Lavandula Angustifolia (True Lavender)
Where have I been? In dreams of sweet smelling lavender.......or so I one day imagine.
Dear Ether,
No. Please. Don’t be frightened. I mean, not that you were or anything. (Clearing throat) It was just in case there might be one or two of you who MIGHT have wondered where I’d been, that’s all.
I’ve missed blogging. Before I became a “blogger” I never knew how good it felt to be able to write and speak my mind and heart. Sometimes say wild things. Write in stream of conscious. Tell stories that no one knew but myself. And since Friday (my last post), I have missed this form of expression dearly.
My days have consisted of 14 hour sessions of research and writing about a subject that is so bizarre, so controversial—yet to the outside world appears foolish and cut and dry. I have been writing about UGG boots and their phenomenon. From my research, I have found so much history, so many lawsuits, so many opinions from so many rich and powerful people (in a multi-BILLION dollar trade) that this has turned into a full-fledged investigative reporting piece. My piece is going to really make a huge impact when it is published. I’m really quite scared. You have to remember, I write about mascara and Sienna Miller, not counterfeiting and fraud. A lot of people I’ve worked with have been so kind to me. So generous. There are so many players in this boot game. I want so very much to represent everyone fairly. But, for the first time I have not been able to write magazine cheeriness. I have had to write like a newspaper reporter. I want to disconnect my phone and computer on Sunday. Am I proud of this piece? I don’t have a fucking clue. I am numb. I, when I agreed to write this, never expected it to be a 3,000 word expose. If I fuck this up, I could be out of a job and blacklisted from a lot of tick-lists for a long time. And that’s NOT what I need.
Why couldn’t I have been good at math? Then I could have been an accountant or a broker? Or better at standardized tests and deductive reasoning? Maybe I would have been a swell lawyer? Science—a doctor? But, alas, I have none of these talents. And a career switch for me is impossible. I don’t even LOVE writing. I love ideas and coming up with themes for photo shoots and working with a team and researching ideas. But when it comes to the craft of sewing a piece of work together, nope, don’t love it. It upsets my stomach, I never feel terribly confident and Ethers, it ain’t gonna make me rich!
I find life confusing. I find my brain muddled and cloudy and it is often difficult for me to think and categorize my life. I live in a world with half-drunk mugs of coffee, warm soda cans and a desk filthy with old business cars and eyebrow tweezers. My coaster is a “Last of the Mohicans” CD soundtrack I must have bought 10 years ago (fuck knows).
I dream of lying in a field of lavender in Grasse. The oils are released in the baking of the sun’s heat. They calm me like a drug. The sky is a perfect hue of crisp blue and I am wearing a full skirt made of white cotton. I can’t visualize the top. My hair is loose. My dog sits beside me just a few feet away under a tree. I no longer have a hump on my back from my days sitting at my computer desk. No black circles under my eyes are seen on my now tan skin. My cuticles have healed because I am no longer nervous. I owe not a single E-mail, phone call or time-limit to anyone. I am a stranger. They truly address me as One of 365. There is no English gent, no family. I am ageless. I am a polyglot. I have endless credit in the bank. I never gain weight. I never feel pain. I drift in and out of consciousness. It’s like being given a second chance….maybe a re-birth.
How sad to always escape into a hopeless dream. Why can’t one be content? That’s for another night. This evening, my tired body has to rest and maybe I’ll catch a glimpse of myself in Grasse for a short, sweet minute, smelling lavender.
Dedicatedly yours,
—One of 365
Step out of the Ether and send me an E-mail. I would be glad to have your thoughts, feelings and ideas.
