If we measure the creativity of a person by what they choose to wear next to their bare skin, then my tastes would range from billowy and loose material that floats at a puff of wind, nothing immeasurable that holds closely to the skin with a tight curvy silhouette that reminds me of a cowhawk shell sitting idly on the shore of an aquamarine ocean.
Springtime weather in the bustling consumerist fashion district of Vancouver’s downtown city-side streets are filled with lacy openwork, bohemian and forest sweeping pastures with clouds floating above, pastel tones and hues that reflect the floral blooms of sakura trees scattered across the parks and neighborhoods. I’ve fallen prey to these rejuvenations of botanical offsprings, and purchased a salmon blue swirly dress from True Value Vintage, a truthful mecca that swarms with off-kilter and questionable attire of hanging on vintage clothing that reflects different eras, especially materials and sewing logos, but is now sadly closing down to move again to the community of vintage haven of Main Street a la Little Mountain suburbian neighborhoods.
I adore the swinging hipbent papery blouse, with a rustling crackle as I awkwardly moved to and fro to feel a layout of the landscape of springtime. Regardless of the folded crisps of horizontal layers en fronte, the collar was a little lacking in comfort and my romantic sensibility has been seriously deafened by recent cynicism of the every day prose concerning exams with a healthy immune system impaired by the common cold. I look forward to wearing the vintage dress sometime soon for my whimsically new gig as a slash media journalist on the fly and fashionable impromptu photographer for the summertime but will wave farewell to the unnecessary and free floating blouse.