oiran | (no subject)

I had been waiting for the rain to stop, but it wasn't stopping, so I took the dog on a walk. It was a bit miserable, though probably mostly for me. A wet sheltie turns into a sort of...feltie. We had a long brushing session anyway, and he drooled and leaned against me in a manner I choose to interpret as adoring.

I'm continuing to organize my work area, which is a somewhat daunting task. I was looking for some empty boxes and was instead diverted by a full box that contained many of the treasures that I've been missing. Glass skulls and miniature fans and bees in boxes and broken mirrors. Pictures from magazines, postcards, art projects, a self-portrait (with horns). And photos! Of me! Including one of my all-time favorites!

I'm indulging in nostalgia here. I'm feeling very fond of younger me. Also - WARNING: the all-time favorite is basically a nude photo. However, you can't see anything particularly "nude" in this one, so you be the judge of whether or not you wish to view such a thing.

My apartment, Seattle, 1991-ish. This is one of my favorite pictures taken of me, ever. I'm about 25 here. It doesn't really look like me, per se. It doesn't really look like anyone, or it looks like everyone (well, everyone female, white, and chainsmoking with an ashtray at her elbow). Taken by long-lost friend Keith Bingman, who I believe is working as a professional photographer somewhere now. Keith took tons of pictures of me over the next couple of years, mostly nudes. Somewhere I have a picture of Keith in the fishnet, but it looks better on me ;)

I had that fishnet bodysuit for a single episode of gogo dancing with the band on my girlfriend's vanity label. The next day, a Turkish butcher approached me in the park, complimented me on my stage near-nudity, asked me on a date, and mentioned several times how much he enjoyed cutting up meat. I declined the invitation.

	Woolworths, Seattle, 1987, the day before I left Seattle for Olympia to attend (ever-so-briefly) Evergreen. I'm 21. I have no idea what I'm trying to achieve with my hair-up pose, nor the hand that appears in the fourth image, but I still like this series. My hair was down to my waist and vivid magenta at the time. That "bump" in my hair on the right side of the photos (left side of my head) was always there - it was from my pushing my hair back out of my face more or less constantly. It shows up in every photo I have of myself from that time. The heavy key that is hanging off my bracelet in the second image was given to me by a boy named Colin who was rich, beautiful and pretentious. Last I heard of him, he was dating Dame Darcy of Meatcake fame.
	Woolworths, Seattle, 1989. I am, obviously, the one in the back. I'm 23. The girl in front is Christina. We were like sick sisters for years, but she didn't want me to get married (because she didn't even have a boyfriend) and...I haven't talked to her since. It's stupid. I miss her like crazy. She's my phantom limb. So, if she looks familliar, get her to e-mail me, 'kay? My hair is slicked back with an overabundance of Sebastian Molding Mud which I had found in Xina's bathroom, and therefore I was uncharacteristically without bangs. Instead, I had this sort of flamenco bun thing going on that day, and my styling product mishap actually turned out so well that I let my bangs grow out and had all-one-length hair (whether long or short) for the next 12 or so years. I'm wearing purple velvet jeans pegged skintight, and the same shirt I had on in the four-shot series. I loved that shirt.
	Fred Meyer, Capitol Hill, Seattle, 1992. I'm 26. I fell down and hit my knee really, really hard. Lasting damage hard. Even though I always have bruises because I'm clumsy and apparently easily marked, this bruise was so huge and ugly that even I was impressed. The dark specks are tiny flecks of leather from carrying it around in my wallet for quite some time. I don't know why I was so fond of this photo, but I liked to have it with me and would take it out and look at it from time to time.
	Sylvia Hotel, Vancouver, B.C., Christmas Day, 1993. This isn't me. It's Mr. Glove. Isn't he young and pretty? Mr. Glove is 31 and I'm 27. I don't know if this picture was taken right before he asked me to marry him, or a brief time after. I'm thinking before.