reduce, reuse, recycle

I had an eventful walk home from work today. For, I was given a fresh look at the classic 90s catch-phrase, reduce, reuse, recycle. And I thought I'd share with you my findings:

Reduce,

Or the lack there of, as I was at the grocery store picking up some mid-week necessities, and managed to spend $45 in the the 10 items or fewer lane. This might be due in part to the landmark decision I made to buy the 2lb. block of Cabot Cheddar instead of Col's usual 8oz. cheese-crumb. Now maybe we can go longer than two days without running out.

Reuse.

There is an ancient barber shop in my town that seems to have been trapped in a time capsule. The chairs are retro, the grimy linoleum floors are retro, and the faded posters on display show hairstyles from the 1950s. I walked by the window and saw it glaring back at me. 56 years. That's what the poster says: 56 years. The cartoon letters look like pubic caterpillars. For they're been written out using, I imagine, 56 years-worth of hair trimmings. Trimmings of all colors and textures. The funny thing is, I've never seen anyone in there getting their hair cut. Ever. So where did all those trimmings come from?

Recycle.

Not far from the barber shop and the grocery store is the YMCA. I walk by there quite often and see parents picking up their children from afternoon activities. This time, as I neared the front entrance, a little girl about 7 or 8 busted out of the door singing, "There's a place in France, where the naked ladies dance. There's a hole in the wall where the men can see it all!" Her father followed her out to the street, blushing all the way.

I had to smile. That was MY song when I was her age—20 years ago!—and I'm sure my father was horrified. Still, it will never grow old, will it? So long as there are silly little girls whispering in each others ears, "Naked ladies, pass it on!"

little red riding... good?

I wore a red coat today. A long one that falls below my knees. I was amazed at the women who gave me compliments, hinged with surprise: oh what a beautiful color! how striking against the white snow. Had I discovered a new color? Or was their astonishment felt from finding beauty in my sartorial brazenness? What's the big deal anyhow?

Now, I know this much: Red is not a puritanical hue. It was indeed the poisoned red apple that put Snow White to sleep. And her voluptuous red lips that ate it. Oh sinner, Eve! It was the red letter "A" that screamed adultress to all who looked. Scarlett O'Hara. Scarlett Johansson. Oh sexy temptress! Red light district, crimson tide. Aunt Flo. Even the clean girls are never white as snow. Streetcar Named Desire? There's hidden meaning to that name, Blanche. The truth reveals a burning hot fire.

Can't I just wear a beautiful red coat without having to feel like a sinner, like Hester Prynne? And even if I were, does it really matter, oh Judges of Color, of Evil and Good? What about Rose Red. Love. What about Red Riding Hood? For that's really who I felt like today. Little girl on her way to grandmother's house. Young and playful and screaming white red.

i like the word fashion. do you?

The word fashion can be a cherry bomb. It carries within its glossy womb a hidden artillery of equally laden terms like elitist, anorexia, vanity, waste and excess.

But fashion, like any industry or ideal, has its necessary bags of good and evil. I’m an optimist and tend to see the good in it. Words such as style, inspiration, conceptual art, personal confidence, color, expression, originality, and beauty come to mind.

Anybody can and should have style. To lend excitement to every day, to inspire others with new ideas, and to give every precious moment of life the full effort and limelight it deserves.

the gymnast in me

It can be disconcerting to dig through archives from a past life. Surreal even, like when you fall upon some dark poems you wrote as a sad, misanthrope teenager (as for me, I used to quote Eleanor Rigby) or detailed sketches of vampires and emaciated creatures. Who was that girl? I look at her now and think to myself, she was trying way too hard.

Maybe I was. Or maybe I was just trying something out. Like when I did the happy hippy thing—incense, flowing skirts, and all—for a couple years in high school. Or the black leather thing during my college days in Paris. Some moments I’d just as soon forget.

But there are other glimpses of my past that afford real inspiration to the current Me. I think my best phase was one of my earliest during a time not at all documented but for in my memories and one single photo: it was the gymnast in me. Those were the days of Mary-Lou Retton. I cut my hair short just like hers and started taking gymnastics at the Y. My favorite outfit was a shiny purple leotard that I wore with red tights and a red and purple striped belt. The stretchy elastic kind that hooked together with two metal buckles. I wore it around the house with my pink Velcro sneakers. I wore it doing cart-wheels in the yard. I wore it everywhere.

Yes, sometimes digging through old photos and odds and ends can unearth some real gems. I can look at that shiny leotard picture and think, that girl had something. She’s had her pulse on the moment. She didn’t even have to try, she was ahead of her time. And you know what? You can’t see it in the picture, but I even had a rat’s tail. Those were so hot back then. And I wanted one real bad. I was 6 years old.

penelopepost.com

I'm working on a new web site, which takes inspiration from my blog, Penelope Post. Gosh, it's really a lot of work, but I'm enjoying it immensely. There are still lots of empty spaces, but I decided to publish it in its working state. Have a look if you'd like: penelopepost.com. I'm especially proud of my quirky little trapeze artist animation.