And water’d heaven with their tears,
Did He smile His work to see?
Did He who made the lamb make thee?
Correction: If I Was Their Muse (YSL&Cocteau Re-Concocted)
Memory, I have often thought, is not a sepia lane to be sauntered down once in a while, but a vast walk-in wardrobe to be ransacked daily - a sartorial menagerie that life has filled with non-refundable accessories for us to rummage through in search of ourselves.
It is here in this wardrobe of memories where the real dressing up begins for each of us, at the start of every day. We scour the vivid and the vague remnants of ourselves for signature pieces, taking them into new days which don’t have identities of their own. We stitch the fabrics of our lives into sweeping invisible cloaks or invisible underwear - all of us are superheroes really and autobiographies are not written, but worn.
So I don’t clean out the skeletons in my closet. I dress them up in Chanel suits and pearls.
This, I have discovered, is far more cathartic than throwing them out. It gives the less attractive chapters in our autobiographies the allure that all ugly things invariably acquire in hindsight or high fashion.
Angel: Knight In Shining Armour (plus bouquet)
YES: Unlock, Unlock, Unlock. Let us weary our wrists and our minds with unlocking the power of girls.
Well I guess that’s just the thing about dreams: you don’t choose them, they choose you. They whisper and tease, at first playful, at last incessant. And if you ignore them? They scream. At this point, you get to play God: kill them, or bring them to life. Both take courage.
Which are you brave enough to do?
My Sister | Amelia
Love…Evolve | EJO
Madame Bovary
What my shadow gets up to behind my back
…the most crippling disease of our time: the same four stories flattened out and told over and over… how to steal; how to kill; how to diminish; how to live dead whilst alive. The periodic tables are more captivating.
A great soul, a great storyteller, has a life lit by a winged thing … one which rustles, throws off flashes of lightning when sensing treasure … a sudden thought, an abrupt intuition, whilst passing over any unmapped mountain range… and holds to those flashes, does not ignore the pull to fly closer, to prospect.
Refuse to submit to anyone who insists we ought understand the entire world as though it is merely a shopping list… to be copied from week to week. The mystery. Hold to the mystery. Mystery is Imagination’s most ancient name.
In making your story, tell whomsoever will listen, in your own way, and with love … then tell them again: Story that lasts is a fire that flows from anything in us that is eternal.
