Wednesday, March 10, 2010


"Your clothes conceal much of your beauty, yet they hide not the unbeautiful.
And though you seek in garments the freedom of privacy, you may find in them a harness and a chain.
Would that you could meet the sun and the wind with more of your skin and less of your raiment.
For the breath of life is in the sunlight and the hand of life is in the wind.

Some of you say, 'It is the north wind who has woven the clothes we wear.'
And I say, Ay, it was the north wind
But shame was his loom, and the softening of the sinews was his thread.
And when his work was done he laughed in the forest.
Forget not that modesty is for a shield against the eye of the unclean.
And when the unclean shall be no more, what were modesty but a fetter and a fouling of the mind?
And forget not that the earth delights to feel your bare feet and the winds long to play with your hair."

Excerpt from "The Prophet" by Kahlil Gibran

Putting on a shirt is generally the most disappointing part of my day. I like underpants well enough, but certainly not bras or shirts. My fears of what other people will think are about my only motivation for wearing bras. But these fears don't stop me from often going without in the summertime. I oscillate between not wanting to look trashy and thinking, "My breasts are magnificent and screw anyone who takes offense to them."

Covered head to toe in a feeble attempt to stay warm in the winter, I feel least like myself and most like I'm hiding something. I've chosen my winter garb with care- sweaters and slacks in attractive colors and cuts- yet I tire of them in less than a month and dressing becomes drudgery for months on end. Where are you, Spring?

I feel freer and more like 'me' in my summer clothes, but still not quite there. I delight in buying and creating costumes for performance and for amtgard, but I can never stick with just one. Dozens later, I still haven't found one (or even a few) that feels like the precise expression of who I am.

I can't say that nudist communities appeal to me whatsoever, but I still feel most comfortable at home in nothing more than my own skin. My skin and my body are the only constant of 'me'-ness. Though they change every day, every hour, so do I. I am not at all the same person I was a year ago, or even last week. My clothes can't keep up.

My weight fluctuates and I never seem to have pants that fit right. Hm, wouldn't that be an interesting metaphor for everything imbalanced in my life?

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