Theda Bara was a well known silent film actress in America, outranked only by Charlie Chaplin(duck soup. nuff said) and Mary Pickford (an actress and more, she pioneered new camera techniques and co-founded the United Artist studio). She was considered to be the first sex symbol and many of her roles were that of the femme fatale.
Her genuine ethnicity (polish and swiss) was discarded and she became a woman of egyptian and french descent, giving her that perceived air of mystery needed to become famous at that time. The name "Theda Bara" is an anagram for "Arab death".
She never starred in any "talkies" and much of her work was destroyed in a fire, but A Fool There Was can still be experienced by devoted movie watchers everywhere.
“Keep writing”. James looked at me intensely and sincerely,
hoping my answer would compliment the thoughts floating through his broken
mind. “Just write”, he urged. So I do. I try to say something pithy, or something
that matters, but when I try it all seems so meaningless. What can I say that
hasn’t already been printed, edited and sold? I say this to myself as the drive
lengthens, expands, making me all the more anxious with every mile lost. “You
need to write”, he says again. I know. But what have I to offer? With such
small stature and little left of who I used to be, it seems unnatural to
pretend I still thrive inside this body that can barely hold my temperament. I
arrive at the destination no less relieved than I was when I left. I peered
into the sad eyes of the sad faces that look like mine, proud noses, soft eyes
that betray the memories of a hardened childhood, one that I myself did not
share. Just write, he tells me again. “About what?” I asked. “It doesn’t
matter, just keep writing”. So I do. I created sentences in my head that open a
few doors for anyone who cares to peek in.
“You can see him now” the nurse says, my cousin standing tall next to
her. She never looked more beautiful, womanly even. Her tired expressions said
more than she cared to admit. My love for her was more profound than I could
have imagined, and so I put on my brave face and slowly walked down the
hospital corridor. “Be strong, make him laugh” I though to myself as we inched
closer to the hospital room that smelled so clinical I almost threw up. I
needed a cigarette and a chance to catch my breath. My body deceived my head,
pleading me not to cry, not to let him know how defeated he looked. Tears streamed down the side of my face as
naturally as fireflies glow, I needed to cry as I held him and he needed to cry
for the loss of his old life that he loved so dearly. Instantly humiliated as
guilt ridden, I tried to make him laugh, nervous that I had made the situation
worse than it needed to be. I am not funny; I know this as I stumble with words
that usually come so easy. His gentle nature eludes a smile anyway and I sit
down next to him. Few words are said
that I can even remember, but somehow being there made me feel like I missed the
chance to be different. My opportunity to remain close with my family, to
revolt against teenage desires and self indulgences, and be a real person. It
didn’t matter much at the time, but looking back at that hospital room, I
realized what loss of time could do to someone. His slight grimace, handsome
still, told me he needed to rest. We walked down the same hospital corridor and
retreated to the waiting room. “Have a cigarette with me?” I asked. My cousin and James followed to the parking
lot. Sullen faces all around, we indulged in what we had vowed to quit a
thousand times before. It felt good to have some control over how your body
behaves. “Are you still writing?” He asked. I lied. “Yes, whenever I can.” I
couldn’t bear to break another heart and so I pretended I was still the girl he
used to know. He looked satisfied but
something told me that he knew I was being insincere. It didn’t matter at that moment. Everything
had gotten darker than I was used to, I couldn’t brush this off because I had
no control over the minutes that passed by me, at once both quickly and slowly.
I had this urge to scream but my
sensibilities told me this type of outburst wouldn’t be helpful to any one,
least of all myself. I looked to my
cousin, who was more resilient than I could ever be, and admired her ability to
maintain her sanity for her father’s sake.
The last pull of the cigarette signaled it was time to walk that endless
route back to the waiting room. My uncle related stories about my family that I
was never there for, stories of people whom I was related to, but would never
know at that stage in their lives. I
thought, for an instant, how boundless it would be to know everything and
immediately thought the opposite. It was starting to get late and I knew the
time had come to leave, sad that my uncle could not do the same, not yet. I tried to kiss him goodbye but my height was
lacking, mirroring my self-control.
Laughing it off and cursing my parents, I took one last look at a man
who had been through as much as one person could stand, yet continued to smile
and fight and maintain his kindness towards others. Humbled, I crossed over to
the other side of the hospital; no less anxious than I was when I arrived. Upon the many goodbyes and see you soons, I
took one last look at the proud features of the people whose arrangements I
admired on others but disliked on myself. It’s strange that we should be such a
longing species, never satisfied until something is taken away, and then we
pray for things to be as they were. I recoil when realizing I do this often,
and hoped my uncle would be okay. He will
be okay, with a little time, a little patience. “Keep writing” James said. And I do.
Weekends are the only time I've got to put on my sunday's best. During the week I'm either cleaning up after cats or rushing to my classes, so I try to really play it up when I can. That being said, I'm generally on a limited time frame due to my Mr. rushing me out the door in order to catch the remaining daylight. Sundays are my best bet, Mr. is working and I've got a few hours to myself. Usually I try to catch up on my sewing, but this weekend I thought I'd get dolled up for date night.
I've been seriously deliberating with myself as to whether to do outfits posts or not. It can seem self-involved and ignores real issues that tend to be swept aside in favor of pictures of cats and what is being eaten for dinner (not that there's anything wrong with that, it's good to have a sense of humor in this life, no one wants to be around a debbie downer all the time) but I didn't want my "image" to be the main focus for my blog, I want it to be my writing. However, the idea of spending time putting things (by things I mean myself) together was, in a roundabout way, the catalyst to my writing again.
I love reading the outfit posts on blogger, there are many women out there with serious style in a new and exciting way, and throwing myself in (damn the insecurities) has the potential to elicit new experiences. Babbling aside, behold, my first outfit post.
bag-asos
top-modcloth
skirt-anthropologie brand via ebay
tights-asos
shoes-seychelles brand via ebay
belt-ebay
Inspiration:
~books
Alice's Adventures in Wonderland by Lewis Carroll
Sherlock Holmes by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
The Time Machine by H.G. Wells
Inamorata by Joseph Gangemi
~movies
The Prestige
From Hell
The Wings of the Dove
For the past seven years I've talked about getting my motorcycle license. The key word here is talk. The winter puts my desire on the back burner, it's too cold and dreary to want anything other than a cozy sweater and some hot soup. Once the snow melts and the trees bloom, all I can imagine is being out in the open air with an old 1956 Triumph below me. It's a beautiful bike with a teeming history (and price tag, yeesh) that alludes to a time when you could still work on something yourself if you wanted to keep it running. Did I mention it was beautiful?
And while we're on the subject of Motorcycles and beauty, Danny Lyon's The Bikeriders is a resplendent piece of photojournalism. The simplicity of his title betrays the content, but it (the title) seems somehow so perfect. Gritty backgrounds and fearless faces break through on every photo, each one layered with every emotion that drives the heart of the young.
Another great set to check out is Eliot M. Gold's set of the Chosen Few
Hells Angels: The Strange and Terrible Saga of the Outlaws by Hunter S. Thompson
Hells Angels: The Life and Times of Sonny Barger and the Hell's Angel's MC by Sonny Barger
The Mamoth Book of Bikers by Arthur Veno
The American Motorcycle Girls: A Photographic History by Cristine Sommer Simmons
The Motorcycle Diaries by Che Guevara (The movie is great as well, I know that it doesn't really revolve around motorcycles, but the bike was the catalyst for his adventure, plus it's my blog, so there.)
Grettir's Saga, author unknown *Disclaimer: this book has nothing to do with motorcycle culture. It was written in Iceland, around the 9th, 10th or 11th century. It's an amazing book, and I'm pretty sure Grettir is the original outlaw.
Movies/TV
Quadrophenia (scooters are awesome too)
Obviously, The Wild One and Easy Rider (psh, obviously)
Sons of Anarchy
*The biker scene in Pee Wee's Big Adventure, classic
*The Lone Biker of the Apocalypse in Raising Arizona
It's that time again where I become obsessed with having the perfect room. I'm generally more interested in adorning my body but the lack of furniture is really putting a damper on my time management skills. The artist posted doesn't sell dressers, however the Bigfoot Boudoir set may be something that I need to have.
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