Candyfloss Bbz

I found this shirt, which, beautiful a it is, wrinkles horribly, on my first thrifting trip of the year. I bought a playsuit, crop top and shirt from a label called "Harry Potter" for my shop. And this little thing for myself. And then, when I started thinking about wearing it and how I would "style" it, I also started thinking about the bbz aesthetic. How would a bbz dress? How would a bbz worthy of my time dress? Cool was the first word. Cool as in laid back but also playful. As often is the case when I channel cool, boyish, I think of my father and his brothers. And gold teeth. And shy smiles, always shy smiles. 

Shirt &Trousers - thrifted, Shoes - Adidas

So here I am, channeling my inner bbz. Thinking of all the tender boys who have internalised all the fucky things, beautiful boys I cannot help love on sight. It's also worth noting that, while I was being in all these feels and pretty, I got my first period of the year. Funtimes. I'm mentioning this because I think I made the most ME instagram post on that day/off the downer of getting my period. Bbzes make things happen. Bbzes are beautiful. Bbzes are life. That's my bbz life mantra or whatever.

Sharrout to my co-worker who still agrees to take pictures of me even though I'm not the most pliable in front of the camera. Thanks, bbz.

Fat Girl Shopping #2

In which I'm in the Mr Price dressing rooms, discuss the harmfulness of "removing the plus" and venture into the realm of Sandton City solely for the goodness -- for me because I'm probably on the average-ish side of of fat -- that is American sizing. Stained mirror pictures and (not as many clothes as I initially thought I shot) ahead.

Orange. Wind.

I cannot get over how really bad my hair is here. 

Immediately after I nagged my co-worker into taking these pictures for me (and lured her with great poses that didn't materialise once the camera was out) I began writing this in my head. It was the 11th of January so I definitely wanted to address how I wouldn't be 23 much longer. I wanted to discuss that end and those feelings. By the 12th, it started feeling more and more like loss than anything. I wouldn't be 23 anymore. Or 22. or 21. Had the years even meant anything? Time is just so fast and I'm a slow bloomer. I'll never catch up to it. Let alone settling my bones in it.

It feels like loss even though I'm grateful to be here. To be able to count the years in my fingers like I was taught as early as three years old. You know what Sandra Cisneros writes in "Eleven," of which I've only read extracts (thank you, tumblr), you are never just eleven. I always feel like I'm just 23. Just 24. 24 and regretting not going out at 23, not loving myself better at 22, not snatching the world at 21. I'm like those stacked dolls (one inside the other until there's only the big one visible) in the worst ways. I cannot see the good 23-year-old in me. The strengthened 20-year-old. But I know myself

I wish I knew where this blur was leading. This rush that leaves me spinning each year I have to start a new age.

Top - Thrifted, Shorts - Thrifted + DIY-ed from bad bootleg jeans, Shoes - Likely Adidas.

I have worn this combo at least three times. Each time it's worth it. I used to live in boxer shorts that dipped in the meeting of my thighs because, regardless of weight, my thighs are always fat. I used to live in the shortest shorts but on two occasions -- before December came and made me reckless and carefree -- I chose to take these ones off and not wear them in public. It's not my thighs. I love my thighs. I use taxis. I go from where I stay to Noord and from Noord on wards. I cannot just wear things carefreely. I have to decide if on that day my scowl is big enuf to carry the look. Will I be able to not flinch should a man decide to do something. Will I? When December came, I decided I was menacing enuf. Fresh out of fucks.

All I really know now is I'm in orange. I decide my teeth are enough to support me should the need arise. The wind was in my hair. I count all the years. I'm still here. Maybe still 10 years old as much as I am not strictly 23. It's the wind. It's my hair. It's my eyes barely open. It's me.

I DON'T KNOW WHAT CAN I DO WITH MYSELF

#BlackFolk by Elise R. Peterson

I came across this collage series by American artist, writer, educator Elise R. Peterson a few weeks ago. I was lurking Peterson (through Adult Mag) as I do most women writers/artists I find. I put names in google, I fall down rabbit holes: I click on everything they've done and recommended. My blackberry inevitably shuts down and I lose all the pages. But I never forget.

 Grace meets Matisse by Elise R. Peterson