..."Serva Me Serva Bote" (save me and I shall save you). I searched for the perfect font and when I plugged in this little phrase into an online search box a thousand "Save me"'s appeared.

save me. Save me. SAVE ME! they yelled...Save. Me.

My skin ached as though the phrase was already on it...I had to let it come out.
Perhaps that was my call to the universe...to help me find someone to save me who I would save in return. (side note: ILJ)

The fourth. That one was easy.
Well except for the 3 hours of excruciating pain which, this time, did not feel so pleasant. My rib cage was filled with words..."Don't cry, don't beg, don't fear." Classic Russian.
For years my mother said that to me and I never knew why...turned out it was the med school motto where she met my father. Though I have absolutely no connection to him (nor desire any) I loved that phrase. For better or worse these people literally made me. They were young and madly in love and, I'd like to think, gave me the best parts of themselves.

Of all my pieces this one is my favorite. This one is the most severe but also the most beautiful. It is how I live my life. (well, most days anyway)

The fifth. Worst one. Badly made, badly conceived... It was my 28th birthday. Believe me when I say i DO NOT do birthdays well. Every time someone wishes me a "happy birthday" I burst into tears. I get angry and depressed. I feel so so terribly sorry for myself.

                                                                        Why? Have no idea.

This time was worse because I was starting one of the hardest years of my life thus far, the beginning of which coincided with the end of a relationship that really wounded me. My friends were busy...away from me...unable to stop me. I was exhausted from crying but the tears would not stop. I pulled myself together long enough to walk into a tattoo shop in Salt Lake and sit in front of the first kid with a needle I saw.

His hands shook. I had no energy to encourage him. I did not make small talk. As the scorpion on my foot began to take shape the pain came. This time I welcomed it openly. It felt so good to release the emotional dam that had been building for so long.
He asked why I looked sad. I told him it was my birthday and burst out crying.
                                                      You know those really hard sobs with hiccups that come so fast you can't catch your breath? This was it. ....i begged him to keep going.
When he finished I drove home in silence. There was finally peace.

This last one needs work...his hands shook so much that parts of the scorpion are barely visible while others are way too dark. I will fix it as some point. But I still like looking at it...that was one of the worst days of my life. That was when I started to change my life...to realize what I needed and wanted and not apologizing for it.

The sixth one is coming. It has been selected..the skin is yearning for it to show through. This year marked a new stage. It needs to be acknowledged.


I'm sure I will stop at some point..I do not want to be a late 40-yr-something covered in ink.

But 10 is a good number.
10 moments of my life that defined me as a human being.
10 marks that are unique only to me.

I hate cuh-lahs

Colors. ugghhhh...where to start?
When I was little I used to love them. I had oranges and reds, purples and greens. There was even a blue period, a la Picasso, that spanned several years and was saturated with shades of turquoise, cerulean and navy.
When I was a club kid my days were filled with neon pinks and greens...strangely enough my skin did not burn when they touched it.

Somewhere along the way black took over my life. The last decade has been black. True, there were attempts at color which consisted of bronze, olive, mocha, and white. There was exactly one red dress (worn twice).

Black is classic. It is slimming, sophisticated, dark...perhaps a bit intimidating? It's always so easy to pack and mix and match your outfits when everything is black. And believe me, I do mean EVERYTHING. It is Chanel and Maison Martin Margiela and Rick Owens and McQueen...

I like my style...I think it is truly mine, somewhat reflective of certain trends but not overtly "fashion slave."
                                     modern, asymmetric...CLEAN. 
                     Black is the absence of color and is thus as clean as it can get.

I don't exactly know why but lately I have been craving color. Perhaps the changes in my life have heralded a shift in my outlook...perhaps the incessant barrage from Vogue has finally gotten to me.

Aesthetically colors are pleasing. They are wild and loud and elicit happiness...in some people. I, much like a moth to a flame, approach colorful things with apprehension yet without control. I try them on...I yearn to like them...but every time they are in my proximity they make me feel strange. Unnerving perhaps. They do not make me happy, they do not quite look like they did in my mind and they certainly don't integrate with my general appearance.

Last week I decided to grit my teeth and power through my fear and intimidation of this palette and I went on a mission to find COLOR. Countless hours and stores later I am in possession of one blindingly bright neon green jacket, pastel blue skinny jeans, coral nail polish and a cerulean mini skirt. I also managed to find a long forgotten intense violet silk mini-dress that may make the cut.

                                      I can do this. I can do THIS. I want to do this. 
Because people that wear color seem ok...they seem happy, and approachable, and perhaps even, interesting.


I will never and physically cannot abandon black. But at this time I feel a bit oppressed by it...trapped in its' grip - unable to move away from looking like a black cat...

I want to play in the sun with the happy kids...even if I'll end up sarcastically smirking at them from a shadowy corner. Bring on the Dali period...

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...