Friday, February 10, 2012

Jillian, Age 31

Jillian Arnold, Activist, Summer 1992

She's tired.

Tired of your pointless excuses.  The countless reasons you give, for the endless torture she takes, mean nothing to her.  They never have, and never will. 

She's tired of your twisted logic.  Two left shoes never made for one good fit.  Yet you go on believing you can match ignorance with arrogance --- and end up with something less than disastrous.  It never works that way.    

She's tired of your endless hypocrisy.  Trash rolls off your finger tips minutes after her name leaves your lips.  If not seconds.  Look your mother in the face, shout those words of grace, but mean them for once.  She's never felt your love. 

She's tired of bearing your burdens.  EARTH is tired of absorbing your bad choices --- of feeling the consequences of your selfish acts, greedy endeavors, pointless injuries.  You keep testing her, and she never wants to let you down. 

But, the fact of the matter is...
She's tired. 

In Jillian's Closet... 
Jillian's Closet

Wednesday, February 1, 2012

Tatianna, Age 17

Fellow Jersey native/fashion blogger, Danielle Villano, brings us this week's guest post about a girl who knows exactly how to stand out in a crowd.  A picture of lilac girlie-ness herself, Villano's own blog Love and Look Pretty showcases all the "sweet, simple, and fun" delights that make this 20 year old creative writing student's world go round.  A fan of blogs like Delightfully Tacky and A Life In The Fashion Lane, Villano admits to not being able to live without her sheer black blouse by Lush ("I love it tucked into jeans or paired with leggings and a black bandeau") --- and when you're counting down the clock till the big 2...1..., love (and life) looks pretty darn good! 

Tatianna Patil, Student, Winter 2007

     She is waiting for someone, outside of the library.  She’s certainly not from around here; her boots are not made for New England snow, and her lipstick is a harsh slash in her icy surroundings.  Still, she is warm, and we all gravitate towards her.
     Her eyes remind us of Shakespearean sonnets - the kind we’re forced to read in stuffy English classrooms.   The pink hue of her cheeks has us conjuring up verses of our own.

       Rosebuds in bloom, sweet milk-white maiden…   
     We scrawl odes to her in our composition notebooks as she blinks snow flurries off her long lashes.  We wonder who has left her standing outside for so long, but she doesn’t seem to be bothered by the weather.  Only occasionally does she glance at a watch on a slender wrist. 
     We wonder if she’s a goddess in disguise.  We wonder if she’s a snow angel, or a spirit of winter past.  We sit and ponder her comings and goings as the snow melts around her and, surely, it becomes spring.  We sit and ponder as the school bell rings, signaling class time, and we’re sent scampering like frightened rabbits across the green.

In Tatianna's Closet...

We Wrote Sonnets