12/31/2011

the year in photos, or something

I don't really feel like writing some long treatise about my past year. Rough spots popped up, of course, but a whole it was quite enjoyable. Here are some previously unpublished photos from the year, presented entirely without context.

























Best wishes and love in the new year. xoxo

12/29/2011

luv goon

(rodarte dress, vintage sequined topper, house of holland tights)
The old man and I celebrated four year of love last night. I wore my vintage seashell topper, which said old man described as "an elaborate tablecloth that I cut a hole in and stuck my head through", but that's just offensive to me. Because clearly, this is not an elaborate tablecloth, it is an oversized sequined doily that I cut a hole in and stuck my head through.
Forget about accordian pleats and Proenza satchels. Body doilies are the next big IT TREND FASHUN THING.

 My House of Holland bandana tights and new Miu Miu shoes are fast becoming Horcruxes in my wardrobe. Spooky maximalism is where I'm at these days. The more the better, as long as it's black.



Oh! Also! I wrote stuff for Portable and Rookie. Perhaps you should read it, if you are so inclined.

12/22/2011

how to bring a blush to the apartment


(IAN R.N. dress, boyfriend's belt, random old tights, jil sander shoes from jane)
Bought this dress specifically because it reminds me so strongly of the cover and overall mood of Victorialand by the Cocteau Twins. The music is both organic and stark at the exact same time; full of flora but devoid of life. I really appreciate the dichotomous nature of those themes, and how perfectly the Cocteau Twins managed to combine them.

Jil Sander shoes that Jane was selling, whose hands I was delighted to take them off. Like Victorialand, it's the perfect combination of death and life. Shoes that one would construct from debris from the apocalypse.

Getting older means my body is changing again, in tangible ways, in intangible ways. I noticed my hairline was receding a few week ago and truth is, I wasn't upset about it, because growing up has its positives (like the fact that for the first time in my life, I don't feel like an explosive combination of emotions that are never really supposed to mix). I can't control what my body does but I didn't want to the world to stare at my bald spots, so now I have bangs to cover them up. They aren't perfectly straight. But there's beauty in imperfections.

The soundtrack of dreams.

12/21/2011

all lies lead to the truth.

No other pop culture icon has inserted its way into my aesthetic reveries the way The X-Files has. I began watching the show as a preteen and quickly evolved into an ardent x-phile, obsessing over minutia like Cigarette Smoking Man's evil glaces and Mulder and Scully's blistering sexual tension (SHIPPER4EVER). The show's brilliant mytharc featured some of the strongest storytelling and character development on television ever. Layers upon layers of parascientific ~*mysteries*~ made the show brainfood for the discriminating nerd. I recall many classes in the eighth grade in which I spent daydreaming about the week's episode and scrawling notes and webs in order to make sense of its place in the mytharc. Ahem. Clearly you can see why I had no friends.

The X-Files was spooky, in every single sense of the word. The brief glimpses into Mulder and Scully's personal lives were always bathed in darkess (literally and figuratively), because these were characters who lived and breathed their work in the paranormal to their own eventual detriment. Themes of paranoia, distrust, and esoterica appealed to me the most, as did the show's stark and shadowy art direction. My blog's header? Yep, it's from the title screen. Because my social life has not progressed from my aforementioned eighth grader loserdom, in my spare time I collect screencaps of my favorite X-Files moments while I watch it on Netflix. Yes, the WHOLE SERIES is available on Netflix Instant. So for those of you who've never watched it before, get on it!


("One Breath", season 3)

 ("All Souls", season 5)

("Die Hand Die Verletztz", season 2)

("Dreamland II", season 6)

("Eve", season 1)

("Je Souhaite", season 7)

("Kitsunegari", season 5)



("The Postmodern Prometheus", season 5)


 ("The End", Season 5)

("The Field Where I Died", season 4)

("Triangle", season 6)


12/19/2011

la eau d' italiancais

(rodarte for opening ceremony blouse and leather apron, thrifted leggings, ebay'd ann demeulemeester boots, rosary necklace from hot topic from when i was 16)
Kind of melding a lot of influences in my outfit from yesterday; leather fetish, old lady prints, witch boots, religiousness, undone hair that I hate (more on that later). The print on this blouse is so sublime that I could stare at it for days. It's a tiled Art Nouveau drawing that includes roses and ghostly faces and oil lamps. Exactly the kind of esoteric thing that could only come from the mind of the Mulleavy sisters.

I also got to wear my real-life priest coat today. It's one of my favorite thrift store finds and it's so strongly referential that I have to be in a serious Good Catholic Girl mood to wear it. Also, I'm a big believer in voluminous, body-consuming outerwear. Hide your shape and allow your coats to swallow your figure! Don't belt that coat, don't cinch that waist. Because strolling around a winter wonderland in a bloblike coat is quite a liberating feeling, I promise you.

The buttons on this coat! Crosses in the middle! See what I mean about it being so strongly referential? Also, I cannot believe this necklace is 10 years old...it's seen me throughout all of my various goth incarnations, from nu-metal mall goth to romantic neovictorian to annoying fashiongoth, to today, which is a blending of all my finest/lamest goth moments. Classics from Hot Topic never die. 

12/16/2011

I HAD THE TITULAR TIGHTS

Awww guys, thanks for the positive feedback on my previous post! Beauty pageant wave. You're too kind. As my inspiring BFF Annie always tells me, the personal is political. For me that means that style and fashion is always political!

(rodarte for opening ceremony dress, house of holland tights, dries van noten shoes, vintage fuzzy sweater)
Today, however, I am displaying an outfit I wore to a house party in Logan Square a couple week ago. I don't even remember the last time I went to house party, which either makes me sophisticated~ or pathetic, depending on how you look at it. Oh, there was karaoke at this party. My boyfriend and I sand "What Have I Done To Deserve This" by the Pet Shop Boys, which is indeed a magickal song. You're singing the song in your head now, aren't you? See?! MAGICK!

But by far the most important part of this outfit are these tights. They are ladders. My blog is called LATTERSTYLE (caps are my personal brand). Which means these tights are Titular Tights. TITULAR TIGHTS! Do you REALIZE what a major advancement this is in the field of hosiery?! "Oh boy, I'm just so tired of all these ladder-style tights..."

(rodarte x opening ceremony leather blazer, mandy coon bag, american apparel scarf)
And because I'm all about the practicality, here's how I layered up for the journey to the el station. Real Klassy Ladies like myself wear destroyed fake leather boots for the 5-block walk and carry Dries shoes in their hands. Emulate my Park Avenue cool. Become absorbed in my Gold Coast chic. I am High Fucking Society.

12/14/2011

psalms of survival

 (zara coat, vintage fuzzy sweater, risto city lights blouse, screen vinyl image button)
 
Bowery Electric - Lushlife

This theme of melancholic urban winters has been a recurring one through my young adult years, especially living through those in the Midwest, which are grey and cold on a scale of which are completely alien to outsiders. Perhaps you'd have to be from here to understand.

I remember when its desolation struck me for the very first time. I was a tadpole 20-year old who'd worked up the courage to move out of the wooden townhouse I shared with my ex (though as survivors all know, the first breakup is never the last). Battered but not bloodied, I carted my meager possessions into a traincar apartment that overlooked dumpsters and their vulturous flies. There was a perpetually darkened bedroom that I never used, because it was drafty and lonely and riddled with nothingness. Space heaters were strewn about the place because a gas bill was out of the question; sweaters never helped; I was always so. so. cold. My mattress held me in the modest living room because somehow, the (donated) television and (donated) Xbox sitting beside it made me feel more human. Human enough to sleep, at least, though I soon discovered that sleep would escape me too.




Those were days of desperate peanut butter sandwiches and malicious pineapples stuck inside my mixte's brakes. Poetic Ramen noodles and deeply paranoid bagels, spoiled milk and High Five french fries. And at night, when the snow fell and collected into tiny untouchable mounds outside my window, I heard my thoughts as clearly as a friend speaking them to me, right in front me, but perhaps more accurately inside me. Monologues in which I convinced myself that I was "alright", that I didn't love him anymore, that the blue body pillow I slept with each night was a perfectly able substitute for his arms. It wasn't, of course, but one can convince themselves of many things if they say it long enough.


Those were hungry days. I mean that in all of its variants. I craved many things, my stomach craved more, my heart craved it all. And everyday was a struggle in supplying my body's various demands. Dreams/nightmares were present in my waking hours, zombie Meagan strolled throughout bookstores and boutiques with no purpose other than to try (futilely) to connect to the sprawling metropolis around me. Have you ever felt as though your corporeal self was a vessel that you did not control? That life was some sort of picture book that you were gazing at from a different dimension? Try as I might, I was simply an automaton. It took a long time before the human feelings that had been beat out of me returned to a proper place.


That was all perhaps very abstract, but the words make sense to me. This post is a testament to the ability of a garment to act as a time travel device. This city lights shirt, by virtue of its associative design, takes me right back to the coldest days I've ever known. Were it up to me I'd squash that experience deep, deep down (where it belongs?) but at some point, one needs to open one's eyes to Hard Things. I'm thankful that this simple button-down can help me to start to process mine.