This week the smell of sweat at its premature peak of sourness has replaced that of cherry blossom and dusty summer zeal, and by the time the linden trees deliver their addictive yellow marvel that would justly need a more accurate name than the generic ‘flower’ – one that should extirpate that slightly saccharine prettiness and romantic trauma-drama-flower-power – , my olfactory sensors shall hopefully cut their eye-teeth and allow me to regain elan in recognising each natural stage of the richest season by smell. On the other hand, blue eyes always have the hardest time accommodating to the feeling of hardly bearing a flashlight that continuously jeopardizes the main attribute of that babbling pair of jelly spheres – seeing. But the sun quits being that pervasive and irreverent at times, giving space to wreaths of clouds gently enfolding over the sky like candy floss over 90s faded denim. And while I was gradually losing my physical self to my favorite drug – silent contemplation of fugitive images which I still can’t fully comprehend, let alone describe, reality stroke in my most vulnerable nook, reminding me of how that of whom we do not speak always finds paths to overbalance our awfully fragile (in)sanity.

50 minutes later, I was wrapping a cold towel around the fluffy flesh of my daughter’s perfect pink body, then packing her in a second towel, green and slightly rough at the edges, then I searched the episode of Bugs Bunny’s 51 and a half anniversary on youtube (the dance of that skinny hare usually cheers her up immediately), trying to temper both  her terrified screams and my muddleheaded horror and anxious countdown of minutes left to the next thermometer check, to see if her fever fell at least one bit under 39.6 degrees C. I don’t think I ever felt quite as bad as yesterday evening, and that’s nothing compared to how she must have felt, not being able to understand or verbalise the state she was in, at the brim of fiery unconsciousness.

All that my clueless mind needs to super-glue to its layers of undesired experiences is Bugs Bunny’s final line, at his 51 and a half anniversary: “Oh gosh, I’m sooo unimportant!” – and if we remove the bunny-eared sarcasm in it, it’s probably the naked truth one can surely tell. Play this on repeat and make it your bedtime prayer: I am so unimportant, so bloody unimportant, and take care of those that are important to you first, because I have an increasingly acute intuition that it’s the only way that you can actually grow out of the curse of everlasting insignificance.

*Wearing self-made top (yes, I bold-ed it, how pathetic. The point is that I can make similar items on order, just ask for it at 5inchmemories@gmail.com – a timid start for the growing pains that my design activity shall have to overcome, step by step), thrifted skirt, Jeffrey Campbell litas, Topshop bag, vintage earrings, Swatch watch, Six sunglasses

This morning I felt the first 9 AM chill of summer under my skirt, while on my way to the busiest crossing in town; I was wearing casual nude socks and sandals with polka dots, and with this well-fated pair on my side, it couldn’t have been anything but a perfect start for a mawkish wandering in search for an absolutely harmless simper. Later, I passed by high boxes of flats crammed with disillusioned people, like me, who probably would have panicked much more than I did if they had noticed how fluid their brick coverings, painted in colours that resemble vomit in its various states,  had become in the heat of hasty summer. I discovered that I’ve forgotten a lot of things over the past two decades, but I haven’t yet purged that corner of my memory that stocks the most uncalled-for information, such as random names on the yellow labels of most of my thrifted clothes, names of crappy actors, models, tram schedules when I typically avoid stepping in those lugubrious rusty cans on reels more than twice a year, but at some point, I was over-enthusiastically recalling those details that somehow diluted my continuously amplifying fear of becoming a person always sliced between extremes –  pathos overflow vs. fugitive unconcern, fulfillment vs. abject despair, too much teeth on display vs. too much salt on my cheeks, thanks to the water that sometimes gets organically out of track and springs from the corner of my eyes, cascades of hacking words vs. hampered silence, overwhelming dog days in this frigid town vs. emasculating cold that calls for hallucinating labour to preserve one’s jugular intact, blue skies vs. black dreams. Thank God that I can still see beauty that blossoms against all odds in this ludicrous pantomime of strayed souls over-worn with an excruciating search that has long lost its object. It was a truly bright day.

* Wearing TinaR shirt, courtesy of TinaR, thrifted skirt, Asos sandals, H&M socks, vintage jewelry

If my resigned disgust with filthy urban behaviours and sticky clams of dumbness generously dumped as souvenirs by potent mouths ingesting shit and spitting it all over again, in a surprising diversity of shapes and textures, should ever join hands with my wholesome greed for a life free of all unnecessary trauma and despotic butchers of affects, I would probably move in a house like this one, with one window, no door and a roof made of glass, and I would eat dandelions for breakfast, lunch and dinner. I’d lay naked on a dusty carpet and let the sun fondle my translucent skin, paralysed with blessed indifference, and ask the blasted bricks whether my skirt looks well with those shoes and whether I would ever be empty enough when I come to an end.

*Wearing Zara sweater, vintage skirt, Asos sandals, random earrings & sunglasses

I’ve read an article today, which advised bloggers on how to deal with the likely-to-occur-every-once-in-a-while writer’s block, and then I followed quite a number of tips from there: I took a short long walk, to let some provincial wind blow my sick thoughts of rotten self-pity away;  wrote something completely random, mentioning all the crap that I don’t like about today, including the fucking place in which I happen to be right now; read some more crap about post-modernist amateur poetry and the marvels of hang-overs for those in search of their artistic delusional persona ; set another deadline for this post (for the past three days or so I’ve set the same deadline, and broke it each time: it was ‘no later than today’); went to a new café instead of the usual one, because the ‘usual one’ is about 60 km away; found a lot of new and completely unappealing characters here, wearing their hair fried up with hair spray and their eyebrows painted in grotesquely stylized black curves; got high on caffeine and beer; listened to a couple of encouragingly up-stirring songs, jumped around the bathroom as I was trying to make my hair look the tinniest bit decent; bought myself a pair of orange flatform sneakers; did everything else I could think of, except for writing this post: ate all the food I could find in the house, unveiled my hips each time I passed by the mirror and covered my open mouth in horror and disgust, addressed all of my unfinished businesses with my greedy life-eating fears, forced myself to cry only behind cat-eye lenses, sent some annoying emails, indulged in a large quantity of luckies, counted down seconds and minutes, discovering the fact that this might be the most pleasant activity one can engage in, when feeling this fucking hopeless.

I still have a ton of both trivial and awful things to say, but when I step out of the house and see how displaced I am in this hell, I start craving for a six-barrel shotgun to aim at all those who can see nothing beyond a pair of hardly enduring eyes and a checked dress with frills at the collar and hem. And what do i get instead? – the bone that my confidence can still chew one is that of: ‘you’re gonna make it, you’re gonna suffer’. I therefore am exactly like everyone else is.

* Wearing self-made dress, Asos sandals, zara top, vintage earrings

* Photos courtesy of  the talented Noree  ( former highschool classmate, now studying photography in the UK )

When there’s a cold shower of words to be spit out your mouth and when you know exactly what they’re supposed to say, there will be no other words for you to harness until you step over that fear and learn that if you ever had something to lose, you could have lost it already – and you haven’t. So you keep on living on postcards, where your words need to fit a narrow piece of paper, where the sky is always a perfectly saturated blue and where pigeons either gather or dissipate in lazy flights exactly when they should.

Yours truly,

Cristina

* Wearing Dorothy Perkins lace top, Next poncho, Topshop skirt & socks, Asos sandals, vintage necklace, Berhska sunglasses, Zara bag

While days are getting longer and shockingly brighter, a perfidious state of incertainty is getting increasingly adept at hitting me exactly when I begin trusting the fact that nothing can possibly go wronger than it did a couple of years ago. It’s just like turning your eyes to the sky, possessed by thankful bliss, free of worthly doubts and anticipatory sorrow,  just to later discern a weird object above you, at first like a falling star, then as a couple dozens of smaller ones, but as they get closer you see that they’re more like diamonds, and the more they approach, the happier you are: the sky is making you rich! But soon it dawns on you that the heavy bucket of precious stones with rough edges was dumped over your head with sheer perversion, and by the time you get back to your senses, they hit you in the head so badly, that you find yourself shattered, mingled with left-overs from a decadent feast of fake Gods.

In the midst of all this, indifference is the act of those with stark stomachs, while the character I usually play goes a long way down the road of cowardice and selfish despair. When all this drama starts feeling real and your first impulse is to cast all the blame on everyone else that drives your life around and upside down, you can be sure that the problem is in you. And those shattered stones are yours to keep and use to your own liking.

* Wearing vintage dress, Mango jeacket, vintage jewelry, H&M socks, Asos sandals, stupefied expression & harmless boredom – source unknown

One of the biggest sartorial challenges that fairly all fashionable women (and men, also) have to deal with during spring is how to dress smartly on a morning-to-evening basis, especially in late March and throughout April, when there are days that seem to incorporate more than two seasons: chilly mornings may come with a bit of wind and rain, at noon, the sun may heat up the streets well, so that bare arms and legs are rendered the safest option, and finally, evenings may bear resemblance to typically cold nights in October.

The key to succesfully approaching  moody weather is to layer and juggle with items, so that at least one piece of clothing can be taken off or replaced throughout the day. What I’ve learnt over time is that more is best – choose two thinner layers rather than a single, thicker one – and that often carrying an extra sweater, or tee (in case you’re already wearing a sweater) in your bag is quite useful, and so is being prepared to take off your tights (or put them on, depending on the case) at noon. Scarves and maybe hats are also necessary, whenever you feel that the weather might surprise you, at some point.

This outfit is perfect for work or for running errands in town, and it can also save you easily if an unexpected date or meeting should occur – the zippered denim skirt is extremely versatile – wear it with a buttoned up shirt  and a blazer for a proper look, or take off its lower part and wear it with a T-shirt and a bomber jacket, for a casual, youthful look. Work it with both a blazer and a bomber jacket and add a broad smile to it!  Socks also come in handy for an extra dose of playfulness, and also if you happen to miss a pair of sandals too much! Otherwise, stick to skin toned tights if you want less people to stare at your feet.

Trends checked: denim, tropical prints, prints clash, mesh, pastels, sporty, platforms

Celebrate spring properly by wearing a floral patterned dress in the sweetest shades of peach and blue, and style it up by adding girly items – a lace insert cardigan, frill ankle socks, polka dots and gingham – for a romantic-nostalgic look! The faded denim jacket is a priceless classic that works well in this scenario, and so do the statement platforms!

Trends checked: floral, pastels, denim, lace, romantic, platforms

 The increasingly popular athletic trend is amazingly versatile – you can play with a pair of joggers in multiple ways: wear them with pointed courts and a tailored blazer or trench-coat for an elegant look, with brogues, a white shirt and a smart sweater for a casual, androgynous look , or with platform trainers, an asymmetric top and a denim vest for an effortlessly chic, laid-back look! This particular combination has it all: these silk joggers can be dressed up or down and look outstanding anyway, the brogues and sweater add the boyishness, the printed T-shirt play the casual part of the story, and last but not the least – the Peter Pan necklace and slashed sleeve blazer add some quirky elegance!

Trends checked: sporty, androgynous, digital prints, color block, deconstruction, statement necklaces

 This low waisted dress with a plunging neckline reminds us of the brilliant Art Deco inspired dresses sent out by Proenza Schouler for this season (that said, you probably noticed that the pastel check & paisley pattern on the blazer resembles the vibrant patterns from Preen Spring ’12). Hard as it may be to style this particular model of dress, I figured that the best way to pull this off would be to make it look elegant, but only halfway sharp! A white shirt and a blazer are more fun to wear if they come with a scalloped collar and a rich print in pastel shades, respectively, while a statement collar could set the stakes higher, and the mint tights are a less predictable alternative to the white or black ones. These gorgeous floral print sandals from Preen (for Aldo, nonetheless) are not a coincidence, and the pastel clutch also goes perfectly with the entire ensemble.

Trends checked: 20s dress, black & white, pastels, prints, statement necklaces

So, which one of these would you rather wear?

I know how spring looked like all these years, with leaves and flowers exploding in trees, glad to get their coat of shivering life back on, with noisy tides of people flowing on alleys, their faces enlivened by some weird enthusiasm and hopeful eagerness, happily overtaken by an unexpected flash of sunlight and relief from the blank burden of winter. I know how mornings feel like in March and April, when the kitchen window looks just like honey and when coffee tastes best on the windowsill. I remember how the first walk with my legs bare feels, and how hiding my coats in a dark corner of my closet seals away a season of livid thoughts and high peaks of emotional poverty. Yet I always forget about the wind.

It hits me in the face and chest and rumples my clothes and makes me question my ability to stand on my own feet, it makes fun of my hair, like a hairdresser on acid trying out all possible ways to tangle my blonde locks  into turbulent cascades of gold, flowing up and down and all over my cheeks, sticking on my sore lips and whipping my eyelids with playful spite. It slows me down when I long to fly above the ground, it shrinks my pride and trembling figure, it tries to steal away the things I hold on to, lurrs me into places I’ve never been before, promising to catch me if I dare to leap into the most deceitful desires. It blows out the the sturdy patience that has kept me from destroying the priceless grain of trust that I somehow found, after endless years of silent storms in my guts, and turns big words into a bigger parody.

Now I have to learn how to dance with it all over again, neither walking against it, nor letting myself carried away by it.

* Wearing Zara sweater & T-shirt, thrift trousers, Jeffrey Campbell boots, vintage earrings

* There are still a few more days left to enter the TinaR giveaway – more details HERE

If I had to stick to one dress for the rest of my life, it would have to be a very special one, in the first place. It would have to have all my favorite colors on it, and know what future colors I would fall for, so it would have those too; it would have polka dots, checks, small flowers, big flowers, paisley and stardust print; it would have layers of lace, chiffon, white cotton, velvet,  and maybe some tulle; it would have to cover  my ass well in winter, and also let my chest breathe freely and bare my arms gently during summer; it would have to smell like daisies in spring, and like apple & pumpkin pie during autumn (with just a hint of cinnamon); oh, and a collar would be welcome, as well – make that a peter pan collar; detachable, of course; I sometimes like myself a generous decolletage, so that I can make it very clear that I have no breasts really, so I’m far from attractive, actually.

I’d wear that dress on a hill, running down so fast, that I’d feel I was flying; I’d wear it behind trees, hiding from bees and wet kisses; I’d wear it on the street, walking to places where people look at me with such ambiguous curiosity; I’d wear it at the theatre, where I’d always fear of cold and empty halls, and end up instead stolen by peculiar emotions, laughing with tears, crying without them, feeling all sad and satisfied and a-fucking-live; I’d wear it on the train, while impulsively trying to hold my breath and stuff a pair of blue headphones in my ears, then finding a piece of heaven on the curves of a plain that can truly teach you how to belong to all worlds and seasons, and to none at all, at the same time; I’d wear it with my unconsciously happy face, exemplifying how sheer joy, retarded fear of facial expressions and childish artlessness can coexist between the outlines of the same tired face; I would have to wear it at work too, but work is something I don’t like to do in narrow places with lightheaded people; I’d wear it at home, while washing dishes and cooking meals whenever I felt an imminent threat of love & happiness overflow that I wouldn’t know how to handle; I’d wear the same dress whenever I had to deal with my unbearable weaknesses, a fight that always ends up with coffee (no sugar or milk, as usual) and discreet sobs; I’d wear that dress whether I liked it or not, whether I wanted to live forever or stop living, in certain moments that later get left out of my personal mythology; I’d have to get used to being looked at like I was wearing a different dress each day, when it would be so damn obvious that I would only wear it upside down or inside out or play with its rich layers and smart construction, but at the very core, it would be nothing more than one dress. My own.

*Wearing TinaR dress, a light coat / dress from a small Parisian boutique which can still be smelt on the fabric, vintage clutch, brooche & earrings, Biba Bijoux ring, Jeffrey Campbell shoes

* Photos by Diana Cilian

* Don’t forget to enter the Tina R contest – you can win an item of your own choice, from a brand with both a history and a bright future in the making! Leave a comment in the previous post and visit TinaR to choose from a wide range of versatile pieces in their Spring Collection!

Pentru ca e sfarsit de martie, se apropie sarbatorile de Paste si pentru ca zilele trecute au fost atat de calde si solare, incat lumea din jur a cazut intr-o buimaceala dulce si darnica in zambete, TinaR vine cu un concurs ce va tine si de cald, si de soare, si de zambet (in caz ca primavara se va razgandi si va lua de mana orice alt anotimp, exceptand vara)

Ce trebuie sa faci ca sa intri in ‘joc’:

1)  Fa cadou un ‘like’ pe pagina de Facebook a blogului

2)  Urmareste Five Inch Memories pe Bloglovin’

3)  Lasă un comentariu AICI cu linkul produsului MUST HAVE pentru tine, de la TinaR, primăvara asta! Găseşti toate piesele de brand în magazinul online www.tinar.ro!

Scrie-mi şi în ce “poveste” l-ai purta, sunt curioasă cu ce planuri, vise, zâmbete l-ai asorta şi cum ţi se pare brandul TinaR, după 18 ani de modă românească.

Si castigatoarea este… numarul 4, adica Laura Maria!