Sometimes miracles happen. Today was a miracle; in the form of a kaftan. It boggles the mind that such beauteous garments exist. If such a cacophonous piece of fabric ever presents itself to you an occasion must be made of it.
|Priced $6 at the Salvation Army. The lady gave it to me for $5. I have connections.|
|Is it a bird? Is it a plane? No. It is Ella in a second hand kaftan.|
A week today I will have finished high school. 13 years of being privileged enough to be born in a country, and a family, that values education el completo. It feel as if I should be doing something monumental to mark the occasion. Instead I am fighting an apathy to study. Exams? I laugh in the face of exams.
|I'm flying without wiiiiiiings.|
|Two years of Classical Studies has left me with a major appreciation for stylised pleats. O Attic Shape! When old age shall this generation waste, Thou shalt remain.* Just like Athenian art, my kaftan is timeless.|
My trip to the op shop came at a wonderful time. Today was the last full school assembly of the year and my swan song as the Cultural Prefect. I was happy to mark it visually. After the head students gave their final address balloons were dropped from the ceiling of the auditorium. In true metaphorical style, I felt like one of the balloons falling from the lighting holes toward the seated students. My much imagined end of school has not been a life-shaking change. It has been gradual. The simple pleasure of leaving "like pearls slipping off a string"** and the feeling of falling from a height best describe how I feel. I am a balloon.***
|These shoes haunt my blog. My brother has no words to describe his loathing for them. All he could muster was "disgusting".|
So I am a balloon enjoying the terrifying pleasantness of falling out of school. But I am also being momentous, wearing this undeniable pleated wonder. Later in the day as I talk about how excited I am for being 18 and being able to club it is pointed out that I actually won't like this coming of age activity. It is true. Drunkenness makes me extremely uncomfortable. I have an aversion to bodycon dresses and general sleaziness. And my musical taste is far more developed and elitist than your average dubstep obsessed youth. I accept these facts. But I also desperately want to be excited for busting moves in the club. Piling in a car with energetic whipper snappers. Interpretive dancing like ood****. Enjoying iced tea and oversize burgers then car tripping back home to bed. These are my dreams. I want growing up to be an epic excursion. For as long as I haven't been 18 I have been promised strobe lit good times in small spaces. I want clubbing to be the funnest, bestest, most youthful experience of my life. I want to nostalgically tell my grandchildren how I found love in the club. I want my growth into an adult to be as momentous as my kaftan.
|The kaftan made me dance.|
School is ending. It is nice. It is scary. It is momentous, but it doesn't feel like that. Marking the inevitable last experiences doesn't make me especially upset. Last Speech and Drama lesson. Last assembly. Last full week of school. I get no poetic surges of angst from these facts. It surprises me that I don't feel more momentous and nostalgic about the process. I don't feel disillusioned from my imaginings of the monumental future. Instead a sense of surrealism accompanies my last days at high school. My clothing has become compensation for something I am not feeling. The kaftan is totes an expression of how exciting the ending is. This kaftan is a metaphor baby.
|Ahhhh. The reptilian pattern. The obnoxious colours. It is so pretty.|
I have decided to make a zine after school and examinations finish. Having a published piece of something to commemorate completion of school seems a mighty fine thing to do. Also I have some arty and clever friends whom I intend to exploit.
Thank you for reading this ramble. And thank you for all the lovely comments. I am enjoying this blog thing.
*Ode to a Grecian Urn, John Keats. It is likely he actually wrote the poem about this kaftan. It should be titled Ode to Ella's Kaftan.
** Anne of Avonlea, L M Montgomery. From chapter 19, Just a Happy Day. "'After all,' Anne had said to Marilla once, 'I believe the nicest and sweetest days are not those on which anything very splendid or wonderful or exciting happens, but just those that bring simple little pleasures, following one another softly, like pearls slipping off a string.'"
*** Probably a reference to Paper Towns by John Green. Hard to tell as I honestly feel everything is.
**** I can't insert the GIF. But I can insert the video.