Less is More

February 15, 2020

On top of going makeup-less (except for the odd concealer to cover up any zits and blush when I’m extra pale) for 2020 I have also decided to go bra-less. 2020 is the year of authentic me. Tired of hiding. This is me. No apologies. I have begun the year with a total breakdown that still haunts me. I may have to change my antipsychotic from olanzipine to another one because I am hearing women yelling at night when I'm in bed again. 
Listen. From an FB post:
"Sigh. For those at the back:

Your brain is an organ, correct? And organs like your liver, kidneys etc they can get sick and malfunction right? Then why can’t your brain get sick? Why is still looked at as different? Because, one would say, you ARE your brain. Your habits, your manifestions of experience, your thoughts and ideas. And that’s more than any of your other organs do.
Well, sort of.

Your brain does not dictate who you are intrinsically and innately. Rather, the brain takes external stimulants, experiments, and ideas and converts them into a pattern unique to each individual, and then dictates how they will be conveyed by you. And that’s what we call a ‘mind’. It’s a complicated system, a beautiful and gobsmacking system, but to say ‘you are your mind’ is erroneous. ‘You’ are what your brain dictates based on your past experiences and your brain’s health.
A malfunctioning brain will take that stimulus and translate it into something other than how it should be translated.

And that’s how you-‘your mind’ can get sick"

It's ok to be sick. With a mental illness you must rest and treat yourself the way you would a close friend. |Be kind to yourselves.

The next few posts will be about my journey through the past 6 years. Hold tight. It's quite the ride. I also need to find a new platform because apparently nobody uses blogger anymore. 

I'm (sort of but isn't that always the way?) back

February 14,2020
Bipolar, the 'Bi' that's way less fun than the other one.

Hello potential readers. It's been a slice. My first blog post since 2014. Wow. ok. I'm writing this for several reasons. As Leonard Cohen said in one of his songs "I hope you're keeping some kind of record". One of the reasons I'm doing this is because a few choice friends told me I should. But secondly and most importantly I need to keep a record of my illness and medications. That's right, my illness. I have Bipolar I Disorder. The big sea change since beginning this blog in 2014. The drugs I need to be on are going to make me less articulate, less alive in my prose than I was in previous posts. (read the "Ahem" post and you'll get a sense of what I mean). And that's ok. Another reason for writing this came from a friend who thought that maybe someone out there is in the same boat as me, stretching their arms out to grasp hold of anything tangible. Because things in our bipolar world aren't tangiblee. They're just nebulous cycles of a heavy heart.
Let's see. Where to begin where to begin. Perhaps I should just begin by getting a readership. If you're interested in the mad stories of addiction, mania, medication, self-mutilation and destruction, and failings (so many failings) then let me know in the comments. This won't be a blog about those terrible things listed above only. I will talk a lot about compassion and self care. I'll probably keep writing anyway but it's nice to know that people are reading it, taking in the delicate balance between compassion and rage.
I suppose my first (first after all this time) should be my most recent status on |FB because apparently that's where I write my feelings now:
"On Tuesday morning I broke.
It started with me throwing up. A lot. But there was nothing in my tummy. I felt like I was throwing up the last of the happiness I would ever feel.
Then came the brick of overwhelming sadness and desperation. Now, I’ve been desperate before. You don’t let docs electrify your brain 21 times without being desperate. But this time was different. This darkness had a shape. It was omnipotent. It had teeth, sharp claws, with no hint of recourse, respite, or relief. I’ve been here before, standing on the edge of that abyss, and I’ve always had my feet firmly planted on the ledge, but this feels like I’ve fallen; still clinging to the edge with white knuckles, gritted teeth, and feet dangling looking for a step up. I’ve been in bed since the darkness came, only to emerge if the hunger pangs are relentless. I’ve been taking my sleeping meds during the day just to be asleep while the abyss keeps drawing me in. But I’m slowly crawling out of it. Slowly. As I always do. I keep trying to treat myself tenderly. Like a figure made of matchsticks and just as combustible. I’ve never in my life felt the way I did on Tuesday. Now my gauge on how depressed am I has widened which doesn’t make it easier when trying to seek help; my rock bottom now has a rock bottom.
If you’re at rock bottom know that I am here too. I see you. I hear you. You are loved and you are necessary. And I’m right down here with you holding your hand."

quart in session

So you know how sometimes your favourite character on TV, a character who is flawed by addiction, quits their substance of choice and you sort of get...disappointed? Like it was such a pivotal part of their character and a bit why you liked them in the first place? That's how I feel about myself. I'm not romanticising anything; my life really was more fun. Late nights out, inside jokes, fast rides on motorcycles, self and city exploration. Sure, I can do that stuff now too, but I'd only compare it to how I experienced it before, and before was just so so much better. I know I'm not being a good spokesperson for sobriety, but there you have it. And then I think to myself how good it all was, the wind in my hair and the toxins in my blood, and I think I've already lived a full and exciting life. I feel like I've already lived a lifetime. And it makes me imagine myself as a senior at a nursing home where I have my soap operas and there's always someone touching me and I think - I want to be there. Because right now, with so much of my active life remaining and nothing with boredom and despair defining it, giving the sharp edges smooth corners, I feel like such a failure at life. Before, I was an addict and an alcoholic, but at least I was those two things. I had spark, a vitality, a lust for 'anything goes', and now I am nothing. I am biding my time until that nursing home. And to top it off, I'll probably not remember any of the good times by then. 

Now, let's talk about anhedonia and its relationship to addiction. Anhedonia is the inability to derive pleasure from things you used to. Some people have depression without anhedonia; they just feel gloomy and grey but things they enjoy can pull them out a bit. Some people have a bit of anhedonia. Me, I have all anhedonia all the time. If I had any more anhedonia I could probably sell it on the black market like used panties. Anhedonia is the soul-sucking, identity-robbing part of depression. And you know what temporarily alleviates anhedonia? The only thing that does (for me, at least)? That's right- substances ('I'll use the big 'S' for all abused substances, a la Infinite Jest). Those illicit toxins create a sort of fake space for pleasure. And it's a damn good fake, I tell ya. Like, prophet-convincingly fake. I mistook it for real pleasure for almost 2 decades. And at some point I knew it wasn't real, but it was all I had. And since I still have anhedonia, it's almost impossible to resist the temptation of that false pleasure. Without it I quite literally have no pleasure at all. Such is the reason so many depressed people are addicts, and why they fall off the wagon so easily. Until there's some sort of magic cure for anhedonia, their life will continue to be a battle where pleasure, however fake, is offered - but cannot be or should not be procured.  I cannot enjoy much of anything (not even a massage or warm bath or tea) without the big S substance. I know I'm not alone in this. I've heard of lots of people, from NoFX's frontman to William S. Burroughs, who though realising they must lead a more healthy life, hates that sober life because it lacks substance (pun intended). I liked the harsh angles of addiction. The anticipation of that first hint at some alchemical change in your perception, the night- the dive bars and diners and parking lots and taxi confessionals. And even the groggy mornings, the coffee melting the confusion of the night before. All that trashiness. It made me feel alive. I was just... feeling. For once I was feeling something. It was a window into a world I was otherwise not invited to attend.

I have nothing to offer in terms of overcoming this and feel badly for anyone reading who was hoping for a more uplifting and constructive view of sobriety in the midst of a deep depression. But I got nuthin'. Nothing except, I know. I feel it too. You're not alone. I am here with you. 

the importance of being.... habitual

I understand the healing powers of routine. Really, I get it. I know for a fact I thrive better with a set routine. Because of this, when I was young I wanted to either be in the cadets or be a nun. Not because of any alignment to any sort of believe or value system, but just because I'd know when to wake up and what to expect. No alarms and no surprises. When someone asks me to imagine a safe place, I imagine a hospital bed. Horrific, right? But not to me. There's always someone awake, around me. Human touch is always available in abundance- hell, I don't even have to ask for it. Even the cold shock of a stethoscope feels like a massage if there is a warm body tending to me behind it. Plus nobody can sneak up behind me in a hospital bed. If I were to imagine myself, as often people do, on some sort of sandy beach I'd become so anxious I'd feel paralyzed rather than relaxed. A sandy beach??? You mean, out in the open like that? Nobody else is around? But what if...Oh, hell no I can't close my eyes! Relax? That's just inviting surprise.
At any rate, I do understand the importance of habit. But when I open my eyes in the morning (okay, the afternoon), even though D so sweetly has coffee ready and the dog already walked, I cannot move. I just. cannot. move. The dreams I had, so lucid I can't separate them from memories most of the time, were so sweet (even if nightmares) because I am never depressed in my dreams. It's never really about me in my dreams. And then when I wake up it's only about me. This self-obsession I cannot escape. I know it. I see it. I recognize it. Yet I am powerless to control it. People tell me, you gotta force yourself, Just get up and do something. The same thing every day. Run, walk, read, whatever. It's difficult to explain why this is an impossibility in the depressed mind. I once explained it to someone like this: Imagine the most horrible thing, the most heinous thing, you can do to a person or animal. Now go do that thing. What do you mean you won't? There's nothing physical stopping you. Is it just because you know that it's wrong, someone told you that you'll go to jail? No? What is it then? What is that deep, instinctual, so-very-YOU force that's stopping you? That strength of impotence, the revulsion, the inertia, that is what is keeping me in bed. Not that I think it's a heinous act like in my example, but the STRENGTH of that revulsion to that act is very, very similar. It's almost a physical impossibility, like someone has to drag me out. The only thing that has ever worked to get me out of bed at a specific time is the fear of getting into trouble, of being ridiculed as punishment, that deep-seated fear of chastisement, of castigation, of being scolded and called a disappointment. That is the only thing stronger than my revulsion to leave the warmth of my bed. One time I signed up for morning yoga classes (expensive ones, thinking that would get me out of bed) but they were so all namaste there I knew I wouldn't get into trouble for not going so I didn't go. Yeah.
In an effort to at least pretend I'm going to introduce routine into my schedule, there are some things. Money is tight right now so though I'd like to get a membership at the YMCA nearby, it may have to wait. I used to go to an Agnostic AA meeting once a week. There's that. I could do that again (I probably won't but shhhh you're ruining the exercise). I meet my therapist Friday at 3pm every week so there's that too. For some reason I stay faithful to that even thought I know I wouldn't get in trouble for not going. So that's interesting, what's keeping me at it. I'd like to get back into my snow globes (so, I make these snow globes right? But there's no warm fuzzy scene in them. They're usually scenes from horror movies or just random sad things like a graveyard scene with mourners, or men carrying a body in a carpet, that sort of thing). Aaaanyway, getting back into that would also be great but it's fucking expensive to do. Train miniatures are like little nuggets of gold to surly veterans*. Plus I swear they up the price for me because they know what I'm going to manipulate them into. And, there's no set time so I'd have to make my own schedule which again isn't going to work. I could go back to work but I tried that already and fell most spectacularly. I thought I was ready but the electro-shock stole a lot of my memories so I had to ask about the most basic duties of my job which just caused panic attack after panic attack. I think most of my memory is back but how do you know what you can't remember? How do you know if you're forgetting something if you've forgotten it? The only way to know is to go back to work but....fuck....those panic attack were just too much. I need to be sure I'm ready.
So this post ended up being pretty boring so I apologize to anyone (if anyone) is reading but if this blog is just as much for me as it is for others, shit's gonna get boring and whiny and all the wonderful characteristics of the melancholic mind.

*I love and respect all veterans but it's a fact the ones with miniature trains are often surly. Hey I don't make the rules.

full circle. and then some.

Re-reading that last post, over a YEAR ago, is mind-blowing to me. I'm no further ahead, and that's not just a subjective critical me talking. Really. I'm no further ahead. Except for the fact that my brain has been surgically shocked and magnetized and medicated up the wha-zoo, nothing has changed. I may have read a new book or two. Oh, I learned how to make a pie they stopped selling at my local market. I moved into a new apartment. All surface-y stuff. Nothing in here in HERE has changed. Over the past year, there's been way too many low points to count. I'm still off of work. I don't shower often. I've shat myself in a hospital bed with the icky feeling of being electrically charged. And I had been. 7 times. The TMS - transcranial magnetic stimulation - was not as invasive. But still nothing. Then we went off-label, tried ketamine and different combos of antipsychotics and mood stabilizers. Lithium made my hair lighten and my face puff out. No joke I looked completely different. Plus I could FEEL it coursing through my blood. Hard to explain but there you have it. And my doctors have all but given up on me. I figure I'm just too... needy. And I don't respond to treatment so they get frustrated. Here's some examples of emails I've sent them, intending to be honest and articulate but ending up sounding like a verbose, pompous head-case:

October 20th, 2014

Hello Dr. _____

                As you know, I am one of the participants in the rTMS study that you are currently running. This week will see me undergoing treatments 15 through 20. The following is something I've wanted to discuss with you in person, but, as I’m not terribly articulate or cohesive when I attempt to express complicated things verbally these days, I thought that it would be more effective if I conveyed my thoughts to you in writing here.
          The reason for this letter is not actually to discuss my progress within the rTMS study, but rather my ongoing care and possible medication regime upon completion of the rTMS treatments. Specifically, I am very interested in the Ketamine study you are involved in, and have brought it up with my Psychiatrist, Dr. ____, who is also very interested and supportive of the research. In fact, I am very keen to explore whether I would be a suitable candidate for taking part in the Ketamine study. I do believe that the rTMS is helping (really helping) a certain aspect of my specific case (namely, the part of my brain that allows me to focus, have clarity, and have ambition), but the portion of my case that generally gets addressed with medication (the part that finds life dull, grey, and meaningless) is the portion I’m afraid will still be left wanting after treatment is complete.
                At this point, after two decades of fighting the disease, I truly believe that there are two different types of (or components to) depression: one which I call noise depression is the aspect of my depression that the rTMS is definitely helping me with. It gives me clarity and focus and I am able to concentrate and persevere without having intrusive thoughts and self-criticism disrupt my activities. The other, which I call grey depression, is the feeling of anhedonic hopelessness and emptiness that appears to exist within me at a level that is deeper than my outlook or day-to-day thought patterns, down in my core mood or ‘being’. I think some people are afflicted by one of the two types of depression, and some people have both, and I believe that I fall into the latter category. My grey depression does seem to improve with medication or anything else that raises serotonin/neurotransmitter levels, but only for a short time and only at the highest dose. I've tried them all except MAOIs. I feel (and am terrified of this feeling) that after the rTMS is done I will have a very clear, focussed brain that is able to live in the moment, for the moment (without the noise of intrusive thoughts and ideas) but that this moment, this focussed being, will still feel grey and hopeless.
                At any rate, as it is clear that I will still have to sort out my medication after rTMS treatment, and as I have very high hopes that participating in the Ketamine trial might be a promisingly effective route for me to take, I would very much like to know your thoughts on my suitability for the trial. I've been following the research into Ketamine for treating depression with great interest, and would really love the opportunity to be part of a study to prove its efficacy. Also, I’m not even sure that TWH study participants are allowed to be part of more than one study, so any information you could provide would be more than appreciated.

Thank you for taking the time to consider this request for your advice, and thanks also for all that you do,

-Nicole 

November 18th, 2014
Hi again Dr. ______,

Firstly, forgive me if this email comes across as a platform or sounding board of sorts; I truly am curious to see if this thought aligned with the rTMS's study's basis and/or findings...

It was such a basic and obvious fact that I had this morning, one that had been staring me in the face all this time but I had never been able to fully articulate- and that is the fact that, very early in my childhood, my brain learned that focussing on one singular thing or idea was self-destructive and would essentially (and not even hyberbolically) be the death of me, simply because every time I focussed on a single thing or thought about a single idea it was always very dark and dismal. So my brain taught itself a new pathway, and that was to not focus on a singular defined idea, but to think about all sorts of little things all at once - to fragment and subvert, interrupt and divide, explode and implode - whatever it took in order to preserve itself (for which I would like to commend my former little self's brain with a Jurassic Park's 'clever girl' sentiment here). And now, today, this is the very reason I cannot concentrate enough to read the very books that I align my sense of identity with so fervently, and why I cannot decide on what to do about a very simple problem or decision, or why I cannot quiet my mind enough at night to just focus on the idea of getting some much needed sleep. This neural pathway, this Kafkaesque corridor of perpetually redirecting doors, has been so ingrained and so rewarded (by the very fact of being allowed to continue to live) for doing what is has been doing, that it has ensured this pathway be very deeply rooted, essentially assuring it be (and perhaps even irreversibly so) buried, indeed.

And so now, what I fear is happening, is that the dark and deep sadness that my brain taught itself not to focus on when I was little, is becoming terrifyingly close to being able to be concentrated on. rTMS has given me clarity of mind, and this pathway has been rerouted somewhat to allow for a singular line of focus to be actualized, but my brain (recognizing that this line of focus will be very dark indeed) is again trying to forge a different path, another spatial rearrangement of thoughts, so as to not self-destruct once again. And this spatial rearrangement that manifests itself into a noisy and unfocussed mind, again relapses into that familiar pattern of depression. A mental ouroboros, of sorts.

What I need is to somehow convince my brain that that clarity and focus that rTMS can offer does not necessarily mean that it will be a dark lucidity, but at the same time I struggle with this: if indeed the thing that my brain will be allowed to focus on (even if I can teach it to not fear focussing on one particular thing) is really that dark and desperate, how ever can I convince my brain not to reforge this new-found focus into something that essentially metamorphosizes into a confused and noisy redirection of thoughts? What is that dark area, how can I reach it, and how can I make it go away so that my brain does not recognize it as something to avoid?

These were my thoughts this morning, and thoughts that I was hoping you could give me some feedback on, in terms of how the rTMS thesis or subsequent analysis, has imagined or navigated these potential waters.

Thank you once again,

-Nicole

Seriously though. WTF. I have no idea how I would answer such emails. Probably with a variation on "fuck off you nut job". At any rate, I am back here, blogging, to use this forum as a adjunct to other therapy in hopes something finally gives. I'm (carefully) tapering my medication, going to once a week talk therapy, and writing. After all, I'm out of other options. This is the only combo I haven't tried yet. After 20 years of struggling with this with no respite, you'd think I'd finally give up. My therapist calls me stubborn for it. I like that. I'm not sure what this blog will become, since blogging is so different from journaling. There are, of course, things I would never write on here for the public eye. So in terms of how honest, how helpful it can be to me, that still remains to be seen. But for now, let's just do what doesn't kill us.

Ahem.

this blog has been hacked.

ahem. why, no, i do not have a cough. in fact, i never did. that spidery, syrupy, silky red mess creeping down my throat is, in fact, a facade. i am, in effect, throwing my voice.
away.
i have been for a while now.

a·heməˈhem,əˈhm/ exclamation1.
used to represent the noise made when clearing the throat, typically to attract attention or express disapproval or embarrassment.

my throat is sickeningly sweet, my veins are blue-collar blue (blue is the common color of both working class and royalty, therefore therefore, they will say) my bowels, my depths (when they are in they are innards, when they are out they are entrails) are loud and foreboding, my future is uncertain. these soft plastic chairs are sticky and you become one with them when you stay here and watch. you watch the girl with the animal eyes who never learned to use a spoon. you watch the boy with all the cuts who should be holding a football in one hand whilst taking a selfie with the other, but right now is pacing pacing pacing with that look, a hungry and uncertain look, a pitiful and heartbreaking look, someone hurt him someone hurt him someone hurt him and so he hurt himself to take the ownership of the hurt back. he sits too close to you to feel your heat to know that he is still alive because he is, will always be, so so very cold. the girl who is not sure whether she should accept the patch from the nurses is supplicating you, beseeching you, she needs you to answer for her. you are her patch so she can answer the question of the patch. there is so much drumming and humming from some underbelly that you cannot locate but it has teeth, sharp fangs that glisten....and you know there is a brick wall behind this padded one and it goes down down down into the deepest darkest oldest part of the subway system...there is life underneath you right now. heaving and transient and willing and able. you are here, immobile, a plastic pressurized patch mouthpiece, and they are there and it is unfair. you should be down there too. you need to descend lower and lower but you are already so low. since when did you equate up with down, life with death in your head? it can't just be the bustle of the underground transport that fed this assumption. what is it what is it what is it.
GURGLE GASP. sticky sweet vomit, brightest porcelain, pungent bleach smelling of semen and apathy... gasping for air and you are back.

alone. your blood tests are incomplete but that doesn't matter now because you're back. i am ripping up this form (there's a 1, there's a 42. there is a crest. where is my signature. is this about me?) that is keeping you here because you are back. you did come back on purpose, right?

here is your prescription. we will see you in a week.

it is what it is. that is what i was and was what i am.

this blog may appear to have been hacked. it's not. i'm cold and open and they call me alaska.

i'm back but not back. the truth is what I just wrote. i have a shady underbelly to myself, like the city has its transport. mine is never on time, either. for the past 15 years i have suffered (suffered, really? such pity you invite) mental illness that has not been correctly diagnosed (are you sure about that? or is this just more of your drama?). after spending 3 days in PICU after an intentional overdose i think i may be, for the first time in my entire life, getting better. i thought that life was just this grey. for 15 years i thought the pills were working because hey, i didn't want to shoot myself so they must be working right? no, i don't want to go to a party or the movies because i will just die. just die, i will. ok, i will go if i can have some of your substance you got there. thank you. ok lets go. i don't want to get out of bed because i am lazy. it's not because i am sick it is just because i am lazy. i do not want to take my dog for a walk because the sun hurts my eyes. it's not because i find no excitement from anything anymore, it's just because the sun hurts my eyes and these 400 dollar Prada sunglasses that make me look so movie star don't protect my eyes very well but oh my god they are just so GOOD. and i have the handbag to match because fuck it, right? money is to spend.
stop.

this is the real me. all that before was too. the laughter, the pretty things, the pictures. it's all me. facets. but this facet is the realest. and it needs to be dealt with now. this blog has not been hacked; i have been hacked. i have been exposed and wormed out, i have been eaten alive and i have been disfigured and defaced by shiny things in my belly, glistening pills and shiny liquids. i am an addict. and i have a mental disorder. i am human.

this needs to be a sea change. something broke in me on january 31st. but it needed to break. like a carefully painted egg with a little beak pointing out. it may be tragic but it needs to break. i needed to break.

what will this blog be now? still faceted. there will be pretty things again. i promise. i will talk about coney island again because i am still me and me loves coney island. i may or may not talk about clothing again because buying is one of my addictions and looking at pretty clothes is akin to dripping the syringe ever so lightly over your tongue. this blog will probably no longer be a way of escapism. peering into pretty dangling pieces to stay the tide. it will be honest now. and honestly i'm just not very pretty.

this blog has been hacked. but the hacker is the hacked. the road is the same, it has been repaved. no, it's pavement has been removed. here is the grit. here is the curb, and here is the ditch. i will most likely be writing from the gut now. that loud underbelly that still wakes me some nights. you can read, or you can choose not to. hackers generally do not care about their audience. i think. actually i don't know. but this hacker doesn't. well. that's not true. i care about you because you are a human and so i love you. but if you do not want to read it then that is okay and i care not.

this is going to get messy. i promise. *wink*

Tuesday's Links are Full of Grace

Okay, so it's Wednesday, but shhhhh. 

As soon as I saw this, I knew I had to post it on a "Tuesday" post. The new Orla Kiely- the spring/summer 2013 collection - is unbelievable. The clothes are fantastic  but the short film featuring the collection is what really got me. Part Virgin Suicides and part Lolita, with a generous dash of wistful 1950's Californian resort vibe and polished Carnaby Street style. Wholly perfect. 

Watch the entire, dreamy video, entitled Darlin', here. Here are a couple film stills of the gorgeous, Brigette Bardot-esque Hannah Holman being impeccably languid.  

And here are my favourites from the newest collection.

You can see all the looks here. 

Also, dear friends - do you need a smile today? Watch this and I'll guarantee you one.

Monday's Links are Fair of Face

Good Monday! 

I wanted to do a 'pun' post, and have the topic of today be about fairs, instead of links that are fair of face. Specifically, I wanted to do a History of the Flea Market post, because of the amazing time I had as a vendor for the third time at the Junction Flea yesterday (pictures of the big day below!). But, in conducting some (minor preliminary) research, I discovered that the roots of the Flea aren't as clear as one would expect. For one thing, the name 'Flea Market' has several possible origins. One theory dates from 1850s France during Napoleon III's reign, when the street vendors had to 'flee' their regular posts because of changes that were made to city streets to allow the military to move without any embarrassing, slapstick-type hindrances (I'm imagining banana peels and fine linen becoming comedic, g-rated versions of land mines and barracks). The name for their new digs then became the 'flee' market.

The most popular theory is that the term Flea Market is named after a Parisian bazaar held in the 1860s called the Marche aux Puces, which literally translates into "Market with Fleas". It was dubbed with this unfortunate moniker due to the rumours of bug-invested wares that one could find there. 
BUT, another theory (and my favourite since it includes elements of New York AND the Netherlands)  is that the name originated from an 18th century market held in New York City, long before the Parisian Marche aux Puces. The market was held close to the East River in Manhattan, which was once a Dutch colonial settlement. The market was called Vlie by the Dutch, which translates into (not surprisingly due to its location) Swamp. Since the Dutch 'v' is pronounced in English as an 'f', the market became known as a word that was somewhere between Fly and Flea. Later, this would become solidified as Flea due to the market's reputation as both a bazaar full of blood-sucking vendors out to suck you dry of your last penny (I'm not doing that, I swear) and because of the questionable quality of some of the upholstery sold at the markets and their suspicious hole-lined, crawly demeanour (again, I promise). Markets such as the Marche aux Puces would continue the expression "Flea Market", following the Dutch, and give us the notion that we have of them today. 

The booth, this time complete with my new adverts. A couple people wanted to buy the actual signs.
I wasn't sure what to make of that, except to compliment my photographer, models, and logo designer :) 

A study of tapestries in contrast: One Aubusson-style one from the 1950s or 1960s, and one from the 1970s or 1980s. Also, I love that yellow dress and probably should have kept it but I really look awful in yellow.

                

             This pony-hair clutch never sold,
                 which I'm pretty  surprised about. 

   Although, that clutch WAS hiding
under this tee the entire time. 

This coat never sold either, which was equally as surprising. But, it was 24 degrees out,
so perhaps the October Flea will find it a buyer. 

So many shooooooes...

And boooooots...

Handmade moccasins- an excellent stocking stuffer

 I love this set of 'leaning' mugs - also still unsold! 

Links to Ponder While I Wander

Hello, Dear Readers!

Forgive me for writing another 'wandering' post, which generally means I may be MIA for the next little while. I'm still trying to figure all this blog stuff out, especially in terms of timing. I do work a regular 9-5 job during the week, plus I run Call Her Alaska Vintage on the side, and I also edit/write descriptions for podcasts for an ESL website (called Culips, if you are learning English or know someone who is, you should check them out). So sometimes I get a little overwhelmed. There is another Junction Flea coming up next Sunday (the 9th), so I'll be a busy bee preparing for that this week. So, I will set some sort of a schedule for this blogging thing. I am thinking that once a week, a different day each week (so that I can continue with the Monday's Child theme) may be a better idea, so that I can really put some thought and effort into each post. That Coney Island post took quite a bit of time, but was a fulfilling post, so I think the posts will be more rich, thought-out, and substantial this way. Sound good? This one will sort of be a hodge-podge, and then I'll start going on a schedule after the Junction Flea is over.  

Nygårds Anna

All of the latest Nygårds Anna collection should be in my closet right now. *blink blink*. Dammit. The clothing is beautiful in an organic, Orwellian mining-town way that also pushes the boundaries of modernism. The textures, fabrics, and flow are all natural -  but the cuts, patterns, and fit of the pieces are very avant-garde. It's hard to marry tradition and progression and end up looking so organic and unprocessed, but this collection does it beautifully. 

AND the photos from the latest look-book, shot by photographer Carl Bengtsson, should be on my wall, as well. I mean, seriously. Are you kidding me with this gorgeousness??? 

Flight of the Conchords

The Flight of the Conchords have a new song. And not only is it hilarious, it's for a good cause. And I get goosebumps every time I listen to it. There is an option to donate as well, if you wish. 

The xx

Ok, I will leave you with some music. The xx is coming out with a new album on September 10th/11th, but they have released a single called Angels. Enjoy, and I will be back soon!

Thursday's Links have Far to Go

Far to Go: Coney Island Part I

Today's post is going to be about the infamous Coney Island of New York City. Now, I'm a big circus and carnival history buff, so my knowledge of Coney Island before researching for this post was based on only that aspect of the amusement park. And, my trip to New York at the end of September will be my first time actually visiting Coney Island, so I am by no means an expert on the theme park. But I've been doing my homework in anticipation for the visit, and there's some fascinating things I wanted to share.

Coney Island's history is a long and rich one, going back to the early beginnings of Manhattan in the late 1800s (most of the populated portion of New York City was called Manhattan at that time). Being the only beach in a city that would soon reach a population greater than it had places to house them, it became an escape from poor and gritty urban life, and was gaining popularity as quick as the people were flocking to the city. In the 1870s is when things really started to get rolling. It started with vendors who saw the beach as an opportunity. Not surprisingly, builders and investors started to take notice. Coney Island became home to three different theme parks - SteepleChase, Luna Park, and DreamLand. All were in competition to outdo each other in lights, technological advancements, and oddities. Natural law was frowned upon. What was sought after (and more importantly for the theme park owners, what drew in more money) was gravity-defying coasters, technological advances such as Edison's incandescent lights, and especially human 'deformity' or what appeared to Americans as primitive, uncivilized, perverse, and disfigured. The reasoning behind this surge of interest in the abnormal and defiant is simple - the late 1800s and the early 1900s was an era of population growth, poverty, and stagnation. Children were being born every minute of every day, faster than people were dying. And there was an influx of immigration, too. In 1860 1 in 4 people living in New York were Irish-born, having immigrated after the Great Irish Famine. There were too many mouths to feed. Nobody could afford to travel, nor were there convenient and cheap modes of travel at people's fingertips like there is today. A place within walking distance that had a sandy beach, cheap food, and cheaper thrills was a much needed escape, and escape they did. People began to call Coney Island 'the poor man's Riviera'. Most of the people who flocked to the Island had limited knowledge of other cultures, races, animals, and technological advancements. For people who couldn't travel, Coney Island brought far-away lands right to their door. It is hard for us to imagine, because even if we go see an exhibit we've never laid eyes on before, chances are we've seen it (or something like it) on television or we've read about it in books. But imagine having the opportunity to see something you've never heard of, never encountered through any means, not even through word-of-mouth. Tempting, isn't it? This was the irresistible draw to Coney Island. It fascinated, it freaked, and consequently, it flourished.

It's easy for us today to look down upon such lurid representations of human and cultural differences, but you can see where the desire to visit the Island came from. It's entirely possible that ultimately, Coney Island's exhibition of others actually helped foster progress and tolerance, not hinder it. Exhibits and theme parks like Coney Island served to educate and illuminate the public, ultimately leading to acceptance and appreciation of the subjects of the exhibits. Over time and exposure, curiosity and fear changed to empathy and understanding. It is also important to note that, as in most exhibitions such as carnivals and circuses, the 'human spectacles' served as a community and protection for those labeled as outcasts. They were outcasts, but they were outcasts together. They were exposed, but they were exposed within the protection of a makeshift family. This is not to say that the exhibit of people with differences was (or is) okay. But at the time, deformity was feared and maligned. They were rejected from a society which didn't understand them, and the only way to make that society understand was education and exposure. Circuses, carnivals, and theme parks served as a vehicle for this exposure, while offering these 'outcasts' a community of like-minded people to be around and protect them while they waited for an misinformed society to come to its senses. And it worked. Articles and commentary at the beginning of the era of 'freak shows' was terribly cruel and misguided. Slowly, people began to comment on the cruelty of displaying these people as exhibits. Commentary became social action, and social action became human rights and pervasive acceptance.

They were other horrors, of course, especially in the treatment of animals. For example. an elephant named Topsy was publicly electrocuted because she killed a man after he fed her a lit cigarette (Edison and his cronies were all too happy to exhibit their claim of the superiority of direct electrical current over alternating current for this disgusting display. They killed Topsy by misusing Tesla's alternating current in an attempt to shock people into denouncing Tesla's invention. Edison's men filmed the entire thing in a revolting example of what is now known as 'the War of Currents'. But I digress). But it is also important to note that many people who flocked to Coney Island had never seen an elephant, a bear, a giraffe, or any of the other animals shown at the theme parks (side note: it is believed that the first 'ApeWoman' to put on display at a circus before Julia Pastrana came onto the scene was actually an ape, but the con worked since nobody had ever seen an ape before). The fact that most people were horrified at Topsy's demise indicated an understanding and empathy toward these giants. Again, spectacle was becoming education and compassion.

Coney Island was responsible for a number of different advancements as well, even in health. For example, incubators for premature newborns were not yet accepted and permitted to be used within hospitals. A doctor by the name of Dr. Couney saw Coney Island as an opportunity to use neonatal incubators in an atmosphere that would fund it, even if it meant putting premature babies on display for all to see. In fact, the Coney Island Incubators were responsible for saving the lives of about 7500 premature babies.  Here again we see an example of the spectacle of deformity becoming a vehicle for acceptance.

People also flocked to Coney Island to see new advancements in industry and machinery. At its very beginning, Coney Island was built up on the cusp of the Industrial Age, and most people had never seen such machinery as the Ferris Wheel or an elevator in action. Imagine viewing a normal elevator as a ride today? It seems so commonplace that we take it for granted. People who came into the theme parks were confronted with machinery that would take them higher than they could have ever imagined a machine could do. The structures seemed to defy laws of gravity. Going to Coney Island was like stepping into another world, both in technological advancements and in the display of different cultures and animals. You can imagine how intoxicating this would be.

But then came the fires, the towering Manhattan skyline, and two world wars.

Several fires in the theme parks, as well as the emotional toll that two world wars took on America, led to a decline in the fervour and excitement that the Island used to evoke. It was still doing well in terms of population, especially due to the people who came just to dip their feet into the beach. But there were no more additions, no new incandescent lighting. Most people by then were fully integrated into the world of industry, and elevators were no longer a ride but merely a way to get from the bottom to the top of somewhere. Manhattan's tall structures and twinkling lights dwarfed Coney Island's attempts at being the biggest and brightest in New York. Today, Coney Island itself is still a tourist destination though only a few rides and attractions remain.

The demise of Coney Island is not so much a sad story as much as it is a unavoidable reality. The theme parks at Coney Island were funded by a people who were closed off from the rest of the world. Coney Island was a product of its time; it was built on an inevitable obsolescence. Its exhibitions and rides were based on naivety of the audience, a naivety which (for the most part) turned to understanding and acceptance. Travel, trading, expansion, and industry made the exhibits at Coney Island seem anachronistic. Ironically, ideas and inventions such as multiculturalism, incubators, animal rights, and understanding of difference and deformity became common and accepted in part by putting them on display as an exaggerated spectacle of the peculiar.

These amazing pictures (excluding the last two) of Coney Island in its heyday (c. 1903 - 1910) are part of the Shorpy Historical Photo Archive, and they're breathtaking. Prints are available for purchase at the Shorpy Archive.

Interior of a building in Dreamland

Dreamland in the twilight

A staged fire that would be put on several times a day. An eerie foreshadowing. They also used to stage war re-enactments of battles like the Boer War - that is, before WWI broke out. Another eerie foreshadowing.

Steeplechase Park

Luna Park

Bathers. Love the swimsuits on the dudes. 

Balmer's Baths. 

The clowns, the outcasts, the 'others'

Steeplechase Sideshow.  I wish this were a better quality photo- it looks like a fantastic image. (c.1930). Source

The SteepleChase fire of 1907, Charles Denson Archive. 

Well, folks, that's the short history of Coney Island. I will be posting a Part II of this, Coney Island as it is today, after I visit the park at the end of September, so stay tuned! 

TUESDAY'S LINKS ARE FULL OF GRACE

Hello, Dear Readers!
It's been quite the busy past few days, especially for Call Her Alaska Vintage. Here's a sneak peek at what I've been up to...

I'm so excited. And so very grateful for my wonderful models, makeup artist, and of course, my photographer. More to come....

The Lost Generation

I've always been partial to 'The Lost Generation' when it comes to literature. Writers of post WWI were disillusioned with the exuberance and happiness of the materialistic, salacious, and bawdy jazz age that immediately followed a devastating war - a war which shattered the belief that good, virtuous character would be rewarded. Good men, strong men, either came home from the war shattered, broken, and hollow shells of their former selves, or they didn't come home at all. The roaring 1920s which rose out of the ashes seemed to them a dangerous façade, an illusion of contentment and happiness that was sure to implode into a million tiny fragments whose reach would know no end. A small group of writers in Paris, mainly Gertrude Stein, F. Scott Fitzgerald, and Ernest Hemingway, reacted to this pretence of jubilation and fortitude by eschewing the florid, affected writing style of Victorian literature and writing searing satire or dispassionate, detached, stripped-down prose based on action instead of emotions. This literary movement was also happening west of Paris. In America, writers like TS Eliot and William Faulkner were writing poetry and novels like The Waste Land and The Sound and the Fury. The titles say it all.

I recently watched Woody Allen's movie Midnight in Paris, and fell in love. Nowhere had I actually seen the characters of the Lost Generation portrayed with such vividness and accuracy. Granted, sometimes their characteristics may have been a little affected for emphasis on their perspectives and dispositions, and sometimes the less than savoury aspects of their lives were downplayed (especially the intensely tumultuous relationship between F. Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald), but for the most part it gave me goosebumps to see what I imagined them to be coming to life onscreen. If you haven't seen it, you should. If only for the aesthetic of the 1920s jazz age in Paris (eeeep, swoon). And there are more than just literary legends evoked. Cole Porter, Pablo Picasso, Man Ray, and Josephine Baker also make appearances.

Zelda and F. Scott Fitzgerald c. 1921; The couple portrayed in Midnight in Paris. Wonderful likeness, no?



If I could travel to any place, during any time, 1920s Paris would be it. Le sigh....

That's all for today, Dear Readers!!