The Ring, The Cape & The Corset

The Ring

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He snapped the platinum setting to remove the stone and I burst into tears. I don’t know who was more surprised, me or him.
I loved My Nonnie and Poppa. She knew the first time she saw my Poppa, that he was going to be her husband. So what he was there to take her cousin out on a date. When he presented the ring to her father, he was quite surprised to hear she was only 16, he had never asked her age. 
She waited to wear that ring and so did I. But it was her ring. And I wanted it to be hers and mine. I was clear on the design from the beginning but that sound of metal cutting metal, cut something in me, and in that cutting were a loss and a release at the same time. A leaving behind and a new beginning.
It's perfect. I love the way I feel when I wear it. I love looking at it on its altar. They are with me, the story, the passion and the connection to history, to my history, and the making of history at the same time.

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The Cape

Oh, she just loved capes. Marvelous things capes. Easy on, easy off, secret pockets and a place to hide from the cold or snuggle up under for a snooze. I loved her in her mink cape. The softness of the fur on my face and the scent of her perfume, Bal a Versailles filling my head.
I longed to feel her with me, to be wrapped safely in her arms. I cried and cried and slept in that cape for days until I heard her voice loud and clear…”don’t cry for me when I’m gone. Stop crying or you will be puffy for two days.” I crawled out of bed and put it on over my nightie. I looked like Darth Vader in a What Becomes A Legend Most Backglama.
Now it’s short and lined in Schiaparelli pink. The secret pocket on the inside bears her monogram and there are fingerless gloves and legwarmers and a stole! 
When I wear any of these things, her arms are around me and I am safe, I am invincible, she is with me. I am connected, I am proud, I am loved and I am warm.

The Corset

Want it. Need it. Have to have it. I’m fascinated by corsets and a hand-woven one to boot, made to measure struck a chord I forgot existed.
It was hardly a decision but a commandment that I take to the closet and pull out those teeny tiny leather pants I had saved in textures of black, remnants of my rocker self that I wasn’t willing to let go of.

Shredding those fibers was liberating, validating and exhilarating. Tying the shreds into yarn was like giving a new life to an old part of myself that still sparkled. The waiting for the weaving, fusing, boning and lining in the most magenta peau de soie seemed interminable.
It’s still all about sex, drugs and rock and roll. Maxes and Area, The Mudd Club and Club A. Its me, Its mine and, of course, goes with everything.