there’s a flapper on your lawn

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Sometimes I find a really outstanding piece and never end up photographing it because I’m afraid of ruining everything. This hat, $3 at Battery Street Jeans, almost went that way. I have this weird little hang-up about shooting a new garment for the first time. Like the first photos I take of it will inform all future shoots, so they had better be outstanding. I tend to feel like once the seal is broken on an item my readers haven’t seen before, any future outfits featuring that item will lack quite the same luster. Which is probably not the case at all – I always like seeing pieces repurposed on others’ blogs.

This is why I don’t talk about more of my neuroses: I overthink literally every single thing to this degree. I am basically a raw vegan, a valedictorian on Adderall, and a Jewish mother rolled into one.

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for in this world i’m bound to ramble

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I have always pledged affinity with magical beings. I love the heights of angelwings and the depths of Beelzebub and co. Merrily suspending disbelief, I hunt for ghosts at twilight and fairies in the morning: who cares if they’re “real”? Even the (probably) nonexistent has its own kind of truth. If you’re into Campbell and Jung and Eliade, our whole worlds spin out from our psyches anyway. There is great power in designing my own.

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Usually I’m a witch, but today, yesterday, recently I’ve been fae. I am less a crone anchored to a tumultuous earth than a pixie on the wind. I am a neo-flapper wresting amusement from every corner of the world. I want to make a fool of this godforsaken planet and feel the oceans blush.

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