Prime Living?

Looking for my wardrobe at the bottom of my glass. It wasnt there. 

My wardrobe shrank.
It is as if someone snuck into to my room in the night and stole the clothes i loved, splintering my closet into ill-fitting garments and a  million sweater dresses (ew).


After a weight gain, a depressive bout  and a quarter life crisis i am left wondering; what looks good on me? Everything? Anything? Nothing?  If I am what I wear, who the fuck am I?


 As a baby my nick name was tinker bell, a name that until now i thought apt, but have come to find  inaccurate. To spread pixie dust, one must be imaginative and to my horror i realize that I probably have never expressed a single original or imaginative thought in what i wear.  I believe I have always been 'knock off' rather than 'spot on'.


Neverland beauty is eternally elusive. This trend, that trend. That product this product. All of a sudden, the brilliant illusion is ageing, cracking and fraying along with dreams of the future me. I am living my prime, but in reality it is a shadow of my vogue fantasy . No matter how long i worship the altar of the glossy page, I will never be Kate Moss.

So where to from here? Move on? Move forward? Change. I have decided that to facilitate a change of dress, i must change my scenery. My friend Katharine is looking for a roommate in Montreal and this July, it will be me. I will fly away from my beautiful lost boys and Pixie (Cut) Hallow and nestle in a new place. I have come to learn that progression is not linear, we grow and regress regardless of age. Montreal is the destination, the new sober dream, indicative of i'm not sure what. Is Neverland before me or behind me? Is growing up or staying young progressive?


As my 'vogue fantasy' reveals beauty as illusory, it also reveals the beauty of an illusion. Maybe the secret to youthful enthusiasm is staying loyal to the pursuit of a fantasy? I can look at it in two ways: i am going toward Montreal or im am moving sideways across the country. I can try to look Kate Moss or I can believe than i never will.


All i know is that right now, the idea of flying away fills me with hope.

There's no thing call "Home" like "Homeless"

I’m writting this almost naked. It’s 7:31 pm, and I have no plans for tonite. My roommate left the apartment a couple of hours ago, I’m all home alone, I’ve been all alone this past 5 months, but that’s ok though, or at least I’m trying to convince myself that it is, it is fine.

I opened a bottle of red wine that I stole from my father’s cellar. It’s ok, a little bit sweet for this grumpy mouth.

Me and my weapons.

As I sip my alcohol and have a drag of my blue camel cigarette, I write this stupid entry, I don’t know exactly why, but a couple of weeks ago I got this idea. I was watching tv with my tremendous sister when we checked the artwork of this Italian artist, Vanessa Beecroft, who had an installation with nothing but naked women at the Guggeheim, where everyone was dress fancy and chic. That make me think about the value that we put on clothes: what do they mean for us, and what are we trying to make them mean for the others… What messages are we trying to send when we dress up in a certain way or in another. Tonite my friends, I’m not wearing anything but my bra and my pale yellow bragas. I’m not wearing make up, but my reading glasses, and I’m trying to be totally honest about me, to myself.

This is me, with all those so called “beauty” marks and freckles on my face; with some extra eyebrow that I haven’t take off; with a little fat roll; with this arms that I hate sometimes; with no shave legs that remind me some cactuses and with a sad look that I can’t take off my eyes.

This is me, a 28 years old woman, who better calls herself unemployed cause the job I have is just to pay the rent and not to feel happy about it. A woman who recently left “home” to go back “home”.  A single woman who has realized that sometimes that means loneliness. A woman with no friends, not even party friends. A woman who chooses to open a bottle of stole wine and share it with no one but her thoughts.

This is me, a two haired color lady who plays Rilo Kiley instead of Yann Tiersen to find inspiration while she is writing.

I have changed, “home” has changed too, it supposed to fit me, I mean, my old life, but it doesn’t, and that’s ok if it means that I have grown, that I’m not that size anymore, but what size am I now? Don’t know… But certainly not my old jean size, so I took them off.

I wake up, and I’m in a hurry, for what? I don’t know, probably to get on time to my pay-rent-job, but after that? There’s no need to feel in a rush, but I feel it anyways. I’m even drinking this wine too fast, so I would probably be waisted by the time I publish this entry, but who cares? I’m not driving and not working with heavy machinery, so fuck everything and drink the whole bottle Miss Loneliness.

I put my vase with purple flowers to my left, close to my wine and cigarettes, so I can see them everything I’m trying to reach my addictions… At least I will have a better view. I’m sitting on my bed, feeling like I should get a nice and comfortable chair for these occasions. Mosquitoes are flying and desperate to bite me, they’re welcome, that would be the closest that another living organism get to me.

I might be crazy. If a neighbor sees me, the picture he/she would have is this: woman wearing nothing but her undies, writing, drinking, and smoking like a chimney, with some tears falling down her face, getting on her knees… From here, my knees look like two Canadian mountains, with water on top, water that will become snow.

Monte Andino Chilean wine is getting in, it’s sedating me, it’s making me write things that I would probably regret once the alcohol effect decides that I’m too old for him.

I turned to the right, looking for my lighter, and I read: “Life is a miracle”, a movie that my sister recommended me. I haven’t watched it yet, I’m scare of finding that life could be a beautiful miracle… It’s always easier to complain.

Then, I turn left, trying to find some inspiration and there it is: “Hang it up”, a thing that me and my old young love bought together to hang up our jackets. I kept it, and brought it right to my new “home”. I should hang up all my anxiety causes, but they are mostly untouchable: professional dreams, social life, finding love, getting love, being visible not invisible, finding the way, finding MY way.

I can feel the air touching my skin, we barely notice that, we are pretty much always wearing something that impeded us to get this feeling, but it’s great. If it’s cold, u get to experience the real coldness; if u r hot, well, you get a chill breeze that refreshes you.

You get to experience the sensation of having your knees rubbing your chest, or your arms touching your thighs. Usually we get to experience how does it feel when someone else’s arms cuddle your body, but the feeling of being yourself who is doing it, it’s weird and nice at the same time.

It’s funny, every time that I’m trying to type the word “arms” I write “armas”, which in Spanish means  “weapon”. And that makes a lot of sense, for a Spanglish speaker person, cuz that’s exactly what your arms are: your armas, your weapons. That’s why _I learned to respect mine, even if I don’t like them because I have always thought they are a little bit stout for my body, but they are the only armas that I have, and they are furious.

So, ok, I went to the kitchen to get some spring water, and my neighbors next door saw me almost naked, I just waived, and let me tell you that I felt so comforting! Yes! I got a witness! That’s me you puritans!

I’m wanting, so badly, that tonite turns a little bit funnier, well, at least with more company than myself, so I decide to get dress and ready for whatever the fuck happens. But I have something in mind, I won’t hide what I am, I’ll wear my fears, and my sadness, and my super high insecurity and I’m gonna try to walk with it. Some days, some nights, are harder than others, but this one will have to make a difference in my life, for sure. So I pour more wine in my glass, cheers for the real me.: A frightened 28 years old girl, who likes to look beautiful underneath all those layers of colorful clothes and who likes to feel taller and stronger wearing those breathtaking shoes; who seals her lips with red lipstick, in case she decides to talk about herself, the real she.

This is me, a girl who wants to have a great night tonight, with people and have some laughs; who wants to forget about her fears and preoccupations, but wear them, not leaving them at home or some sort of body basement; who wants to feel accompanied, belonging to a group. To have friends and feel that she left “home” to reach another one, a more chaotic one, but still a home.  

Two different paths, My same Shoes.

The plane landed on time. I almost felt asleep when the captain said that we reached our destination: The largest city in Mexico: Mexico city. A city with more than 4 million cars, a messy paradise full of different beds and different shoes. There I was, bringin my two different pairs of doc marteens: Black and green.

The metro crowd.

I picked up my baggage and walked through the "welcome door". Four years had passed, before this writer came back to that magical city. I didn't understand anything, the airport has changed... a lot, just like me, probably it didn't recognized me aswell.
I tried to catch a cab, It was almost impossible. So I asked someone's help. While he was talking on the radio to get one taxi for me, I realized that I didn't know where to go. I threw myself into a city where I don't know anyone that well, to ask them to go and visit them really early in the morning.
So I tried to figure out where to go, checking the different options that I had in my torn head. I couldn't but hear the voice of this guy telling me that my taxi was going to arrived at any moment.
By the time the cab got there, I was even more confused. So, once I got into the transportation machine, my mouth played a game at me and said: "I'm going to blah, blah, blah". I was shocked, did I really know what was I doing?. Nope, but still I did it, like pretty much in my poor life story.
It took us forever to get to the hotel, It was ok, I was enjoying the view: thousand cars stucked in the traffic jam, all the horns played by many different people, making of the sound, some kind of anthem of the city, that anthem would become my soundtrack later that weekend.

This doesn't belong here.

As soon as I got to the hotel's entrance, my phone rang. It was my friend Omarov, telling me he wanted to see me, he sounded excited about the fact that I was in his city, he had so many plans, which in the future developed in many memories to me.
I checked in, I took the elevator up to the third floor, 303 was my room. Mine and no ones else. I felt so happy, it brought back old passages of me, being in my early twenties, traveling around Europe by myself. I remembered how much I love to travel with me and my complicated and sensitive personality.
I looked myself in the mirror, "Hello me, it's me again". I was blissful with the idea of walking around the different neighborhoods with Tani, a girl who I lost in Vancouver like a year and a half ago.

I took all my clothes out of the bag, hanged them; set all my perfumes and my many cosmetics on the dressing table; put on some red lipstick and took my black vintage hat, I didn't wear it right away, I just hold it  with my shaky hands. I took the elevator down, and my adventure began.
Everyone was nice at me: the people at the front desk smiled at me all the time, the bellboy was actually flirting   and the hotel taxi drivers were checking out my ass as I walked out the door.

I'll decide when it's the right time.

"So, how did you reach that point?
-What do you mean?
-Yes, how did you know what did you wanna become, who did you wanna be? I'm on the verge of my twenties, almost reaching my third decade in this world, and I don't know what do I want to do with my life, don't have even a fucking clue man!
-Well, that's exactly what you need to figure out for starters, then everything will be so much easier.
-Fuck man, I'm a mess, a chaos, a puzzle with missing pieces, and I don't know where should I start looking for them.
-I'll help you. Tell me, what do you enjoy doing the most?
-Writing, fashion, debating, politics, haha, don't know, many things.
-That's why you are so confused, you have many things to focus on, and probably you have good skills in all of them. So you are a very artistic person.
-I wouldn't considered myself an artist.
-Why not?
-Cuz I hate that term.
-Hahaha I see, well you have to call yourself something in order to start selling yourself as something.
-Yes, you are probably right.
-Another beer?
-Why not..."
He gave me a wanna-be-cold-beer, and lost himself into another converstation, with a fashionable girl, who wasn't me.
I started talking with my friend O, but I was still checking out his movements. His 50's glasses were, once in a while, reflecting the black light on me, on my white chest: He made me glow, and I felt so unique in the crowd.

Later that night, when I was dancing with my friend, I noticed that he was staring at me. He was really far away from the improvised dance floor. He walked towars me, and he said: "You are a chaos because you are a tornado baby, you could turn apart everything you touch, anyone you say 'hi'..." He made me shine even brighter.
"-May I ask your age?
-I'm 33 years old, and you?
-Almost 29.
-So, you are 28, don't give answers that belong to the future.
-I wont, from now on.
-It's late, and the party is getting really 'drunky', listen, would you like to come over my apartment, ask O, he knows where I live. Just one block away.
-I don't know, it's really late and I have to get on a plane tomorrow morning.
-I promise it wont be like a marathon.
-Haha, that's ok, just one beer."

Me and a bunch of people went there: the apartment of my dreams, so beautiful, it was alive, great furniture and lots of books and magazines: politics and fashion were emerging from the bookshelf, like if it was mine. Later that night, I would be informed that his parents are diplomats, and that he knows a hell of international relations  and history. He shares his apartment with a Le monde correspondent... That apartment had all the people that I'd been waiting to talk to, that I'd been wanting to ask so many questions, to get an idea... Any idea.

"-Don't go, stay one more night.
-No, I can't, but I wish I could. I have to work tomorrow.
-What do you do?
-I'm a kindergarten teacher.
-Awww, You must be the most interesting kindergarten teacher in the world.
-Haha, relax man.
-No, really. You think you are a mess, but you are nothing but a bunch of extrentic and good things together, you are exactly who someone needs to feel alive.
-.... (I couldn't say anything, I didn't know what to say)... I'm just a lost little girl, trying to teach to other little guys something about life, and I'm scared I'm the worst role model they could have.
- You are a little tornado, you're supposed to turn upside down some lives, even your own life.
-It was a great night, thank you so much for your nonesense, it made some sense to me. We will never see each other again.
-No, we wont. I'm moving to Amberes soon.
-I'm moving to somewhere, soon. It's been a pleasure.
-It was a real pleasure."
We hugged, I coul feel his fingers digging into my shoulders, he could feel my heart racing as his chest tried to say something that his lips didn't pronounce, but that I could hear:
"I really hope so too" My voice replied.

Some experiences don't last long enough in time, but they do in our hearts. That's my consolation prize.

Sisterhood.

Trailer Park day. Photos taken by Perrito Bebé.