Lolita Initiation

It's been a long time coming, but I'm not just a Mori girl anymore.  I'm a Lolita now too!  Before I go any further I think I need to explain what Lolita is for those who are uninformed and misinformed.  First, Lolita is a Japanese fashion.  Second, IT HAS NOTHING TO DO WITH THE BOOK OF THE SAME NAME.  This is something that I'm learning Lolitas have to explain a lot.  The name for this particular fashion was borrowed from English by a Japanese person who did not know how it had been previously used.  So let me say again, Lolita is not associated with pedophilia or, as one person horrifically put it "hooker chic."

Lolita is another modest fashion like Mori girl.  It is inspired by the Rococo and Victorian eras.  There are a lot of different sub-styles of Lolita, most of which I'm not a big fan, such as Sweet Lolita (which is the most popular).  I happen to love Classic Lolita.  Fanny Rosie, who I follow on Tumblr, is my favorite Classic Lolita.  I also happen to love the Salvador Dali photo bomb in almost every picture she posts.



Photo by Fanny Rosie, who happens to be wearing one of my dream prints!

There are a lot of rules in Lolita, and I don't know them all.  I do know that you're supposed to cover your legs and your arms and usually open-toed shoes are frowned upon, though some Lolitas are less strict than others.  Another big thing is the poof.  Lolitas wear petticoats to make their dresses poofy, like in the 50s.  Some like more poof than others, which can be achieved by a bigger petticoat or layering petticoats.  Some Lolitas wear wigs, which I really don't like because it looks so fake and because, holy hair, you have your own! Use it!  All of Fanny Rosie's hair is real, but I've seen some Lolitas with natural hair down to their knees who wear wigs, and I think they're crazy.

There are a lot of different Lolita brands, but they're all pretty expensive.  Bodyline is considered the "Lolita
 Wal-Mart" because they're prices are a lot lower in comparison to the big brands.  Milanoo is the worst brand out there, and a lot of new Lolitas get taken in because of their dirt cheap prices.  They steal photos from other brands and then send you a poorly made knock-off.  The dresses never look like the photos and most fall apart the second you take them out of the packaging.  My favorite brand is Victorian Maiden, though I don't have any of their dresses.  So far I've managed to buy all of my dresses that I use for Lolita from Goodwill and Ebay, and I already had some things I could stick a petticoat under and make Lolita.

Last Friday Caroline, my roommate, best friend, and fellow Mori girl/Lolita, and I had a Lolita day!  We dressed up after our morning classes and went to Starbucks on campus (not the sham Starbucks in the library), then to a really awesome gyro place nearby.  Here's my outfit! (In Lolita an outfit is called a "coord", short for coordinate.)

 
Caroline took these awesome photos.  This is my Ebay dress.

 




































Here I am with my green tea latte.  Go Matcha!  This photo was also taken by Caroline.

We got compliments all day, one even from the barista at Starbucks, though we did get some stares.  For my first Lolita experience it was mostly great, but sadly this isn't the norm.  There are times when Lolitas are insulted and cat-called.  There was even one instance in Austrailia where a man in a car was calling at a Lolita on the sidewalk, and he wasn't paying attention when a car rear-ended him.

Today Caroline's dad came to Tallahassee to visit her and he took us out to eat as always, so we decided to dress Lolita.  This time around we decided to challenge ourselves to make Lolita/Mori girl hybrid coords.  Here's mine!

Pictures taken by Caroline.

A close-up of my accessories.

Here's our poofs!

No compliments today, but I'm sure we got a lot of stares that neither of us noticed.  Our waitress at the restaurant did think we were 14, though.

Have a happy week!  And don't be afraid to wear the beautiful things that you love and be the beautiful person who you are, even if it might be unfashionable.

Another One Bites the Dust

I may have a Spanish test tomorrow but I feel the need for an emergency post before I start studying.

You guys, I am distressed.  DISTRESSED.

About what, you ask?  About this:




Yes, they're making The Giver into a movie.  More specifically, Jeff Bridges is making it into a movie.  That's not what has me distressed.  When I found out, though, I was kind of worried.  Everyone knows that books turned into movies are iffy, but I have a particular attachment to this one.  Lois Lowry is brilliant.  If you don't know that, you should.  I had similar worries years ago when The Chronicles of Narnia went the film adaptation route.  Lewis is my favorite author, as you know.  The first movie was good, the second ticked me off, and the third made me want to cut my own arms off so I wouldn't murder someone.  Now you understand why I'm concerned about this.

Now, to what has me distressed.

Jonas, the main character of the book, is twelve.  You would think it would be logical to cast someone that age.  Actually, Jeff Bridges thinks Jonas should be sixteen, but played by someone who is older than me.  Jeff Bridges is just the smartest person ever, don't you think?  But it wasn't enough to change something major like that, now we have to go further.  Now we have to add Taylor Swift to the cast.  Taylor Swift.  TAYLOR SWIFT.

Needless to say I was in cut-off-my-arms-so-I-don't-murder-somone mode.

Now go read The Giver, fall in love with it, and be as outraged as I am.


And, Taylor, just stop.

On Bringing the Forest to the City, and Becoming Confident in the Process

I talked about Mori Girl earlier this year but I feel the need to talk about it again.  It's that great.  So, let's review.  Mori Girl is a Japanese fashion, sometimes called the sister of Lolita.  Mori means forest in Japanese, so the basic concept is to look like someone who lives in or came from the forest.  There aren't really any rules except modesty, and maybe flowiness, and you can bend Mori towards your own style.  Some Mori Girls wear lace, some wear plaid, some wear brighter colors, some wear prints, some go dark.  It's a really beautiful style and I wish more people in the U.S. appreciated it.  Now, take in some visual aids.

 

 




 

 

 The problem I have is that I don't have a lot of Mori pieces and it's hard to find any in the U.S., let alone in Tallahassee.  It's gotten to the point, though, that I try to wear Mori at least once a week.  What put me off in the beginning was that I was worried that people would think I was crazy or weird for wearing this kind of stuff, and being what they would call 'matronly.'  I got over that pretty quickly when I realized that they had no room to talk since they were wearing dresses so short that their butt cheeks were popping out.

Then I started wearing it every so often.  Here and there.  Until I realized that it gave me confidence.  Then I wore it on days when I needed to shore up my courage: Spanish oral exams, painting critiques, class discussions, and sometimes even just for the sheer pleasure of being different.  I found that wearing Mori gave me something more, and it helped that almost every time I wore it I got compliments from the most unexpected people.

Maybe Mori Girl isn't your style, and that's okay (as long as you still like lace).  Find your own style and don't be afraid of what other people might think of you for it.  They're just fashion zombies trying to show everything they have to the world.

And as I said before, Jesus will come back again before this catches on here.

How I'm Learning That God Loves Cheese

I am flawed, just like a piece of Swiss cheese.  It's a strange analogy but it's what came to mind first.  I've been struggling my way through life lately, trying to understand where I fit and what God has planned for my future.  I feel like I'm completely failing at whatever it is He wants me to do, partly because I don't know what it is and partly because I, myself, am getting in my own way, and His.

I do horrible things every day.  I know I do.  I get on Tumblr instead of painting.  I save my writing assignments until the night before.  I watch CSI when I should be studying Spanish.  I also care too much about what people think of me, which hinders me from speaking my opinions in my writing class, or anywhere else for that matter.  I fear things that shouldn't be feared.  I'm sabotaging myself, and I'm fully aware that I'm doing it.  I know it even BEFORE I do it.

But I still do it, and later I hate myself for it.

For the longest time I've felt like I have to get myself out of this rut before God would even consider looking at me.  I've always felt like I have to fix myself and be perfect before he could ever love me.  I know I have to do my part, but I've always held the belief that God would only help me if I was always 'good' and ignore me if I wasn't.

Oh, you guys...I'm only realizing now that's entirely the WRONG way to think.  Yes, I have to try, and yes I have to work towards fixing myself, but I don't have to do it alone.  He isn't just here to save me from 'the world.'  He's here to save me from myself too.

For those of you who ever thought I was perfect, I never was, and I'm still not.  I'm still learning and trying to change.  The other day I even participated in a discussion in class and the world didn't come to an end.  I'm learning that it's okay to get things wrong sometimes and that sometimes you have to paint a bad painting or draw a bad drawing and let it stay bad and be OKAY with it.

I don't understand it, but God loves my Swiss cheese self.  In the midst of a bad week that makes me smile, and it fills my whole body with relief.  So later on in the semester after I've forced myself back on track but I leave an assignment to the last minute, I can talk to Him about it and ask Him for help...and He'll listen.

He's there "in the beauty and the sin."

My trashcan is overflowing with tissues but I feel better now.

Ours

In 1851 the Mariposa Battalion entered into the Yosemite Valley in pursuit of a large band of Ahwaneechee Indian raiders and as they reached an overlook what they saw filled them with wonder.  The valley was laid out before them with high mountains all around and a magnificent waterfall cascading down a great rock face.  The battalion doctor Lafayette Bunnell called it “Yo-sem-ity.”  In 1855 James Hutchings and Thomas Ayres along with two others traveled to Yosemite.  They were considered the valley’s first tourists.  When Hutchings returned from Yosemite he wrote an article for the Mariposa Gazette in which he described the group’s first impressions of Yosemite.  “We were almost speechless with wondering admiration,” he said, “at its wild and sublime grandeur.”  As the stories of Yosemite spread across the country, many people came to see it.  However, with exploration came settlement:  hotels, bridges, and roads were being built in Yosemite.  In 1863, interested to see Yosemite for himself, landscape architect Frederick Law Olmstead ventured to the valley.  He was troubled by what he saw and he turned to Senator John Conness of California and convinced him to take a park bill into the U.S. Senate.  So, on June 30, 1864, as Abraham Lincoln sat down to sign the Revenue Act and various other bills he also signed the Yosemite Land Grant, never suspecting that it would begin a park revolution that would last for years to come.

-----

The valley was laid out all around us, a great flat plain rimmed with hazy mountains.  I'd brought a whole bag of things to do but somehow I ended up with my face to the window, like always.  I squinted into the distance and a ball of excitement did a little jig in my stomach.  Could that be it?  I noted the color, the gentle sloping curves.  "I think that's it!" I said, pointing through the glass.  Everyone looked and speculated.  You could feel the anticipation filling the van up and nearly drowning us.  Down the Chinese writing road there was a sign that confirmed it.

Up close they made it feel like you didn't belong.  The dunes curved up from the valley floor to meet the mountains in golden waves.  It was a desert where a desert shouldn't be.

We took off our shoes and waded across the creek trickling with snow melt, feeling our feet numb up with every step.  Up the slopes we went, barefooted and in hoodies.  Shoes felt pointless.  We zigzagged up sandy ridges like stranded wanderers without a path, and yet we were content.  As we began to tire we stopped and turned to face the valley and the mountains, all green and brown.  Inhale, exhale.  We felt the wind pushing the sand up the backs of our shirts.  We giggled.

It was my first national park.

(Great Sand Dunes National Park and Preserve)

Those of you who know me very well know that I am in love with the national parks (hiking and mountains and being outside being three of my favorite things).  It started in high school as I was doing research for my graduation road trip, and really kicked in when I saw The National Parks: America's Best Idea.  The Ken Burns documentary came on every Sunday night for about five weeks, and I never missed it.  It chronicled the story of the national parks from the origins in the nineteenth century to the present.  I devoured every episode.  John Muir became one of my favorite people, and I learned to love Lincoln even more.

The beginning of this post is a short essay I wrote for a history class at my community college about the origins of the national parks.  Though Yellowstone became the very first national park in 1872, Yosemite was the first time land had been set aside in such a way.  It was the idea of a national park that was such a revolutionary concept.  In Europe the most beautiful places were owned by the wealthy and the prestigious, but the idea of preserving land for everyone, the idea of the people collectively owning these places, started with Yosemite.

That's the reason I find this so strange:

Imagine you're driving down your street.  You come to your driveway and there's someone standing there and they won't let you pass.  You roll down your window.

"What are you doing?  Could you move?  I need to get into my driveway," you say.

"I'm sorry, but I can't let you on the property," the person says.

"Why not?" you ask.

"Because the bank you use just got blown up by aliens from Jupiter," the person says.

"But it's my property, what does that have to do with you keeping me out?"

The person is silent.

"So I can't go on my own property?" You ask.

"No," the person says.


The whole idea behind the national parks was that being an American made you a joint owner of some of the most beautiful places in the country.  Those sand dunes I climbed belong to me, and they belong to you too, so the fact that we're not allowed in the national parks because a bunch of grown men are acting like kindergarteners is kind of preposterous.  So if I were anywhere near a national park or monument right now, I wouldn't let a barricade stop me.  I'd keep right on going.

Okay, I'm done venting.

A Retrospective Inspection

Three weeks into the semester and already my life feels drastically different.  This past year has been psycho enough as it is, so you would think I'd be used to a constant crazy mess, but I'm not.  I'm still adjusting.

This time last year I was going through major adjustments.  I had been away from home for more than three weeks, in a new city.  I was thrust into the frightening university world, left to battle monstrous word counts and an eighteen-year-old roommate who still thought her mom was going to come behind her and clean her messes up.

I drew naked people, in a shocked stupor at first, but then with resignation, and then with relish (the human muscle structure is poetry, people).  I exposed myself--no pun intended--to the art world of Tallahassee, in all it's fearsome and strange wonder.  I explained five million times to one million people that I was a transfer student.  I attended every single day of a class in which the professor never took attendance.  That was just the first semester.

Then it was off to making friends in experimental drawing, going to unicorn parties, learning to not hate technology, traipsing through a Frank Lloyd Wright house, making crazy new friends, dancing salsa with my Spanish teacher, getting 5 hours of sleep a night, and illustrating my first book.

I made my summer home in Panama City, because for some reason I guess Tallahassee wasn't humid and hot enough for me.  I learned how to swim butterfly and breaststroke, and I learned that I have an unnatural fear of suffocating.  I helped bring a gigantic Joann Fabric's into the world, with the added bonus of getting to wear a radio and learning the proper way to cut fabric.  I painted, but not as much as I wanted to.  I got to go to North Carolina (YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEESSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS!!!!!!!!!!).  I went on my first date (and started my first relationship).  Best of all I became an aunt.

 I swam in this really awesome waterfall.  It was cold.

 APPALACHIAN TRAIL!!!!  AHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!

My first week back I discovered how horribly inferior I felt.  While going to a community college for a bit before heading to a university has it's advantages, it will haunt you forever.  Well, maybe not forever, but I'm still feeling it a year later.  I come into classes in which I have all the required prerequisites, but my prerequisites lacked quality.  For example, I painted with oil paints once, in high school, and it was a horrible experience.  We're painting with oils ALL SEMESTER LONG in my painting class.  Did I mention everyone else has painted with oils a million times before?  In my printmaking class we're starting off carving in wood.  I've never carved in wood before.  Everyone else has.  Everyone knows what they're talking about in fiction technique.  They're all English majors.  Week one was pretty awful.

Week two was more of that mess (Like staring at a canvas for two and a half hours without putting any paint on it).

Week three was an altogether different animal.  I started carving in wood and I discovered it's a lot like carving in linoleum...and I liked it.  I got over that horrible oil painting experience and I...actually...like oil painting now.  Then, to end the week we did a group workshop on our writing exercises and everyone liked my writing.  Spanish is still bad, but that's expected.

So, one year later and I still have this blog.  I'm one year, twenty pounds, and one less roommate different.  The Tappers are still tapping, the Beaters are still beating, and the Stompers are still stomping.  As I speak there are psychos roaming the halls being loud and obnoxious.

Did I mention it's almost midnight?

This semester is going to be really interesting...

That Beautiful Silence

Some moments are too good for words.  Thursday I had one of those moments. There he was naked and pink and quiet.  Dark waves plastered around a creased face.  A fleeting glimpse of an eye.  Pink lips tucked between chub cheeks.
 
I was seriously afraid I might break him.

But as I folded all of his nearly nine pounds into my arms for the first time my momentary fear was gone.  Everything else disappeared and that little squishy face was mine to look at.  My mind wandered back to the little note I’d written him when he was still merely Baby, and I realized that this was one of those moments that give life worth.  Thursday, I became richer than Bill Gates could ever hope to be.

It doesn’t matter what’s going on in the world right now, because my world just gained another thousand miles of perfection.  His name is Nolan.