Globalboho.Life: #Flatlining, or flattening things out so they line up.

Two of the things I ironed yesterday.

One of my days off in Sausalito is shaping up to be the #hardcorehikingadventure day. All the paths out here feel like they’re at 70° angles… Which makes you feel victoriously winded looking back at where ya came from…and aware that an Epsom salt scrub needs to be spliced because everything is going to scrunch up after the afterglow fades.

Another day is the Virgoan #THISdoesntGOthere day where all the things with the callous audacity TO migrate from whatever homes you’ve given them (by your own hand half the time depending on your rising sign) scurry back into line…Or you feng shui everything looking for a new spatial sweet spot. Laundry day usually falls here, and a strange thing happened on it yesterday.

I ironed.

JOYFULLY.

The last thing I’d ironed was that ginormous kimono art piece I was working on up on the side of the mountain in Taos(that the vortex in Venice devoured). Before that it had been years. But yesterday I was happily reshaping an oversized boho fedora that had stoically stayed smashed into a lopsided pirate hat in my suitcase for over two months.

The laundry room bloomed with the smell of the wool, steam & steel and I just got HAPPY…and it was a few beats before I placed why.

In the workrooms behind Dimitri’s atelier on Fifth Avenue when he wasn’t around the head tailor & team wouldn’t let me touch an industrial sewing machine (treated me like I was some kind of naughty kid, really (  & oh, how those metallic  behemoths gleamed like black licorice in a candy shop!) but they Would let me play with the ironing cage.

Reminiscent of the Pilates cadillac, I never even learned the name of that contraption. It would’ve been in Italian or Spanish anyway, so eh. It looked like something Wyl E. Coyote would’ve gotten from ACMe and used while West Side Story’s soundtrack played behind him… and I loved it like only a happily bizarre, 21 year old macabre woman-child could love a gauntlet-like torture device looking thing.

A. taught me to shape wool, how it could be like butter with the right touch… & I loved the smell of it. Hot metal on wool is my fondest olfactory memory from that Menswear time period besides the smell of angular, nervously angry pretty boys drenched in mojito adrenaline sweat, about to charge the runway in my costumes  as my characters.

 

…The Other ironing joy that leapt upon me? The paper under the hat in the above pic has been traveling #globalbohostyle with me since last year in Sedona. It had a sharp crease in it from its last packing, the kind you can succinctly tear down sans any sharp edge…and there I was, happily pressing paper as the shoestrings from my tretorns dangled out of the dryer beside me so as not to beat the hell out of the machine.

Hot fibers.

Realizing as I write that I’ve Always loved that smell. My parents were clotheshorses who depended on dry cleaners intensely & I used to pester them to tag along, doll actors in tow in a shoebox just to beg the proprietor to let me make rollercoaster movies on the tracks that cycled the clothes back around for pick up while we waited. It wasn’t always a yes, but the smell of when it was is embedded in those memories.

 

By the time laundry day was over yesterday I’d even gleefully ironed two shirts.  And wandering around later in the day I stumbled upon a demure lil Sewing machine  mini-behemoth on site that looks like it could handle a lil love that i’m going to have to inquire about.

 

The manager showed up at the officer’s quarters the team takes over bearing gifts of a  low circular table to write at and a lil easel for the “Artist In Residence,” which made me blushgrin like a child just as much as the 24×48 gesso’d canvases given the other day… and has required a new sort of fengshui’ing in the space. The carpenter built a simple, elegant bedside table for me, acquired, treated and presented me with a rug and gave me a cool lamp-  and it turns out he refurbishes ancient record players- which just happens to be the missing sonic piece. I love the bluetooth speaker my housemate in Venice blessed me with that’s perfect for the Solfeggio frequency aspect of all afoot… but I keep sensing the space needs a record player in the corner and a stack of thrifted vinyl records…like the Eucalyptus trees out back are craving some Billie Holiday wafting from this particular window as the sun dances in or something.

 

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