Scribbles & Scrawls

There are certain things I love about a routine. A daily routine is really a healthy obsession. Sometimes I get a little disgusted with newfound habits like checking Instagram before getting out of bed. I miss blogging every day. Running too. And the discipline that came with those regimens. Breaking from a routine never makes me feel free, only guilty. But life is just a series of routine changes.

A couple of months ago I broke up my routine and headed to Long Beach with Virginia to see our friend John and his new project, The Written Word, Long Beach's first traveling bookstore. If you're like me and love the smell of an old book more than any scent, you must check it out. John tirelessly scours for books and resells them. He keeps that old routine of turning an actual page alive.

In part collaboration, in part inspired by his store, Virginia organized the Fullerton Artwork in September around books. It was called Scribbles and Scrawls and it featured writing activities, famous authors as works of art, zines, and even paper decor. I know I am late in writing this and perhaps even later to tell my friends, but the whole experience reminded me of the days when reading and writing were all I did and all I had time for. It seems so much has gotten in the way since then.

A good routine should be like an old friend. Always make time for it. Never neglect it completely. Nurture those familiar things that tug at your memory, those habits that die hard. Sometimes a routine isn't just a repetitive motion, it's part of who you are. That's why I am scrawling this here tonight. 

For Example: A Flower

I got the most beautiful flowers at the supermarket for Easter. Sure, they're dyed, but I love that they leave the water in the vase pink. My boyfriend asked me what the big deal was with flowers anyway. I had grown up seeing my dad giving all the women in his life flowers for every special occasion, and it was a gesture I loved so much. I came to think of the giving of flowers as the most gentlemanly, considerate act; flowers are always the ideal gift.

My boyfriend, however, didn't seem to buy this. So I really thought about why I love these fragrant, visual stunners, that only last a few days then wilt. There's something about them not being permanent, about possessing them in their prime that I  like. I tried to describe this, but to no avail.

Then today, thanks to Buzzfeed, I found a new favorite poem. Don't you just love it when someone else says exactly what you've been feeling/thinking? I hope you enjoy this poem as much as I do. 

For Example: A Flower

by Arkaye Kierulf

We are protected from so much pain. For example: graves.

The earth’s roots and brown-black blood are busy
covering the soft, violated bodies of our loves.
Death is a secret, and the rain with its many hands

washes off the streets to the gutters death’s thick surprise.
The automatic shutter of the eye never fails,

the courtesies of the tongue. What goes on in the rooms of houses
is guarded from us by the hardwood doors,

the carefully closed windows. Whatever was said or done,
night will come, eagerly, to clean up.

And death will shield us, in time,
from the sun’s megalithic promise:

Tomorrow, the same day.
Tomorrow, the same day.

For example: A flower
is the most beautiful lie.

What Joan Did

Writers like to be remembered for what they said. After all, their words are their legacy. But one of the reasons why I love Joan Didion is because of what she does. Didion is a non-fiction writer, so her memoirs and journalistic accountants are filled with research. I can picture her typing away daily, with notes and books at her side. Didion started young too. She won an essay contest at Vogue, back when the glossies cared about real writing and giving new voices a start. Her work at Vogue paved the way for a career full of literary and screenwriting contributions. Now at 80, Didion is the new face of Celine's Spring campaign. I've always admired the ease of Didion's look; she looks like how I always pictured a writer to look. 

Seeing her in this campaign reminded me of finishing her collection, "We Tell Ourselves Stories In Order to Live" on the way back from my Napa vacation. I thought it so fitting that I completed this very California-centric read (see her work, "Where I Was From") while driving through the state. Being a native Californian, I feel an even deeper connection to Didion's words. I was reading by flashlight (the sun had long gone down) as I completed my 1104 page book that had begun on a separate road trip to the Midwest a couple of years ago. On the second to last page this phrase caught my eye, "There is no real way to deal with everything we lose." I let this sentence wash over me just as the dark of night washed over the California scenery and the road seemed to tuck itself under the tires of our car like a long black ribbon. 

I began reading Joan Didion in college with 'The Year of Magical Thinking," a book all about the subject of loss. I've lost people I love, memories, things, and maybe even time, but Didion is the writer who has showed me the best way to deal with loss. After reading her work I became interested in writing memoir, which I pursued in college. Because of her, I too know where I come from. Joan deals with things by writing about them. She has that perfect cadence that speaks beyond years and pages. Her words yank you from the darkness of a lonely road somewhere and place you onto a clearer path. That's what Joan does for me. Kudos to this fashion house for reminding us that we still have one of the greatest writers of our time with us today.

*Images & details on the campaign via Vogue

Dreams DO Come True (& All That Other Good Stuff)

Langston Hughes wrote an entire poem about what happens when a dream is deferred. I hope I am not alone in admitting that I have postponed a dream or two here and there. Right now this poem really resonates, as I have literally gone running instead of working on some of my goals. I have also drowned some of my nights indulging in all things sugary and sweet instead of getting to work. I would have to agree with the ending lines of the poem that a dream deferred will eventually explode.

In a week, two of my lifelong dreams will come true. I will be in New York attending Fashion Week. I am guilty of being someone who has often rolled her eyes when a celebrity/politician/athlete stands on a podium and declares that dreams do come true, so this blog post is my apology to the world. This is my testimony to possibility. I have always been a big thinker, dreamer, believer, I can imagine a great many things, but I have for a long time felt like I had to package these things up and store them somewhere to save for a later date. I have treated my dreams and goals like a nice pair of shoes. I get really excited for them to arrive, and once they do, I tuck them away in their packaging. Sometimes I have a specific idea of when I will take them out, but mostly, I let them sit until the right opportunity arises and I have tried on several other pairs first. Why do I do this? I don't know. Perhaps I am afraid. Perhaps because sometimes it's easier to slip on a pair of running shoes or flip-flops rather than break in something new. Sometimes it's hard to walk the walk.

So here's my podium speech to all those out there who have dared to dream only to defer. I caution you that if you can dream it, it can explode into actuality. A dream is a heavy load to bear, and if it consumes you, you will work as hard as possible to carry this load. It is the work of many days (and night and weekends), it is the wearing of many shoes and trying many more on that get you in shape to be able to walk the path you were meant to walk. I'm not entirely convinced a dream is something intangible that happens only when we sleep. A dream can be a small glimpse, a gut feeling of what's to come. Once detonation happens and things become tangible and present, you won't want to run. You will even forget that you were ever afraid.

Dream on.


*Big heels, big dreams. Dare to stand tall and walk the walk. Shoes by Charlotte Olympia from the Outnet.  Unfortunately, these are probably too tall for NYFW.

Cat Lady

I started considering myself a cat lady only a couple of years ago. We had one cat (my former roommate's) but then we adopted one from Lisa and I absolutely fell in love. (My Instagram is full of pictures of both cats.)

My mom says she isn't surprised I am a cat lady, because growing up, my grandmother (my dad's dear mother) always had cats. I loved seeing those cats and when I was little I really wanted one for our house, but my mom was allergic. My household became a dog-centered one, and while I still love dogs, I want a cat in my house for the rest of my life because they have become so important to me (and maybe because they remind me of my grandma just a little bit).

My parents were into seeing plays, and I remember when they saw "Cats" when I was a young child. I wanted to go really badly, but they didn't take me. It has taken 20 something years and I finally got to see the production last night in La Mirada. I took my boyfriend (very much a dog-person) and we both enjoyed it so much. I want to commit to seeing more theater in the coming years. There's nothing like getting dressed up. I broke out some special pieces like my new cat midi ring from Birdie Boutique,  feathered Elizabeth and James blazer, Charlotte Olympia nail decals  (not my best nail art work because I broke a nail and therefore had to file them all super short), Charlotte Olympia cat shirt , and Gatsby clutch from Kate Spade. 

One of my favorite Andrew Lloyd Webber songs has always been Memory. It is so heartbreakingly beautiful. I used to play it as I would do my writing in college. I suppose that's because doing a lot of nonfiction writing (my concentration) meant relying on my memories. Since my sister is getting married in less than a week (!) I have been combing through many memories to mentally prepare myself for the event and the speech writing. 

As my memories lead me back, I have been thinking of the meaning of happiness. For my sister that means getting married. For me that means shoes, jewelry, writing, my parents, etc. It is always tempting to think if we could just go back to a certain time we would be happier or rather, we would be happiest. It is scary to think of a new day; to imagine a new life. But the song teaches to not give in to that thinking, to not hold onto our memories as the sole definition of happiness. I don't want my memories to ever fade, like my grandmother's did before she passed away, I don't ever want to think that there was a time I was more beautiful, and it stings me a bit to think that there was a time I was a better writer. I make the excuse that I had more time ( when I was in college, when I lived closer to my job), but I was meant to go down this road, to have this be my life. I hope that I can be a better sister, a better writer, in the present and in the future. I have to look forward to the dawn of a new day; a new beginning. 

Roots That Clutch

If you keep up with me on Instagram then you know I have been preparing to see the Salinger documentary for some time. I even did my nails for the film! (You can read about that here).

While reading the September issue of Harper's Bazaar I discovered a Salinger accessory I really wanted. I already have all his books, a T-shirt, and an iPhone charger, but seeing Olympia Le Tan's work made me realize what is missing. I love a good book turned clutch (see here) so I was blown away with Le Tan's work.

This fashion designer majored in Italian literature, is the daughter of an illustrator, learned embroidery from her grandmother, and studied fashion alongside Lagerfeld. Pretty amazing right? But the fact that books are her first love and she taps into that for her accessories line is what draws me to her. Natalie Portman and Michelle Williams have worn her clutches, but that's not the appeal to me. I love that each one is handmade, and you can see so in every stitch. I so desperately would love to own one of these but at $1,000 + a pop, I am afraid I will have to wait.

Seeing the documentary and not being able to track down a Le Tan Catcher clutch (not that I could afford it anyway) got me thinking a lot about the man behind the film; the artist behind his/her work. The greatest artists (I feel) are oftentimes those who dedicate so much to their craft that we almost don't notice them. They are the people who fight for their characters in the trenches and would rather make a few items by hand with deep meaning than mass-produce and create something they aren't passionate about. I realize now that  I have perhaps even more respect for both Salinger and Le Tan after learning a bit about these obscure creators. In fact, I feel a tad bad about seeing the Salinger film (he would have hated it). And come to think of it, he wouldn't like the idea that someone wears a shirt with his book on it or carries a clutch that is meant to look like his novel. Because the truth about great art is that once it is released into the world it is carried on by people not close to the artist; it is free to become and be used however a consumer sees fit. And any writer would rather a person carried their actual book around -- I'm sure. So while I cannot yet afford a Le Tan clutch I am determined to wait for a time when I can -- so that I can buy the real thing and support this artist's amazing work.

 But I suppose part of the appeal for both of these artists is that we the public want something we cannot have. Maybe that's to get to know a man who never wanted to be known outside of his work or a handbag that's -- let's face it-- not meant for everyone to own. However, I have to thank this woman for bringing so many of my favorite works to the foreground again. And I have to thank both artists for stirring something in me, long after I have turned the last page or sworn off buying another item --- for making me remember why it is I too remain dedicated to my art.

The Greatest

It's been a long time, and for that I apologize. I mean to catch up with blog networking, honestly, but I actually have been blogging my brains out for work the last few weeks (more on that in an upcoming post).  I will be leaving soon for Orlando (business trip) but I wanted to make sure and get this post out there in case people happen to check in once a month to see if I am still here. 

I meant to write this post a few weeks ago when The Great Gatsby finally came out in theaters, but I think sometimes it is best to really let a piece of writing marinade in your mind for a while before you commit it to paper/blog. 

I had been anticipating this film for so long, and when it was over I was left with an uneasiness.The next day it was like waking up and wondering if the Gatsby film had indeed really happened or if it was some magnificent dream. But perhaps that's the hangover we get when we build something up for so long; when we wait and wait and wait only to realize that one day that thing we have waited for had to end eventually. 

But what the film really made me realize was that we can build people up too. We can waste so much energy on waiting for others to "be the one" or meet certain expectations; we can make someone out to be the greatest, when maybe, they fall short, or worse, they are just a regular human being. When I finished both the Gatsby book and film I wondered if Gatsby was real. We only see the Gatsby Nick believes to be real and it is not until Fitzgerald rudely reminds us of his mortality that we are brought back down to earth. But even so, Nick has already immortalized Gatsby for all of us. And no matter how untrue or exaggerated, we choose to think of Gatsby in a certain way -- beautiful shirts and all. We are all haunted by the greatness that once was such a man and the greatness that could have been, had his life not been cut short.

So what makes a person great? This is a question  have been struggling with a lot since the film. It is so hard to answer because it is so subjective. Other people have been wondering, I'm sure, what makes a story great too. Why has this particular novel been assigned to students over the years and why do companies like Kate Spade and Out of Print immortalize it through clothing and accessories? And I can only answer that from a personal angle as well. I believe we all have our Jay Gatsbys. We all want to believe in something or someone so badly that regardless of how often our Creator tries to remind us that we are all mere mortals, we refuse to believe it. We need those larger than life icons to look up to; to give us a standard with which to measure our wealth and happiness against. But moreover, we need someone else to distract us from looking inward, from focusing on our own issues and problems. It is always easier to write a fiction about someone else than it is to write truthfully about yourself. 

In trying to dissect my anticipation for this film I have realized that Fitzgerald's tale has always been an example of what I considered to be "great writing." It is a story I always measure mine against. And looking at Fitzgerald's life, I often considered his life to be great as well. But the truth is that eternal greatness can flicker. I know Fitzgerald's life was not easy but he consistently wrote. I feel he has earned his greatness and I would hope that people continue to appreciate his work so that his legacy may never burn out. But really these are selfish wants. I want people to continue to read writing because I write. I want people to turn my favorite books into movies because I have read them. And although I am feeling quite burnt out, I want to keep going; I want to not be forgotten. Sometimes the greatest people in our lives are the ones we have never personally met. Sometimes the greatest thing we can do is never forget. Sometimes the greatest thing we can write is the thought we have been avoiding committing to paper. 

I went to visit the Gatsby display at Tiffany & Co. this past weekend. And while the jewelry was remarkable, it all made me so sad. I started to feel like I would never really belong at Tiffany's; like I would never be able to afford anything from its windows. It all seemed so excessive. That's when I realized even the simplest of things can be the greatest. So while I didn't walk out of Tiffany & Co. with pearls or diamonds, I did walk away from the mall with a dark chocolate pop. And that was enough of an indulgence to satisfy my craving. Fitzgerald wrote stories for everyone of all classes to read and enjoy. He wrote so that even the most average of Joes could be transported into Jay Gatsby's world. He wrote to indulge in his own cravings, but also to satisfy ours as well. And that is the greatest gift of all. That is what I am trying to do here by finally committing these thoughts to this page. This post may not be the greatest thing I have written, but it has certainly satisfied a certain craving in my soul. Hoping you have the greatest of days ahead.

*You can read my official review of the film here . 

** Above is The Great Gatsby book clutch by Kate Spade  and nail art inspired by the film done by the talented Jae'tte Burneo of Cosi Fan Tutte nail lounge in Laguna Beach.This Side of Paradise book and bag were given to me by my friend Andrew. I will be reading Paradise on the plane to Florida tomorrow.

Portrait of a Lady

My grandmother passed away a few weeks ago.

It was one of those passings where you are "prepared." My grandmother was 94. I watched as age gradually dimmed the light of her memory until it was completely shut off. I watched her walk around her own home strongly and day by day grow weaker until she was bedridden. Through the past 10 years I keep hearing people say "I don't want to get that old." I would never have imagined my grandmother living so long, surviving so much. But she was tough. She survived the Great Depression, Wisconsin winters, and the death of her husband, my grandfather. She toughed it out as she had to move in with us, 10 years ago. I know it wasn't easy for such an independent person to move their beloved furniture, give things away, leave the home they had finally settled in after years of moving around (they were a military family -- as most people of that generation were). But we are never really prepared to let someone go. Never. Death has a bitter sting. I know that my grandma is better off now, happy, free of pain, and united with all those we have loved and lost. Heaven was made for people like her. But living with death is one of the hellish parts of living on Earth.

We had a service for my grandmother two weeks ago, and it was so very beautiful. It was everything she would have wanted. Our pastor asked the small group who had gathered at our church to share any memories they had of her. I never stood up, I only listened. And in a small way, I wondered if I had let her down by not sharing. But my intent was always to write this post instead for her. Because I always write things better after chewing on them rather than just standing up and talking. So here's what I would want my grandmother to know, and what I would want anyone who reads this to know about Meta Livesay:

I always remember her telling me that when she was young, she would tell her mother that she wished she were older. And her mother always used to tell her "Don't wish your life away. It goes by too fast." She would recall these things with exaggerations and exclamations, really emphasizing the words for me to comprehend when I was young. She would tell me this story time and time again from her recliner, her hair white with years gone by. She would always end the story with "And it did. It went by so fast."

I have spent the latter part of my life studying literature. One thing that alway fascinated me about the Modern period was that there were three poems published in that time by three different poets titled "Portrait of a Lady." And of course, there was the Henry James novel published only a couple decades before. Art has always praised great, graceful, women, and the Modern poets were searching how to classify and capture that species again. While these portraits are not like those found in classical art, there are lines that ring true to me in 2013.

Ideas, old gossip, oddments of all things,

Strange spars of knowledge and dimmed wares of price.

Great minds have sought you—lacking someone else.


Oh, you are patient, I have seen you sit

Hours, where something might have floated up.

And now you pay one. Yes, you richly pay.


Trophies fished up; some curious suggestion:

Fact that leads nowhere; and a tale or two,

That might prove useful and yet never prove

Pregnant with mandrakes, or with something else,

That never fits a corner or shows use,

Or finds its hour upon the loom of days:

The tarnished, gaudy, wonderful old work; 

--Ezra Pound



My grandmother was patient. She was kind. And through the sea of dementia, memories from far awaywould surface. She loved old things, particularly jewelry -- they were her treasures. She volunteered at a thrift store in Claremont and frequently came home with the most amazing finds. Even though no one else wanted them, she knew their value. A couple years ago I blogged about the collection I took from her stash after she stopped wearing her jewelry. You can read that post here . So in honor of my grandmother, I thought I would post some pictures from my Instagram account of me wearing her jewelry. Something I am proud to continue to do and something I hope brings honor to this lady and the era she came from. 

Because my grandmother was that classic lady so many writers and artists have searched for. She was that lady who gave up her job at a phone company to raise my dad. She wore fur coats, lipstick and gloves almost daily. She taught me how to type on a typewriter and to love my family more than anything else. She volunteered and gave generously because she loved others, especially animals. She told stories, read and enjoyed home-brewed coffee and meals with dessert. 

I had started to fear I was nothing like my grandmother. I work constantly and don't want to give that up for a child. I don't wear fur or cook or bake, and rarely wear lipstick or gloves. I haven't volunteered or been very selfless. While I love dessert, I am trying to do without it. But when my stepmother gave me this framed picture of my grandma in her fur coat, she told me that I looked just like her. And it was then that I realized all that made us so similar. My grandma is the reason our family knows how to love so greatly, so fully. And while I may never have my Christmas shopping done in March or the edges of my wrapping paper meeting perfectly, I possess the greatest gift possible, and that is to know what it means to be related to a real-life lady. 




Now that lilacs are in bloom

She has a bowl of lilacs in her room

And twists one in her fingers while she talks.

“Ah, my friend, you do not know, you do not know

What life is, you who hold it in your hands”;
        
(Slowly twisting the lilac stalks)

“You let it flow from you, you let it flow,

And youth is cruel, and has no remorse

And smiles at situations which it cannot see.”



--T.S. Eliot



In a twist that I would have never seen coming, my boyfriend's grandmother passed away on the day of my grandmother's funeral. Marty was 84 and lived in Illinois. She made jewelry, and I wrote about her here. In some of the pictures above I am actually wearing pieces she passed down to me. The world lost two great ladies. And I am so honored to be connected to both of them. 




Well! and what if she should die some afternoon,

Afternoon grey and smoky, evening yellow and rose;
        
Should die and leave me sitting pen in hand

With the smoke coming down above the housetops;

Doubtful, for quite a while

Not knowing what to feel or if I understand

Or whether wise or foolish, tardy or too soon…
        
Would she not have the advantage, after all?

This music is successful with a “dying fall”

Now that we talk of dying—

And should I have the right to smile?




My dad's favorite memory of his mother was her saying, "Be good, be careful, have fun." I really like this adage. I think Marty would have liked it too. I wish for a great many things on a daily basis and smile away many of the things I don't want to face. This blog post is an example of something I tried to put off. I tried to evade feeling that sting from death all over again. But since I have been the one left sitting pen in hand, jewelry on fingers, memories intact, it is my duty to talk about dying, about living. It is my job and my privilege to create this portrait of two ladies -- who make me smile. 



Be good. Be careful. Have fun.