The title is pretty self explanatory, essay writing 101 (actually, full disclosure I was an English Major who hated writing essays—detested, to be specific). Let’s delve further into the subject. Yes, the images are of kids, young screwballs exploring “alternative” dressing. That wonderful world of self-discovery, rebellion, and boundary pushing. But they’re kids nonetheless, not able to legally buy themselves a beer at their favourite band’s concert. Shot at NXNE YDS free outdoor concerts.
Now, to explain what made me post these pictures, how many months later. I’ve been sucked into an online k-hole reading Cat Marnell’s work. Her drug abuse, her exceptionally bright career, her drug abuse, and finally her drug abuse. No I’m not condoning drugs, dummy. She’s an exceptional writer—drugs or no—who speaks intelligently—poetically even—about her religious abuse of drugs. What I want to point out here is not the affected sense of fearlessness. Because not only does Marnell care, she seeks out the rise; that punch-line, that has some cheering and others throwing punches. I want to learn from her bewilderingly obtuse sense of rightness.
We apologize so much. By we, I mean people, Canadians, women. It’s never enough, or we overextend and then worry about not getting it all perfect. Along the way did we upset someone, maybe not intentionally by telling them where to go? But slights we feel the need to apologize for? I know I have. Everyday is a litany of what did I do? How well did I do it? Did someone affirm that I’ve done it right?
See, it could be my age, I’m 27 (on the cusp of 28). Or my character. Or is it my childhood, and years of being bullied rearing its ugly head? Or life as a freelancer in an economy that sucks hard? Or being a woman? Don’t know.
Truth is, I’m starting to care less and less. I only know how to be me. Part my parent’s upbringing, part societal rules most adhere to, part my instinctual reactions. Being a blogger, and a woman at that, you end up being put into some ‘nice’ box. I’m not jealous of Marnell, or wish I could do as many drugs as she (they scare the Hell out of me), or want that kind of notoriety. I don’t want an eating disorder, or to bleach my hair, or wear pounds of foundation. So, like most other women my age (broad strokes) I know exactly what I don’t want. I don’t want to just be nice.
But, what do I want?
I want to tell myself to shut the fuck up right now. So I’ll forge on. Bringing this full circle back to clothing: when I get dressed in the morning it’s mostly about wanting to look good. Do you feel me? For whom? That depends. Does it matter? Yes.
These photos show a style that if you grew up as a teenager in the nineties you’ll remember fondly— the raver look. The fuzzy shit, the soothers, the 60″ pant leg circumferences. It’s all rushing back through a haze of some crazy chemical, yeah? I wouldn’t know; I never went to a rave. I went to a high school where you would drink in parks with guys who weren’t worth the 40s of Olde English on hand. Maybe this girl knew about raves, maybe she’s been to one of those PG13 raves I hear are still going on. The style is recycled, like everything else. What resonates with me, what triggered me to find these photos today, is that mood. It’s not an “I don’t care,” but it is a call for a reaction.
So maybe this whole post is for a reaction. Maybe I need a reaction today, this month, in my life. Maybe, I don’t want to say “Oh, I’m sorry”—again.