...

::forgive them even if they are not sorry::

::rumi neely::

::Meet Morgan:: Part 1

slip into your favorite cardi
slide out of your nine-to-five shoes
and into your moccasins
scrub your face,
(or fall asleep, reading, in your makeup-- nary a lady hasn't done the same)
let a cup of honey ginseng
steep, but be sure
+ stir in sticky teaspoons
of extra honey,
to numb all that ginseng.
cozy yet?
good.
we have something more heartrending still.
an interview--
as insouciant as champagne, as meandering as wild honeysuckle, as pungent-sweet as a cherry sour, as wholly funky fresh as the interviewee herself--
with Morgan Bowers.
Ripe young peach at twenty-six years, she's mother, visionary, entrepreneur, girl-about-town, cutie-pie, and stately grace-wearer.
She nudges the fashion envelope subtly, yet assuredly,
with a scrunch of an angel-kissed nose and a self-deprecating laugh
which makes you buy her cause, her product, her essence, that much more adoringly.
If the first signs of spring were Hawaiian lilies exploding in magenta fire across
the Texas Panhandle,
If Ali McGraw were to shear her horse's mane, add a spritz of sexy/cute paprika freckles across dainty nose and Botticelli cheekbones,
and stay ensconced in Love Story forevermore,
albeit with eight hours extra of sunshine
in Cambridge, or Yale, or what have you;
If Lilith Fair were just a little cooler, and less cloyingly Sara McLachlan,
if apricots could be plucked from palm trees,
and come in a hot pink variety, with Asscher-cut emerald seeds;
If the moon could burn tangerine with yellow polka dotted hearts--
the effect might be something strikingly a lot like--
Morgan.
A scrapper, a lover, a dreamer bold enough to become a creator; a mother, a daughter, a heart-energy-icon to many,
the girl is a marvel.
Warm your hands,
savor your tea,
fall in love more still with DR, its pretty mastermind, and its worthy yet truly simple manifesto--
to fall more in love with yourself, as you fall in love with DR clothes.
The magic is self-evident.
So, go ahead,
and
Meet Morgan.
It's a sumptuous sweet saucy savory succulent thing, you'll find,
to do.

::DR::

Part 1 of an enthusiastic 3-part interview (!!!)


What is your idea of perfect happiness?

My life. What can I say? I’m 26 and I have the most wonderful son, an amazing family and the job of my dreams.


What are your first fashion-centered memories?

Looking at BOP magazine when I was little and trying to make my outfits look like the young and hip Famous Janes!! Haha.


South of France or SoCal?

South of France. When I think of those two places I think less of location, and more along the lines of, “Ok, what is the fashion scene like in these two places?" We all know what more than likely is going on in SoCal (Hollywood is less a town than a state of mind, after all, a cultural touchstone). I’d love to take the breezy elegance of French dressing, the perma-vacation appeal, and translate that into something workable here in A-Town!!

Adoration or infatuation?

Adoration, definitely.

Boundless energy or ceaseless time?

Boundless energy AND ceaseless time!!! Give me my favorite energy, and a day that never ends and I could definitely call THAT heaven!!!


I say “wasabi,” you say ______________?

Nose. Come on now, its an excellent decongestant!


Where would you like to live, and what would be your living quarter of choice?

On a ranch anywhere in Texas only, surrounded by trees and a creek. Five dogs, one or two barn cats (I really don’t like cats), some of those chickens that look like they have pom-poms on their heads, and lots of horses!


Would rather slink down the catwalk, or be the one pinning clothes and cutting on the bias backstage?

I’d much rather be pinning the clothes and cutting on the bias backstage. I love to be where the action is, so I guess you could call me a bit of a drama queen.

Makeup is _________

My everyday, go-to mask-- that little bit of perfection I can give myself. Though I love to go natural when I’m roughing it up.

Eighties music is ________________

The start- up to a night of dressing up in my most psychedelic outfit, that’s what!!


Guilty pleasures are ______________

Any kind of sweet (mmm…), any type of fashion, a glossy interior decorating mag, or a new fun vintage-y blog stumbled upon… all while sitting on my couch, fireside close by!!

::we stand in AWE::

http://www.4mula.com/ <----- Go here NOW!!

Totally melting into puddles of gelato milk, snorting sunshine dust, and having unicorn babies over 4mula's innovative, conscientious, and utterly brilliant take on the periodic table. In place of metalloids, finnicky transitions, halogens, and holier-than-thou noble gases, you'll fine bright citruses, woodsy roots, and exotic (slightly trippy + untoward?) herbsies, and warm, grounding spices. Science is beautiful to me in any fashion-- this, however, is as explosive as Cesium. Clever + utterly appropriate application.

The company uses its olfactory brilliance to operate on the natural healing properties and utterly stimulating sensory experiences of oils as they occur + marry in nature. Plucking heartstrings + picking up brain waves from Ayurvedic school of thought, alternative medicine, and the creative processes behind aromatherapy + holistic healing, the company charts nature's most essential oils according to like property, gives 'em pretty little scientific monikers, and painstakingly details the botanical and healing qualities of each. 4mula has collected the fragments of various theorem and practice + truly taken it all the way. A versed, appropriate, pleasing, and very sound system to supplement classic pharmacology.

Palmarosa, Ylang Ylang, Sandalwood, Bois de Rose, Patchouli, Helichrysum, Litsea Cubebeba!... Kingdoms Citric, Floral, Herbal + Minty!... All-inclusive, eloquent property listings!... Kitschy little elemental abbreviations!

Excuse me, please, while I melt into gelato milk, overdose on sunshine dust, and have a unicorn baby. I'm speechless, oh-oh-oh.

::midnight strawberries::

listen to your heart when it says,

something about that was not quite right.

and continue on with clarity.

::someone else's beautiful::

I like the idea of beauty consuming itself not wholly with itself, but leaving space to usher in the way for new or successive beauty.

::goddess lessons::

Much is made of style being made accessible, easy, and every-woman palatable. in the process, a lot of weird olsen-twin-ness/sienna miller castoff-ness tends to happen-- piling on + deliberate mismatching + this "i'm a tree! in the wiiiind!" kind of desperation of trying to marry janis joplin to a nautica model and add some owls and a hoodie to the mix, just because, damnit.

Sometimes, however, venus de milo skims terrestrial ground, cradling a cloud of lemon verbena in her embrace, leaving insistently brilliant graphite footprints in her wake, and snatching with unfettered dauntlessness the sparkle out of moonbeams themselves to rub on her decollete and pile on the crests of both shoulders.

Has anyone ever given you the clemency--

Allowed you--

to look gorgeous?

beauty is writhing, insistent, and pursued, even when it's being apologized for or avoided. 'why don't you go ahead and look pretty?' the modern day goddess seems to listlessly suggest. it's what you want anyway.

and here's a secret: looking pretty takes the same-- or even marginally less-- effort than looking fashionably un-pretty.

don't try so hard, dears. it's ok. quit skirting the issue and surrender into pretty.

It's OK to smell good. Look good. FEEL good.

Mind, you, I'd change that-- to feel GREAT.

It truly is ok. In fact, it's much preferred.

(it just looks so wearying and crazy-making to tiptoe that line-- art-deco grungy, but not too grungy, disheveled, but artfully so, iconoclastic, but en vogue, rebellious but regarded, dirty but not too dirty. being fashionable while being dirty is really hard. make it easy on yourself. pretty-making expedites the process. it is an efficient means).

you may not have the wherewithal to grow bananas on your slice of Tenerife, acquire for your Tuesday-morning viewing purposes Rembrandt and Renoir, order room-service from other countries (reputedly, pork sausages from Lodon or chili from Bevery Hills whilst in Rome), accept from the Mexican government a tasteful library of pre-Colombian art (in gratitude for placing a heart-shaped target on the map somewhere in the vicinity of Puerto Vallarta), book entire floors of hotels when getting-away-from-it-all ("it all" pertaining to the veritable marble sculptures of home dotting luxurious from Ireland to Celigny and Gstaad), stir such luminescence as to demand the renaming of the Cartier diamond in your honor, incense the globe and the powers-that-be so definitively as to find yourself condemned from the Vatican and the floor of the House of Representatives for "erotic vagrancy", or coax and drum up and beat out and break down and kill and renew and revive and revive drunken, rambling, absolutely feverish billet-douxes out of Richard Burton, until you finally kill him of whiskey-drenched heartache. Did you get the Liz Taylor referece? Ok, good.

Few of us have extravagance at our disposal, but the rest of us can maximize what we have with surprisingly little: a coy smile, an unapologetic stance, a learned dish or two, an embrace of sparse detail, unwavering acceptance of a compliment, proper usage of glassware, attention to hygiene. Indulgence in the bare + minimal things that can an entire persona, a burning legacy, create: a signature scent, a repeated use of hyacinth, a signature letter-signing (and an endorsement in promptly-written letters) a husky laugh, a not-too-revealing smile, a tunic that elicits feelings of lavish Spartan granduer, a subtly sheer item or so, candles of crushed mint, a braided hairstyle that you can whip together in a minute, a liking of sandalwood, embrocation of passion fruit + white peaches.

You know, so you're that insistent memory. That can't-get-over-her lover, or wasn't-she-decadent hostess, or isn't-she-warm-and-lovely mother, listener, giver, friend. You're the one that always conjures up the whisper of a Valencia orange, the spark of not-too-hungry touch, the thoughtfulness of an artfully adorned table, the magic of a comforting + indulgent and altogether crazy-making brand of beauty. So you're the one people can't get over, that people taste sometimes in lucid midnight dreams or sober midmorning reflections. You're that woman. That goddess. That otherworldly radiance. That memorable.

No one defines the modern day goddess more unapologetically than Padma Lakshmi, bauble- extraordinaire, foodie, chef, model + mother. Her grace needn't seem scary, unattainable, or intimidating. In fact, there are a few goddess lessons that seem about as slap-happy to put together as a school lunch sandwich, minus any crust- shaving or heart-shape pressing, but with the addition of a nice little love note and a side of apple slices.

Hope you enjoy, and find something applicable, to suit and REFORM for YOUR purposes + your inimitable you-ness.

1. Do not apologize: This woman is not afraid of her beauty. It is an unyielding and consuming largesse. It is A LOT. It's ocean, all-consuming, glittering with every angle, facet, wave-like and particulate piece of matter. It is fluid, lavish grace. In fact, her beauty is so damn much, your first inclination is nearly to laugh or to get embarrassed. But I guarantee, this woman does not giggle. This is not a giggly, shrieking, "oh, who me?" type of dame. What she has is unquestionable. She does not shrug and defer the compliment. She acknowledges her beauty, but does not attach to it. It passes through the looker unspoken, understood, and, moving on now, shall we eat? Likewise, fully assume whatever is your grandness and largesse, and please, do not argue with compliments or try to cover it up with fructose sweetness. it's kind of ingratiating.

Essentially, what we're saying is...

Act like a woman.

2. Stand up straight: Padma is model statuesque. Bigger-than-life. That does not elicit in her the undying need to go cross her arms, slump her shoulders, and invest in a stockpile of tom's or flats. She puts on the footwear of a debutante, throws it all upward and back, and no one dares to argue-- nor does she anticipate debate-cultivation. Stand up straight, sit erect, use discipline in honing your presence.

3. Comfort- Here's a really subversive idea: comfort can be luxe. Comfort and dump-fort need not be interlocked. Cleave (cling to) the notion of beauty as lavish, and cleave (tear away, severe) yourself from the insistence that it must be dirty, apologetic, oversized, or less-than. You owe yourself that. Not to try hard, but to feel liquid plasma electric AT EASE. A peasant blouse, a nicely draped jersey dress, a modal top, a lovely shell tank or silky scarf does not a hobo make, nor pain induce. beauty is easy. beauty doesn't hurt. i see nothing advantageous in hurting yourself for the sake of beauty.

4. Lick your fingers every now and then. Make yourself real. Live in your clothes. Loosen your jaw. That's the first way to relax tension. Now breathe. And let loose, just morsels at a time. You know you're going to when you get home anyway. Might as well truly live with an audience around to affix themselves to you, to rivet themselves to your boundless grace. Just keep the squealing to a minimum. An absence.

5. Nourish! Body, brain, creative appetite, spiritual tenacity. Curves fall where they will; and I'd rather be a soaring, breathlessly curved edge than a square.

6. Relax into. Much has been made of Miss Lakshmi's ballyhooed scar. It's part of the woman. Why draw attention, or call out? Jagged surface does not make an uncut diamond any less of a diamond.

7. Create a space. You get the sense that every where this woman cavorts, every suite she checks into, she brings with her lily and hyacinth, votive candle, beloved soundtrack, a creates a space of warmth and home. You get the sense that something changes in someone everytime they walk into her room-- they know she has been there. Create vast + beautiful spaces of silence around your words + in your wake.

8. Do what you want. This does not seem like a woman who takes suggestions and scarily makes adjustments to appease the critic. If she doesn't want to eat spinach leaves for lunch, she's not going to. If she hates Pilates, she won't do it, no matter how good it is for core support + inner calm. If she feels like wearing apricot, she's not going to go for blush instead to be less brash. If she would rather box than run laps, she's going to buy boxing gloves (she really does this!). If she wants to use chili instead of saffron, then that's what she'll do. Start doing what you really want and being what you really like. Hone a style. Develop a taste. If it's inconsistent, it's still immaculately yours.

9. Beauty doesn't hurt. Beauty doesn't demand. It isn't punitive. It is not cruel, and it does not demand. It does not condemn. It is not punishing. Beauty will not pain you; I see nothing advantageous about hurting yourself to be beautiful. Beauty is an easy place to be. It's a comfortable sweater to slide into. It's sensual-leaning. It seduces, you + yours. It's a warming thing to subsume. It gives light, or it isn't beauty at all.

BEAUTY SHOULD FEEL GOOD!

Whoever told you it should not, or instilled in you that belief, or made pain contingent to it, should be reprimanded.

10. Be curious. Padma always looks like she's looking-ahead. Inquiring into, rather fully-purchasing into, or selling her soul to the situation at hand. Observing and analyzing. Concocting new dishes, designs, entreprenuerial efforts, ways of beauty. Curiosity is beauty made uncomfortable but soaring.

11. Beauty is strong. It's industrial. It's doing. No new-agey mumbo-jumbo about approaching, contemplating, internalizing-- though those processes are worthwhile. Part of beauty is gumption, getting-up and getting dirty and getting to be the beautiful you want to be.

*** mid-note script: simplicity is drilled into us ad-nauseum in fashion, because its virtues are REAL. the clothes are simple. so simple. they coalesce beautifully with form. they slink, drape, slither. they aren't overbearingly grungy, blouse-y, architectural, statement-making, contrived. they are essentially cotton tanks, silk chemises, boyfriend clothes, jersey-modal mixes, delicate jewels. what you see here is a woman giving off light, not a blouse, or a woman in a dress, or a dress on a woman. it's evanescent. it's so not anything to do with what she has on (though we don't want to discourage you from clothes-buying; it kinda keeps us afloat). The makeup is balmy, kissed, flushed, contouring, and really just heightening-- nothing too drastic or high-fashion. In the season, she is sun-graced; during the colder months, she's a little more porcelain-washed. Nothing too striving about it. There's an evident lack of striving, and, of note, artificiality.

Simplicity is insistence on something more. It's the woman's full-fledged belief in herSELF.

12. Beauty should be beautiful. It should ALWAYS be beautiful.

that's all. interpret it as you will, rag-a-muffins.

and here's a showcase of padma style through the years! sexiness that's never gimmicky. the woman makes a trout look lovely. http://www.bravotv.com/top-chef/padma-through-the-years

::a little DR packaging::

I've been locked inside your heart-shaped box for weeks.

(... Forever in debt to your priceless advice...)

(... Your advice...)

(... Cut myself on angel hair + baby's breath...)

Lock me up inside a DR box. I wanna trip inside that savor for a day.

::come with?::

::anyone who knows the secrets of the universe knows that this is the finest film ever created. forget citizen kane + ghandi + gone with the wind + all that sweeping monkey business nonsense. who knew the behind-the-scenes junk glitters more platinum than the silver screen magic? in the meantime, what i'm really itching to point you to is the infamous road trip scene. i wanna go on one! i have my company selected. i have my soundtrack cheese. and i DEFINITELY have the right raggs to bring. which raggs will you bring, who will you flaunt them for, and where are you heading out on the open road? bring munchies, + do share.::

-dr

::forest feast::

:: meet me somewhere in the trees. i've built a picnic table. i gathered fistfuls of lilies + set out my finest sustainable tableware. the breeze is warm + my lanterns are flicker-y. i've brought your favorite snacks, because i don't believe in gourmet cooking for the forest. i know you like green grapes best. and pretzels that look like windows, not twists, and candy with peanuts for hearts. i set your place. it needs you there. i need you here. if you look for me, i'll be the one in fine, fine, fooine divine little raggs. you'll know.::

::kiss the earth enough::

::one regret that i am determined not to have, dear world, when i am lying on my deathbed, is that i did not kiss you enough.:: hafiz of persia via ladinsky

peonies scatter

two or three petals

lie on one another

butterfly

sleeping

on temple bell

the lights are going out

in the doll shops--

spring rain

evening primrose--

there ought to be

a yellow kind

in the summer rain

the path

has disappeared

::buson translation per robert hass::

::there is no one in this world

that is not upon

His jeweled dance floor::

::hafiz translation per daniel ladinsky::

::love, love, love, love, crazy!...::

might as well be singing 'bout a DR-dressed girl. clothes with the power to coax a laugh, play with love chemistry, prolong a gaze, crunch a breath, pluck a heartstring, squeeze some soul juice.

::i can hear her heart beat for a thousand miles

and the heavens open every time she smiles

and when I come to her that's where I belong

yet I'm running to her like a river's song

she give me love, love, love, love, crazy love

she give me love, love, love, love, crazy love

she's got a fine sense of humor when I'm feeling low down

and when I come to her when the sun goes down

take away my trouble, take away my grief

take away my heartache, in the night like a thief

yes I need her in the daytime

yes I need her in the night

yes I want to throw my arms around her

kiss her hug her kiss her hug her tight

and when I'm returning from so far away

she gives me some sweet lovin' brighten up my day

yes it makes me righteous, yes it makes me feel whole

...

yes it makes me mellow down in to my soul

::van morrison --> "crazy love"::

::please sir, can i have some more?::

how do you like your breakfast (or brunch, or...) served?

::good juju!::

a glimpse inside our narnia + some fresh-squeezed inspiration juice

what moves you?

what moves you?

::the indian summer::

:: i love you,

the best

better than all the rest

i love you,

the best

better than all the rest

that I meet in the summer indian summer

That I meet in the summer indian summer

i love you,

the best

better than all the rest::

::the doors::

loving, and licking off the love-juice off my fingers, and searching for more love crumbs from: the indian- princess- sets- up- a- throne- of- mattresses- in- topanga- canyon feel (feel, not vibe) of summer fashion, muted vintage palettes that conjure of visions of woodstock + my parents' high school yearbook photos, sunbeams handed out like free candy-- so much, and it's not a trespass?-- uncovered flickers of love, poetry in the door handle, crossing + eliminating design borders, this door + the doors. joyful today, hope you are as well, ragg-a-muffins.

::DR::

don't let your heart get out of sorts.

love letters are for losers in love like me

:: dear morgan ::

since i stumbled upon divine raggs...

i do not believe i have touched a black article of clothing.

i feel feisty.

i'm still a bit of a wallflower, but an ebullient, show-0ffy peony of a wallflower.

i'm open to colors i thought were kind of ugly, and i fully purchase into the belief that those who find colors ugly have just not tried hard enough to make them pretty.

i get compliments like after-dinner mints at a subpar restaurant.

i have lemon zest in my heart.

my clothes have replaced my cappuccinos as far as a pick-me-up is concerned.

in your clothes, so far, i have: trekked up a canyon, aced exams, met intimidating people, breezed through getting-to-know-you's, provoked speechlessness, gotten excited in the middle of too many morning runs to count because it was almost time to get showered + dressed, learned to love my getting-ready routine, fallen in like, in adoration, and every number of words beginning with "l," brushed-up on my language-learning, mastered my chemical equations, prayed, played, worked, performed, danced, felt actualized, hugged an itchy tree, kissed a shiny earth a new way each day.

i really do feel like your clothes make me feel like me.

you can call that up cheese if you like, but i'll just demand it's feta, and pair it with a full-bodied wine + champagne grapes.

i just possess that kind of moxie, that kind of style, that (katherine) hepburn lip and (audrey) hepburn lissomeness now.

your raggs just kind of fell in place with all that.

thanks. i'm keeping 'em.

i'm definitely coming back for more.

you're a well-dressed angel in some very kickass threads.

love,

mckenzie

xohxohxOH-X!

::and they were all yellow::

Does it sparkle?

Does it just appear, like the sudden scent of saffron when one turns the corner at market?

Can you hand-pick it, like a wild strawberry, and must you wear protective gloves to do so?

Are we groomed for it, to find it, to procure it-- but in vain, only in vain, like the purposeless truffle pig? Will it drive us to despair?

Is it moxie, an energetic know-how, a certain gumption, a willing-it-to-be-so?

Is it delay of gratification-- forsaking immorality, leisure, ethyl alchohol, slovenliness, scandal, saturated fat, intimation-- for some later acquired virtue, some obfuscated fuzzy feeling of warmth + attainment?

Is it simple?

Am I cognizant of it, when it kisses me?

Is it someone leaving the light on at the end of the night-- the realization that somebody cared that you would be digging in your purse, combing for your key, a little tensed for shadow creatures-- and left a reassuring "I look after you, when you're not here" to guide you from one side of the door to the other?

Is it explosive and other-worldly, the sensation of "what a soft and worthy and lovely place the world is to live" that sears inside the cathedral-goer, the sunrise-spectator, the museum-peruser, the connoisseur, the balletomane-- is it inside something so sweeping, the small spark of recogntion of oneself as particulate belonging?

Is it razzle-dazzle?

Is it achievement? Exhaustion won from worthy toil?

Is it worth fighting for?

Is it polarity?

Proximity?

Animal magnetism?

Can blood, bones, muscle, fiber, tendon, ligament, tissue, cell, organelle, nucleic center, neorological tag-you're-it, house enough space for it? Will my body know how to metabolize it? Can such alchemical modalities as those belonging to me create something so intagible? So literary and pure?

Is it even pure?

Must it be a cut and hewn pile of rock before it's a diamond on my clavicle?

Does it come with a bangin' soundtrack?

Can it be stripped to its chemical sensations-- just the right concoction of acetylcholine, balanced by controlled release of soaring oxytocins and seretonergic calm & a big fat deluge of dopamine?

Is it extracted from another person, from that right-in-front-of-you realization of love, a touch, a passing-in-and-through-and-between understanding?

Is it beautiful? Is it sweet?

Is it a macaron?

Is it cheap and base, expected to be had, and nothing to be proud of in pursuit?

Is it for the enlightened, the forgoing, the meditative, the Spartan, the holy, the Others?

Is it apotheostic?

Is it even meant for this lifetime?

Should I give up my search?

Is it just the serotonin-induced control over life that comes from a good sleep + a satisfying serving of carbohydrate?

Is it direct ingestion, or is it observation, or removal, or is it intimate acquaintance?

Is it careful? Prudent? Wise?

Is it luscious, luxe, monied?

Is it too much, the act of too many truffles or none at all, from extremists at heart (like me + Sidonie-Gabrielle Colette)?

Is it buried? Can I catch in in my butterfly-jar?

Is it a butterfly, suga, bebeh?

Will it trace a path up my finger, like a little ladybug? Is it a ladyfinger? Is it a little love-buggy? Is luck be a lady? Do little ladies eat ladyfingers with dainty fingers and get bugged while tracing the path of love? Am I bugging you, love?

Can it get inside me? How do I give it to someone else, if I don't know where it is in myself?

Does it have a formula?

Does it reject, select, discern, discriminate? Is it cruel? Will it dump me?

Is it good for me?

Is it bad for me?

Doctor, what will it do for my health?

Is it more like a parent's touch, a friend's, or a lover's?

Will it scramble my eggs in the morning, read me stories under sycamore trees, play with me 'til I get tired, draw my bathwater, lay out clean pajamas, read me a story, tuck me in, baby do, look after my dreams + keep the scary ones at bay, and then scramble my eggs again in the morning?

After it wakes me with the sound of coffee brewing?

Will it do to me what you did to me? What I did to you?

Is it a star, or are stars even stars, archaic bits of plasma stuck together with rock that they are, their shimmer just a flicker, a dream, a romanticized mirage?

Can it be created?

Can it be saved? For later?

Does it already exist? Is it just an abstraction?

Is it real, like the putting on of (faux) fur, and the feeling of it against your skin?

Is it responsible, remembering to floss its teeth and address its stationary personally?

Is it me + you?

Can I only find it in myself?

Can you find it form me? Can you tell me where it is? Can you tell me what it is?

Can you be it for me?

:: Consider, for instance, how we might define a very simple subjective experience, such as yellow. You may think that yellow is a color, but it isn't. It's a psychological state. It is what human beings with working visual apparatus experience when their eyes are struck by light a wavelength of 580 nanometers. If an alien friend... asked us to define what we were experiencing when we claimed to be seeing yellow, we would probably start by pointing to a school bus, a lemon, a rubber ducky, and saying, "See all those things? The thing that is common to the visual experiences you have when you look at them is called yellow." Or we might try to define the experience called yellow in terms of other experiences. "Yellow? Well it is sort of like the experience of orange, with a little less of the experience of red."

...

Philosophers like to say that subjective states are "irreducible," which is to say that nothing we point to, nothing we can compare them with, and nothing we can say about their neurological underpinnings can fully substitute for the experiences themselves.

...

The musician Frank Zappa is reputed to have said that writing about music is like dancing about architecture, and so it is with talking about yellow.

...

[It's one of those] you-know-what-I-mean-feeling(s).

...

Emotional happiness is like that.

::Daniel Gilbert, PhD

That's a lot of yellow, a lot of neurochemistry, a lot of zaniness to describe one fuzzy little feeling. But I have a little secret.

Are you good with keeping secrets?

Good.

Me either.

So here:

When you put these clothes on...

It's yellow.

I can't articulate it, but something happens.

Rock-candy hearts melt, frozen pickle-pucker faces thaw a little, systolic pressure does a little cannonball, warm light beams internal.

It does something to your face.

...

And you feel happy.

One formula of many.

I recommend trying it out-- trying it on-- each yellow morning.

<3> your happy atelier,

Divine Raggs

::baby don't you cry

gonna make a pie

gonna make a pie with a heart in the middle

baby don’t be blue

gonna make for you

gonna make a pie with a heart in the middle

gonna be a pie from the heaven above

gonna be filled with strawberry love

baby don’t you cry

gonna make a pie

hold you forever

in the middle of my heart.::

find your fashion pie, and only bake it with someone that lets you lick the batter spoon.

and leaves the last slice for you.

and gives you forkfuls between kisses (!)

and lights your oven.

and fills it with the topping of your choice-- strawberry, cherry, rhubarb, oh my!

and says, forget pie. let's eat popcorn instead.

wait, what was i talking about...?

love, style, and logic tend to meander. it's tastier that way.

so sweet to be acquainted

::my goodness...

i just scooped up a cup full of diamonds.

i just held a sunbeam in my very arms

(he woke me up with his hand on my cheek, you see-- it was seduction, sweet + thriving)

i just heard a morning bell

i just made a fricasse of haiku, and started over, 'cause word salad is best served up with whispering, grandiloquence, and wine.

i just discarded sensible advice

i just crawled into a pair of made-for-dropping

dead gorgeous boots

even though the weather called for heart showers

and raining men.

i just got tangled in a layer of your sticky sweet baklava dough

i just heard we should give up such-and-such a fashion

and so i just reached in my closet and wept for it, clung to it, started my eulogy,

and decided the most fitting tribute

would just be to keep on wearing it

sweet cakes, i just served up your style savvy

a la mode

en vogue is not a cold place to be--

it's a silent unclogging of word arteries, conceptualism, design

a creation of just enough silence

to make space for

whatever is yours.

a spark, a very small thing.

it's beauty in the milkshakes and knee- scrapes

just because something has one note

does not mean it does not reveberate, resound, infuse redolence

singly

the air is spiced, the berries are wild,

YOU are a wild thing, with a cracker jacks ring

fashion alchemy is finding a fistful of elements

that precipitate into solid stardust

+ leave behind liquid gold supernate

and a suspension of bubble dreams

all the roads we have to walk are winding (just try to throw in good eighties music where we can)

all our hiking clothes should be divining.

admittedly, our hike is a little trippy, a little meandering, perhaps even untoward

but we'd love it if you'd join us

there's nature to be seen, fashion to be felt, and love to fall in

leave a trail of platinum footprints

we're just here to provide the wardrobe.

welcome to divine ragg's official blog

this is for you...

fashion, + all the vitality that brings.

come with, kids!::