Little Time Capsules: London's Tube

These vintage film posters and advertisements were recently uncovered in a London Underground tube station at Notting Hill.  The passage is closed to the public, as it's been out of use since the late 1950's, but getting to look at the pictures is like seeing a little time capsule.

It's like a preserved graphics museum.  Although looking at images of this old subway station tunnel makes me think of Celia's watery ending from the movie Atonement... my step-sister Courtney is reading the book now, and has made me want to pick it up.  Or, at least re-rent it, if nothing else for the emerald dress.

Celia's final hours hiding from an air raid in a soon-to-be-flooded tube station.

A Cardinal Sin...

Trying to travel down closed roads for some sort of inspiration.  Best to look outward, no?

It's terrible to sit down, look at a blank screen, and think, "my mind doesn't work the way it used to.  It doesn't see things anymore."  I've been slowly rereading my old old Live Journal to help me fall back into the routine of really writing things down like I used to.  The problem with this?  The invocation of self-indulgent memories, the conflict of wanting to have a mindset I used to have without being who I used to be.  Is that possible?  Why does it feel like everything now is about arriving at meetings on time and having enough money to pay the electric bill on time?  Why is there a giant pile of receipts beside me?  Why am I so stuck that it necessitates looking backward at my writing scribbles rather than trying to progress forward?

I think I've had enough for tonight.  I may need to break something to validate this moment, sort of like a Jewish cup smashing?  Maybe?

I found this quote in an entry, I don't even know what this song used to mean to me.





I think the bottom line here, the unspoken thing, that this silly Live Journal, that all of my silly diaries validate, is that I used to be sad.  Sad like a lot of teenagers are sad, but also really sad.  I worry that's offensive to some people.  It shouldn't be.  And I don't ever want to go back to that place again.  It simply bothers me that my eyes seem to see less now than they did then.  I'm not sure when I closed them, if I even did, or why every muscle in my body always feels tight as though I am, actually, squeezing myself shut.  What would happen if I weren't?

Time to stop for the night, as I'm not even sure what story I'm looking for, and I'd like to end it on this:


Friday, September 5th, 2003 
10:35 am - she was losing her mind LONG before the meds began...  

I love my mom //

HomeInTheHills: I'd prefer you not walk alone after dark - don't forget, the nuts are everywhere!
summer long ago: even in our own family
 HomeInTheHills: I prefer to think of us as "interesting" and " amusing"
summer long ago:aha...they go hand in hand
HomeInTheHills: your puppies would say hello, but they are all snoring
summer long ago: thats puppyspeak for hello
HomeInTheHills: well, then, a great BIG hello from the 3 stooges

Then I Put A Colander On My Head

In honor of the New Media Fashion Brunch tomorrow, I thought I should post one of my favorite articles: Tanya Gold's "Why I Hate Fashion."  My friend Elizabeth tweeted it a while back, and reading the comic lines in it is as fabulous as finding a vintage 1960's medallion print dress at Buffalo Exchange for $13, (which I've done).  But reading this article is more like finding thirty of them.  For $5.

"Surely I love shoes, the icons that Carrie Bradshaw worshiped instead of a god? No? I must be ill. Weep for me in my giant knickers. I am outcast."

Gold explains why fashion "died" for her, and how that death has brought her peace in her life.  She raises interesting points about how fun it can seem to buy something pretty, bring it home in a fancy bag, and lay it out on the bed only to discover that whatever mystique the item held in the store has some how faded away between now and then.  She also explains how fashion can't "fix" her, and essentially, she doesn't want to exist in a state of needing to be "fixed." 

I don't blame her.  Wanting to collect pretty clothes is just as infectious as wanting to collect tea spoons or glass telephone insulators (I have one).  The problem with clothes collecting is that the object of display is yourself - and making oneself presentable everyday can be an occasion of stress.  Not that I've ever had a melt down over what to wear, changed my clothes five times, or been late to work because I can't decide if I like a pair of trousers on a particular day.  Ok, maybe I have, and maybe I need help. 

But fashion, like whittling, is a hobby.  And I like my hobby.  I have other hobbies - writing this blog, strumming guitars, starting a glass telephone insulator collection.  Lennon likes to play World of Warcraft, (NERD!).  To each their own. 

In between all of Gold's funny quips, she does bring up the sad story of sixteen year old Megan Moore who was killed by a train when she slipped and fell in her high heeled shoes on a station platform.

Megan has glamorous predecessors - Lady Randolph Churchill also experienced death by high heeled shoe when a broken ankle caused by a pair led to gangrene and a botched amputation, and Isadora Duncan was famously strangled by her silk scarf when it caught in a car's tire. 

Since we'll be walking a long way tomorrow, I think I'll wear my sensible flats, and maybe avoid superfluous length in accessories. 

(and just FYI - I hold playing World of Warcraft as the standard by which I judge all of my own insane obsessions to be normal.  Sorry, honey).