Wednesday, July 25, 2012
Era
Have you ever wonder if given a choice which era you would like to be born in?
Since I was a child, I was naturally drawn to all things old fashioned.
In my mind, I have missed the Golden Age of living.
I wish I grew up in the 1920s where women were first liberated from restrictive clothes and they wore beautifully hand beaded flapper dresses which matched their flat boyish figures and bob hairdos. There were the big swing bands, the late night jazzy supper clubs and dancing, drinking high balls, gambling, slim cigarettes, black and white photography, sequins, feathers and the works.
What an awesome time to live for any modern lady to live. I have always been a lady of the night and I wish the party never ends.
I reckon if I get to go back in time, the 1920s all the way to the 1960s was where I belong.
1960s was the era of sex, drugs and rock and roll and the laxing of social taboos. I have always suspected I have a big heart and a pre-dilection for polygamy and free love. I want to love drunkenly and incessantly, make sweet love, work on my art of creating and writing and feel free.
In Paris, I spent many a time in the afternoons sketching or writing in my journal, reading Anais Nin at the Luxembourg Gardens (if I was not working my ass away in the atelier) and by night fall, we hung out at The Marais with the Chilean boys or friends took to hanging out at my eery-looking (with red chinese lanterns) bohemic apartment near the Monmarte drinking cheap red wine and smoking good weed that was smuggled back from Amsterdam by my friends and munching Marks and Spencer chips and lollies that I would bring back from my weekend trips in London. I felt that was so naturally me.
The year before, I travelled to Havana, Cuba alone and as I wandered through this old city rich with old Spanish Colonial architecture and vintage cars from the 1950s, I felt at one. Like somehow, I belonged here and I have been here before. I walked along the Malecon hand in hand with my half Cuban Chinese beau in the cooling night breeze and felt this flutter of life rekindled in my heart once more. Then there were the Cuban bands and the ceaseless flow of mojitos and cuba libres to keep my soul from feeling libre. I wish my life would freeze at that moment in time.
But the party must end and too my soul slowly whithers away and gradually, the petals of my soul clams up like a morning glory whose momentous joy and vibrance were short-lived.
I fall back into the pattern of mild melancholy within my heart but I am reminded that the show must go on. So I adopt that persona of Miss Sunshine which seem to enable certain type of male species to gravitate towards a supposedly charming P, only to allow my heart to become heavier at the end of each love affair...
Perhaps it is better to have lived than never before...
Since I was a child, I was naturally drawn to all things old fashioned.
In my mind, I have missed the Golden Age of living.
I wish I grew up in the 1920s where women were first liberated from restrictive clothes and they wore beautifully hand beaded flapper dresses which matched their flat boyish figures and bob hairdos. There were the big swing bands, the late night jazzy supper clubs and dancing, drinking high balls, gambling, slim cigarettes, black and white photography, sequins, feathers and the works.
What an awesome time to live for any modern lady to live. I have always been a lady of the night and I wish the party never ends.
I reckon if I get to go back in time, the 1920s all the way to the 1960s was where I belong.
1960s was the era of sex, drugs and rock and roll and the laxing of social taboos. I have always suspected I have a big heart and a pre-dilection for polygamy and free love. I want to love drunkenly and incessantly, make sweet love, work on my art of creating and writing and feel free.
In Paris, I spent many a time in the afternoons sketching or writing in my journal, reading Anais Nin at the Luxembourg Gardens (if I was not working my ass away in the atelier) and by night fall, we hung out at The Marais with the Chilean boys or friends took to hanging out at my eery-looking (with red chinese lanterns) bohemic apartment near the Monmarte drinking cheap red wine and smoking good weed that was smuggled back from Amsterdam by my friends and munching Marks and Spencer chips and lollies that I would bring back from my weekend trips in London. I felt that was so naturally me.
The year before, I travelled to Havana, Cuba alone and as I wandered through this old city rich with old Spanish Colonial architecture and vintage cars from the 1950s, I felt at one. Like somehow, I belonged here and I have been here before. I walked along the Malecon hand in hand with my half Cuban Chinese beau in the cooling night breeze and felt this flutter of life rekindled in my heart once more. Then there were the Cuban bands and the ceaseless flow of mojitos and cuba libres to keep my soul from feeling libre. I wish my life would freeze at that moment in time.
But the party must end and too my soul slowly whithers away and gradually, the petals of my soul clams up like a morning glory whose momentous joy and vibrance were short-lived.
I fall back into the pattern of mild melancholy within my heart but I am reminded that the show must go on. So I adopt that persona of Miss Sunshine which seem to enable certain type of male species to gravitate towards a supposedly charming P, only to allow my heart to become heavier at the end of each love affair...
Perhaps it is better to have lived than never before...
