I am forever a moon eyed dreamer. Casting spells over and wrapping myself in layers of persona that comfort, protect or inspire.In the the pale dawn hours, piles of pillows and blankets drifting around me like soft icebergs, I ask myself who will I be today ? Sleep laden eyes still closed, desert scapes with Georgia Okeefe, a flash of red lips seen on the cover of novel, the crinkled fabric of a white linen sheet dance before my lids. Choosing an outfit for me is choosing who I wish to be for the day and is varied as the ever changing the New England tides. It is not to say that I am not myself when I choose my attire it is simply a question of which part do I wish to present to the world.
We are all told we can choose our own destinies and why can't that be as simple as choosing the day's narrative?
The narrative as of late has been fueled by the echoing halls of Rosecliff and the ghosts of Fitzgerald. The ebb and flow of time revirbirating off of high carved ceilings, Marbled staircases and picture windows overlooking the ocean. Within these walls Tessie, young and trim waisted, ivory skinned with dark hair piled high, beckoned guests to drink "just one more glass of champagne". Just being inside the shell of such opulence possessed me with a longing. A longing to have occasion to dress, to be bathed in the accessible softness of lace or silk chiffon.Much like my current status I have no allusions of what my life would have been like at this time. My turn of the century immigrant Swedish heritage would have rendered me a maid, but one can still dream.
And so dream I did.