Nomad Style: An Elegy to the Good Times. A Fairwell to my Friend Katharine Wand.

Series 1: The Farewells. Boccioni, 1911.

"The sixteen people around you in a rolling omnibus are in turn and at the same time one, ten, four, three; they are motionless and they change places; they come and go, bound into the street, are suddenly swallowed up by the sunshine, then come back and sit before you, like persistent symbols of universal vibration."

‘Manifesto of Futurist Painters’, Boccioni, Carrà, Russolo, 1912; as quoted in “Futurism”, ed. By Didier Ottinger; Centre Pompidou / 5 Continents Editions, Milan, 2008, p. 146 (artist quotes, Umberto Boccioni)

Those who Go, Boccioni, 1911.

Buddists believe that stasis is the end of everything. To be without connection to other things or people is freedom. Through meditation, they search for zen, a state of enlightened calm. And I think that in Katharine's world, working as an air steward for Air Transat, the notion of being able to let go, to beginning again and to be constantly looking forward is not only comforting but vital in terms of staying emotional and psychologically intact.

But I am not an air steward. I am not a Buddhist. I am an clingy and notoriously passionate and too often give into the childish impulse of riding the full spectrum of the human emotion. In this moment find myself giving into sadness, descending into melancholy for simply I don't want to let go of my friend. I hate this idea of being left behind. I begrudge my friend for her step towards new direction despite the fact that it is what she needs.

I want her to be around for me when I'm sad, when i want to drink a bottle of wine and smoke a pack of cigarettes and listen to and rhapsodize about art and rap and everything in between until i fall asleep at five o'clock in the morning. I want her to be around for me when I'm happy, when I'm nervous and exited about a boy, for her to be there to remind me that i don't look like a man and that when I'm not on the defensive I can actually almost be like her, attractive, charismatic and magnetic. I want to pout my lips, tear up and exclaim "it's not fair!"at the thought that she will soon be gone, across the country and tangibly out of my life.

Those Who Stay, Boccioni, 1911.

Canadian Contributor

Family has never come easy to me. Aside for my parents, they have always been far away from me, be it because of geography or just complete lack of understanding. I don't understand them and they never really took the time to know me, a fact that as an adult I have found a sort of piece with, but as a child caused me no end of tears and grief. For as long as I can remember, i have always felt like an outsider, teetering somewhere on the edge of wanting desperately to be a part of the group but maintaining my distance because i know the cruelty big groups can create and the pain of being the one that doesn't fit in.

I think it is for this reason that I love nomads, these ephemeral being that come into my life as individuals, representative of no group, free of association and in need of companionship but not attachment. Together we are free to create ourselves anew, defining our own experiences and finding out what it is we truly want out of life without prescription, undefined by any of those people that were instrumental in creating our character. The only problem, however, is that when you love nomads, you are always having to say goodbye. 

"Katharine" is an alternate spelling of Katherine that emphasizes the link to the Greek "katharos," or "pure." And as much as I know she would love to deny it, beyond the image of the boozing, drugging pleasure seeking, jet setting hedonist that we know all know and love, lies the essence of a woman the is more true to her name than anyone could have predicted ; in that she is the picture of sensitivity and her heart is sweet. The reason she burns so brightly is that she had found it within herself to confidently celebrate her own external and internal beauty.

So to Katharine i wanna say thank you for the good times my dear. It's been a blast. You are living proof that style and class have nothing to do with how much money you have. Your ability to stay true to yourself and loyal to your friends, to speak the truth loudly even in challenging times has inspired me.  I hope that this new chapter in your life brings you luck, love and happiness. Here's to getting naked in fountains all over the world!

men just cant get enough

katie has had enough haha

Totally Naked Little Woman.

"Why do I have to clean up a mess that I didn't make," he said while he was trying to mop the floors, taking away all the beer and wine stains from many nights ago, the nights that he had spent at my place, leaving his roomate home alone.
"Because life is a bitch babe" I replied. I couldn't look him in the eye. Actually I was trying to hide between his huge ripped grey sofa and my sense of guilt.

In a way, he wasn't just cleaning up the floors, but also my life, my heart, my past.

For so long I've been crying for an old young love that I had. He has been the reason why I constantly write and why I, all of the sudden, stop doing it.
There are just a few words to describe my pain, and I've used them all.

I met him last week, it's funny, that night i didn't make  an effort to find what to wear.
I picked my sequined 70s blue and red shirt, and my high rise black pants from American Apparel. Again, I had to wear wedges just to feel part of the tall crowd.
He was there, with his messy brown hair, beautiful young smile and very kissable lips. Wearing a tight vest, vintage tie, and an amazing pair of black biker boots, for which my old young lover could have killed for.
I thought he was hot, but what I liked the most was that he radiated some kind of innocence, like if he stills believes in the world.

For me, it was a regular party. Fancy people, hipsters all over the place, going from one way to another, holding cigarettes without a filter and  cheap beer, in a 70s lighted dance floor in which nobody was actually dancing.

"Stop! Don't kiss me, I just put some lipstick on" I was trying to protect my infallible Chanel red lover french complice. 
"I don't care," he said and grabbed me from my shoulders. I had to look up, he is taller than me, and I found a  kind teenage smile.
"I wont kiss you," was my response, even though my eyes were challenging him to do it.
"Then, I will do it". And he gave me a cute warm kiss, that took me far far away from that roof. We made a memory that we have been sharing  in our pillow talks.

That evening, when I chose what to wear that night, I wasn't expecting to take any of my clothes off, at least not in front of someone.
He drove my car, and parked it outside of my building.
I went upstairs with a giggle.  My heart was racing like a teenager about to make out for the first time.

The wowman who wants to see me happy

In this case, my parents weren't sleeping in the other room, instead, my recently "in a relationship" roommate was. I didn't want to wake her up, but also didn't want her to judge me: "How could you say you still love your old young lover if you are going to get a stranger under your sheets?"
Now I know that she wouldn't say something like that to me. She just wants to see me happy, not crying 24/7 in my bed. And right now, I kinda look happy, But I know that sometimes happiness could be mistaken with excitement.

It's been so long since I had sex: I lost my libido since my old young love crossed our front stoop for the last time; leaving me with all those bills, all the furniture, all the memories and empty walls, and the worst part: All the silence from what used to be a noisy love nest.
Getting laid wasn't something in my plans, I have been busy trying not to cry every fucking time that Russell Brand appears on T.V. or in a magazine. He reminds me of my old young love. Sometimes I feel the Mexican version of Katy Perry, and that our destiny will be to be together, just like them, probably without the expensive Indian wedding though.
It seems that  the teenager's logic never disappears, in spite of the age.

I never had to come up with an elaborated conversation that would help me to reveal "my secret" in the future with a stranger.
In a way, I've always expected my old young love to come back, So I didn't have to talk about a secret that we both share.
I've a STD, nothing too serious, nothing mortal, Thank God.
Before I met my Russell Brand, I was perfectly healthy, just a regular free of STD girl. Then, a couple of months after we moved in together, I noticed something strange; he and I went to the doctor and that was it, one of my worst sexual nightmares became true.
I don't blame him, it wasn't his fault. Actually it was nobodies fault. He didn't know he had it, he couldn't warned me.
For the first few weeks I was devastated, then I learned to live with it, I have a new tenant in my body, and I will always will.
The time passed and we started to act normal again, like no tension for the bad news, after all we were going to be together forever. What a joke life and love plays to us. I knew that nothing is forever, but now I truly believe it.

So, there I was, all naked, no pants, no sequined blouse, no shoes, no make up on, just my fearful skin lying on my flowery comforter, and then, I realized I was still "wearing" something that I had to take it off: "my secret".
No designers, no brands, just the truth.

"Look"- I said while I was staring at a phrase I wrote on my window: Live the life you imagined.- "I have to tell you something before we do anything".

I kept talking, I was scared, but I had to do it, even though that could mean:
-not seeing him again.
-not having his company again.
-Losing him before I even had him.

"So..." - and I sighed - "That's my secret".
I felt ashamed, unprotected, exposed. There wasn't my Chanel sunglasses to wear and hide my glossy eyes under the shades.No my Gucci high heels to make me feel taller and strong. Nope, there was nothing but a revealed secret, a naked conscientiousness.

I could never put someone throw the horrible experience of going to the doctor and leaving his office with more than just a prescription.
These are new times, and if we, woman want to become a wowman, and wanna be in control of our lives, we have to be strong and brave enough, not just to dare to wear a super high heels, Eiffel Tower size; or to put on our lips some exotic color; or even wear as many bracelets as we want... No, sometimes we will have to show a clean face, no make up on baby, just the truth, even if that means letting someone else to see a part of us that we dislike.
It's easy to cover up a pimple with foundation; or to make our eyes or lips look bigger or smaller, depending on our complexes.
It's easy to look slimmer wearing the right clothes on, or to look sexier with the help of a  Wonderbra. but there are somethings that you cannot hide, you should not hide, things that you must reveal, no matter what.

We didn't have sex that night, but shortly after I confessed, I felt a warm breeze on my skin, I felt proud of myself. We could see the sunrise through my window, writing on the floor with a courageous shadow the phrase I had written when I moved to this apartment.

My fears were gone, being honest didn't take him away from me. We are just two people excited about what can happen tomorrow, two people smiling.

Today, just like he said, I realized there's gonna be many episodes in this life, and in some of them, someone will have to clean up a mess that he/she, didn't do, didn't cry, didn't enjoy.
He left the mop for a moment, and before he came and silenced me with a kiss, I kept repeating to myself: "Life's a bitch babe, life's a bitch".

The mexican contribuitor kissing Audrey Hepburn, a wowman.

Wore that out of spite.

I have been trying to erase a person from my mind and heart. It´s been pretty much impossible to achieve my goal. No matter how many new pairs of shoes I buy (or actually my dad buys for me), his image appears everywhere: from the mirrors at the fitting room to the cash register. Even the security guard looks like him. So, three days ago, I went out shopping taking advantage of ZARA sales. I went directly to the shoe area, and decided to get a pair of shoes, or maybe two. But this time I wasn't going to buy the kind of shoes that I always buy: confortable and fashionable ones. No, I went out that day with the idea of getting a new me, a new pair of shoes, a new wardrobe, because I wanted to be new. And I wanted that 'cause maybe, if I became a different person, I wouldn't have that horrible image of my old young love. I was going to be a different woman, with a clean heart, with a blank after the phrase: "I Love _____".
Fuck love, and fuck confortable shoes.
And there I was, getting the highest heels in the store. I couldn't even walk to see them infront of a mirror, so I got pretty much an idea of how painful this new life was going to be, but still, I was positive that the pain that those shoes will cause me was nothing compare with the constant nightmares that my old young love brings me every fucking night.
I got those unwalkable shoes, a really short short brown leather skirt and three silk blouses: one see through with flowers, one black one with cute withe buttons and one leopard print (by now, you should now that my favorite color is leopard print). So I was determinated to look like a whore, but a fashionable one. I wasn't going to be the cute fashionable girl who loves a mother fuck*r who lives far far away from me. No more love, just hate speaking from my clothes. It was going to be a bitter version of myself, but with more legs and letting my bras do the talking.
At the end of my shopping journey, carrying two bags in each of my hands, I walked outside of the store confident about my choices.
It's been three days since that and I haven't wore my new me, which was on sale, how sad could it be. But I think that today is the day. The beautiful weather in this city allows me to wear a tiny skirt in full winter season, without wearing any tights on my recently tan legs.
Au revoir old me, sayonara old young love, hasta la vista memories, I hope tonight my new clothes write a new story, a one without your name on it, a one that erases you forever.

High heels, high expectations.

A week ago I tried to catch this guy attention by wearing high heels.
My best friend and I went to this bar close our home. I was supossed to meet "the magician" that night. So there I was, wearing a new pair of heels, my feet; killing me after 2 hours of waiting while I was dancing, pretending I didn't care his absence.

After three songs and many beers, two guys approached me. I wasn't interested, they weren't my magician. But still I did talk to them, while they were showing me how cute they thought I am by buying me shots of the most expensive whiskey.
Soon the huge amount of alcohol went from my veins directly to my heart, and the show began. I couldn't hold my tears anymore, they were somewhere behind my eyes hiding from the public at the bar. but somehow the whiskey gave them the power to go out. They danced on the lousy stage, and the audience started to clap.
Perhaps was my new leopard print shirt, or my tiny black leather skirt, or maybe my fake height, which caught people's attention.
My friend thinks it was my mascara running down my cheeks... Who cares, I was crying for a guy who's not even in the same city that I am, and that night I was expecting to get my magician home, so he could do some magic trick and for a night or maybe just for a moment, make disappear all the memories I keep from my young old lover.

Suddenly, when I had no more make up on my eyes, the magician made his triumphal entrance.
He poked my shoulder and I didn't want to turn around, not in that condition. I ran into the ladies washroom, and stood in front of the mirror... everything was ok, my shoes were great, but I was sure that we wasnt going to look at them, especially not with the face i was wearing.
I had no time to put some make up on again, so I just took my red chanel lipstick out of my harajuku lovers make up pocket and put on my lips.  I love making a mess on a guy's lips whenever I kiss them while I'm wearing chanel red lover.

So I went to the dance floor again, and there he was, wearing a white shirt with the wrong jeans, they seemed to came all the way down from the 90s. He looked like Brandon Walsh from Beverlyhills 90210.
He wasn't a magician anymore, he was a bad joke, a failed trick.

We didn't kiss, I managed to kept my chanel on my lips. He left and I started crying again. It wasn't for him, it was for my young old lover. He couldn't make my memories dissapear, on the contrary, they were more alive than ever.

While my tears were falling to the floor, i saw my heels again, they comforted me. I went home alone, but with a great pair of shoes, they were killing me, but they weren't as lethal as my memories.