On Thursday morning after my usual ritual, of washing away the previous night’s sweat and general body odours, I stood in front of my large bedroom mirror , and asked myself, What is your mood? My subconscious reply was, I’m feeling wicked - today I want to be dressed in black, it’s got to be stiletto’s with studs, open zips with razor appearance - a moment of passive thought - “hmmm” I wonder?

Those Undies

First my undies, what? Oh yes, black! Which draw - no, not in the draw, there’s a small pile of fresh washed black undies on the sofa. Black cotton tanga, with a pique lace frill, black bra, with embodied red hearts, soft touch to my fingers, not ironed and not yet starched, just the fresh fragrance of a mixed floral garden. Bra and tanga well worn, no pulls no squeeze, high comfort zone.

Mirror, mirror on the wall, large, expansive, Baroc carvings, with a gold gilded finish, the other voice of my soul, what will the work of art declare today? Lets have our daily conversation. It’s chilly out there, I need to keep warm, how about some black cotton stretch tights? Yes… need to find them first! Hat boxes, one, two, three, all filled to the brim, with multi coloured sheer and printed tights and stockings. My hands lift the layers of folded tights, and there, a black pair, just what I’m looking for, relatively new, no fibre bubbles, no sound of static on touch, I close the hat box, walk across the mattress, and sit at the edge of my moon bed, in front of my transparency.

Long brown caramel coloured legs, not, bad for my height, soft skin, with a little hair stubble, my right hand, reaches my ankle chain, time to come off, it’s the season of tights again… as I drop my ankle chain into one of my jewel boxes, long blood red nails, catch my attention, be careful, as you stretch your tights over your caramel limbs. A pull there, and a tug, there, centerize your seams… there, my caramel legs are embraced in sheer black cotton.

Now standing, in front of the mirror, I make an overall view of my body, and begin the daily dissing rhetoric - you need a nip there and a tuck here - your abs are disappearing, your tummy looks bloated, and you definitely need a mini face lift. My body dismorphic thoughts, now attack my breasts, “Hmm” you need a new pair of tits! A squeeze on the right and a squeeze on the left, let’s put your bra on and we can forgot about the defects until later.

I turn to my bed, and reach for my, black, red hearts, embodied bra, I pull and stretch both of the cups, then the straps. With an open end in each hand, I encircle my waist, and attach the hooks and eyes. With both hands, I turn the whole bra around, and slip the left strap over my shoulder, and then reach for the right strap, skin and bulges, in place, I take a final look- it’s not so bad! Don’t think about them.

Now I need a touch of fragrance, to enhance my mood of the day……something that reminds me of the autumn days ahead, burnt and ochre hues, the indecision fragrance, that quotes, we are not quite in full season yet.

Back to the bathroom, one, two, three, four, bottles, no I don’t think, so…..”Ah ha” my secret stash of gold boxed containers, with deep pure perfume essence. Love that box, four different essences, each opening a different realm of ecstatic sensations.

Close your eyes, take a deep breath, number one, not bad, number two, that’s kind’ a heavy for daytime, number three, “hmm yes” Gorgeous, number three it is….I want to literally pour the whole bottle over my body, I control, myself, that’s too much babes, just a dab, on your ankles, a dab on chastity, a dab on your wrists and finally on your ear lobes…. “hmm Huh” you smell good enough to eat… screw the cap back on, place bottle number three in it’s compartment, close the box, got to stash you away again, for my hands and eyes only.

Back to the bedroom, and the influence of pensive thoughts from Buddha……

Now I need a mini under slip, under the watchful gaze of Buddha, sitting at the centre piece of the commode in front of the mirror, I take a breath, and with x-ray focused eyes, find the location of a black mini under slip, acrylic satin, relatively comfortable, and thick enough to break the outlines of the previous layers of fabric and a shield, to my curvaceous body outlines. Under slips, the barrier of focused distant sexual intrusive gazing, … no you uninvited predator, you cannot look through my clothing, and store the image in your photographic memory, and give yourself a free organism… I’m in control now…just wait and see.

What’s the next layer, a dress, I think a black, knitted dress, with long sleeves, each stitch, hugging my skin, encapsulating my whole body, like a second skin. I reach for that dress of the day, shake it, and check for unwanted threads, or possible stains, its’ just fine, soft to touch, left sleeve, right sleeve, over my arms, and over my head, little black dress, you’re on my body, part of me, you belong to me. From my waist down, I stroke you to my thighs, just a few inches above my knees, little black dress, you are good for me, you elongate my legs, soften the protrusion of my bottilicious. simple straps, tied under my bosom, direct a gaze to another of my trappings of being woman.

What about your hair today…..bit of a mess…… ti corn…ti corn, pat koshin…why are you so cruel to yourself, why not, the world is cruel. You spent two hours plaiting your hair, let it breathe, just natural…enough of this, I feel like a change….well what do you want…. I think, I think a long black silky shoulder length wig with deep wine coloured highlights. That’s my choice, for the day. Next step, need to put on my wig, what about my scalp, I need to protect it, from the stabbing points of hair pins…okay…need to find a large head band…where… bathroom … hair accessory boxes…

Metallic blue wooden box, open sesame, colours of a rainbow, red, pink, yellow, turquoise, green, white, burgundy, hues of blue, ah.. black stretch, just perfect, not too tight, close the box, wipe the dust off the lid, with a tissue, and back to another mirror.

I’m still in my small bathroom, standing in front of the washbasin, the reflection of my head and shoulders, peering back at me through the medium sized oval shaped mirror. What do I see, a well formed head, and clear facial skin. I pick up the black stretch hair band placed on the edge of the bath tub, slip it over my head, above my ears, and turn the head band at an angle of 180 degrees, placing the stitched seams at the base of my scalp.

Tuck this and that plait, into the edge of the band, oh gosh.. Where’s my wig…it’s in the bedroom, on the ceramic head bust.. Go and get it.. Back to the bedroom, a few steps in my black sheer fabric covered feet…..standing in front of the white coloured ceramic head bust, I reach for the wig, wig in hand, I think.. sorry to scalp you, and walk out of the bedroom, back to my previous stance in front of the washbasin.

I place the wig, on the corner of the bathtub, take a deep breath, and gaze for the hair pin container, the large oyster shell, filled with multiple sized hairpins and clips, catches my gaze, I reach for the wig, hold it at each side and place it gently over the black stretch hair band. I tug on the back, and push the inserted wig comb under the head band, four hair pins at the back, two above each earlobe, three at the front of my scalp, and the final fixed hair pin at the centre of my head crown.

Where’s the hair brush, I saw it a few minutes ago, brush your fringe, turn your head to the left, feel the brush, vibrating black silk fibres, turn to the right, nice sheen, with red tones, every single strand falls into place, where are the wrinkles on your forehead, I can’t see them, all disappeared under my hair fringe. Do you like it, not bad, it’s like chiccka getting warm…can you get away with it…yeah, yeah yeah.

Tidy up the wash basin, check the floor, clean the hair brush, all done! now what? I just want to take an overall blick in mirror, mirror, I need to feel reassured… go on then… a few steps, back to the bed room, standing in front of Buddha and mirror mirror, the wigless image of the head bust, touches my conscience….now what…I take a couple of steps backwards, turn to the bald head bust, and decide to sit on the edge of moon bed for a short chat.

In moments of confusion, I often sit on the edge of my moon bed, and have a short concise chat with the ethereal beings, all I wanted to do, with this exercise was to get dressed and go for a walk, but it seems that my soul, the central conception of metempsychosis, is again awash in the “sea of Samsara”

Again I look directly at the bald white porcelain head bust, and feel the following “you have scalped me” no I have not! I did not take a scalpel or sharp object and cut away the skin covering of your skull. I was the one who dressed you up with a sleek wig in the first instance. Are you trying to tell me that I am vain and a narcissistic, you know that’ not true, how could you?

You bald headed bust ! I know exactly who the narcissist is, it’s you and only you, you don’t want to share with me, you make me feel like some thoughtless bitch on a Jerry Springer show. This bitch, disses a female participant for claiming, that she earns a horrendous sums of money, as a “Putto” on the local street corner, and can only afford to buy and display a £20.00 wig. I’m not asking some distant female with hair grown down to her butt, to take desperate measures in hard times, and trade her covering glory to fulfil my optical illusion.

You are silently dictating, that I am in this moment a symbol of vanity, one of the whores of Babylon, guilty of Omnia Vanitas…obsessed with my appearance. For your information, all of my wigs and hairpieces are synthetic, simply very fine plastic filaments, easy to care for and more natural looking than some of the finest and most expensive European hair. And the best part of this conversation, just underlines the fact that I am constantly thinking of others and their situation in life.

Guilty, yes I am guilty of supporting the fashion mafia, and their cosa nostra, of sales, sales, sales, you got to look good to feel good, hair straightners, rollers, shampoo, conditioners, hair irons, spray, extensions, colorants and hair accessories. Its all part of the long term economic policy, people need jobs, to create employment we become the unknowing victims of our own weaknesses.

The auto suggestive hints of media advertising, register in our long term memory. The greater percentage of modern society, wants to be accepted, as part of the fashion crowd, we label ourselves as the well groomed, we soothe our mental pain, of being labeled unacceptable, by conforming, with the idioms of the societies we exist in. Most of us forget about the long term outcomes, of participating in the modern rush…you hair might fall out, you may become prematurely bald, your superficial grooming, may turn you into a cancer victim, not to forget the fact, that you are actually supporting the ethnic cleansing of your inheritant racial traits.

Now I have heard enough of your critique, no, no, no, I am not guilty of self-idolatry, egotism or pride, it is society that is guilty of moral translation, and diabolical passions. I need to finish dressing. I get up from the edge of the moon bed, and waltz into the sitting room. Another breath, I pull out the chair and sit at my bistro table.

Why don’t you finish your make up in the bathroom or bedroom? I like to watch television, while I’m dispersing war paint on my face, and the best seat in the room is at the bistro table. On the marble surface, I can spill, pigments, powder, varnishes, anything I like, and it all disappears in a few seconds with a simple wipe.

My application of war paint, for local shopping is usually quite basic, and consists of a layer of translucent loose powder, on my whole face, then I usually outline my lips often described as, a tactile sensory organ and one of our sensitive, erogenous zones. On my lips there is usually an additional protective layer of vegetable balm, to soothe away chapped skin and soften their appearance. Next are my cheeks, a fine sheath of powder rouge is added for highlights, and then to my eyes, the window s of my soul. A thickening black mascara, for my eyelashes, top and bottom, and finally a fine sheath of dark brown eyelash powder to the eyebrows, that’s the end of my war paint session.

One of the symbols of vanity in western art, include jewels, gold coins, and a purse, it seems that the orthodox interpretation of vanity, excludes the craftsmanship of many artisan’s who often produce their wares with a labour of love. Jewels, bling, bobbles and beads, are not just about, announcing to the world that you can afford them. If the above were true, then our next decision must be, to burn all existing references, to the history of precious metals and all forms of decorative minerals. Our modern civilization has thrived on the healing properties and the mythical powers of our precious and semi precious stones since the beginning of time.

My personal opinion, is that, I do not feel completely dressed, without my beads and bobbles, my jewellery is usually chosen by colour, to match my day’s outfit. For me the sound of beads and bling is a resonance of my personal rhythm, and I just do not want to exist without vibration and the music of I. Just like thunder and lightning, before a storm, bling is the official announcement of my arrival, with that said, now, I’ll just slip on my earrings and then my arm bead, before I forget.

Metal studs, on my heels, metal studs encircling my ankles, metal studs holding the arches of my feet, metal studs, decorating all of my ten toes, just like an unlaced corset. Six inch metal tipped stiletto heels, playing the music, of every step I take. Black smooth tough leather, hugging my feet, a brogue, ready for knocking, and kicking, bracing the force of my resentment, to any form of external physical intrusion.  continue reading