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.

Ssssssssss.....

It's almost here. My favorite holiday, my day to get excited about winter, my day to give and receive presents...New Year's Eve. Purr, purr, puuuuurrrrrrrrr

This year will be the Year of the Snake.

What does it mean for us? Well, nothing I suppose, if you do not follow the Chinese horoscope.
For those of us that do this means certain traditions must be followed when "greeting" the New Year in order to ensure that this year starts our properly. Russians follow the rules pretty seriously when it comes to NYE.

From what i can see emerald green (the color of a snake's eyes?) must be worn...yeah, that is not going to happen. As I have stressed multiple times I do not accept colors other than black. And emerald green is definitely NOT in m future. Fortunately for me this year is the year of the BLACK snake. Mwah-hah-hah.

Table? Well it bears repeating that the table must be filled chalk-full of goodies and delicacies...Champagne must flow like a river and no guest shall leave the house unsatisfied.

As for what the year shall bring...Well that, of course, depends on how much belief you assign to astrology I suppose. According to multiple sources the black snake is going to be astute in observations and deft in actions. This animal will be a seductive creature, able to resolve complicated situations quickly and easily. However, this snake will also be prone to spending money frivolously which may lead to tensions on the personal front...uh-oh...guess my bank account won't look any better this year either. :)

Famous snakes: Audrey Hepburn, Kim Basinger, Bob Dylan, Greta Garbo, Dean Martin

Cheers to another year, hope your night is filled with champagne and laughter,

hearts, Bellatrix

A Christmas thought...

am working tonight....while everyone is at home spending Christmas Eve with their loved ones I am waiting for another disaster to roll through the door...

On silent nights like these my thoughts revert to my past. My fragmented memories of childhood are limited, despite how happy it was. I remember bits and pieces, never full days or events...but those fleeting bits seem to have stuck permanently in my mind. 

I remember a starry night, like tonight, when my mom picked me up from kindergarden. She put me in my little sleigh and wrapped me in a huge blanket. It was such a quiet and dark night...only illuminated by the occasional street light and the falling snow flakes. As I drifted to sleep I looked up at the sky and let the snow flakes fall on my tongue...The sky seemed enormous...it took up the entire universe...there was no one around except her and I felt so perfectly calm...so safe...happy. 

I saw old churches drift by...benches covered in blankets of lush snow...trees with heavy branches covered in fluffy white. We didn't talk...often we did not have to. We just enjoyed the ride home (me definitely more than her since I was getting the better end of the deal). The holidays were near and we were going to spend them together...like we always have. 

I remember that night so vividly, as if it just happened, though I must have been 3 or 4 at the time. It's funny what events form our memories, isn't it? I remember the snow and the night and I feel loved...I feel closer to my home though I am very very far away tonight. 

I think of my family...of the friends I have met through the years and was lucky enough to keep. I think of my love and where he is tonight.
My mind is full of memories of holidays past...my heart keeps them close. I close my eyes and I am home again.

One of my favorite poems...
I carry your heart with me (I carry it in my heart)
I am never without it (anywhere you go, my dear, 
and whatever is done by only me is your doing my darling)...
....
Here is the deepest secret nobody knows 
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life; which grows
higher that soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

I carry your heart ( I carry it in my heart)

And thus with this I wish you a Merry Christmas my friends. May your world be infinite with possibilities and your life filled with love. You are in my heart tonight...and always.

Mon Hiver

It is 82 degrees outside today...and though the leaves are finally turning yellow it does not feel like fall, much less a winter. Yet my thoughts return to a season that seems still so far away.

Two years ago we fell in love during a winter... We spent many nights dancing in the candlelight of our beautiful house looking out on the valley below, draped in pure white snow.

I will remember that winter forever...I saw the sun so rarely then...I went to work before it came up and left way after sundown. I remember long, bitterly cold, nights tempered by a crackling fireplace...a glass of my favorite red waiting for me when I came home. And there was always...ALWAYS...music. We slow danced while we made dinner and even now, when I close my eyes, I can see his face lit so perfectly by the warm candlelight. We fell asleep in each others arms as the fluffy snowflakes covered the world...slowly...inevitably...completely. The nights were pitch black and oh so quiet. During the snowstorms that ravaged the city it felt as though we were the only two people left...how safe and loved I felt...

 I do not miss that city...much. I do not miss leaving a warm bed at 4am to scrape off ice of my little car and freeze until the air conditioner kicked in. I do not miss the smog hanging low over the city streets suffocating air and sunlight. I do not miss being so cold that no amount of clothing could help me get warm.

But I miss THAT winter. That winter made us...created us...made us love each other and forced us back together when we wanted to give up. I miss our cozy nights of endless conversation. I long for the dinners we created together and the parties we threw for our friends. I yearn for the way that cold winter made us crave each other in a way I had not known before. And I will always...ALWAYS...miss the music. Those songs haunt me. Music is such a key part of us...I cannot imagine our love without it.

I am coming back this winter. I will land smack in the middle of cold January, when the city is ravaged by snow and wind. When I walk outside the gleaming crisp sunlight will burn my eyes and the world will be covered in white. I will jump into the warm belly of our steel animal on wheels and he will take me back...back to our beautiful house overlooking the valley. Back to the candlelight...and the music.

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.