Theory of Sargasso: Potpourri, piñata, hodgepodge, cauldron- collective nouns for not so collective things

I believe a rather formidable gulf exists between your inner core- what I like to call the lava of your existence, the centre of your personal belief system- and the physical, outward manifestation of it, what I in turn like to call the external identity landscape. One of the most visual of these landscapes is no doubt that of personal style, where you're really basically wearing your identity- or rather, your interpretation of that inner core. You'd have to take a plunge at that Death Valley before your arrive at the other side of yourself ready to present something to the world. And the space in between is where all the knots and synapses and faults appear- a journey across the trench is required to build a sturdy bridge across it- in other words some degree of self-experimentation and exploration is necessary to understand what you might or might not be comfortable with and establish a personal identity of sorts. That is where all that "finding yourself" and intense, gushing emotions that is attached to anything that is too centered on oneself come along- and also where the wealth that we call diversity is born, and gives humankind just one more reason to distinguish themselves from their cousins in the animal kingdom and glorify their existence in the universe.

So why this talk about Death Valleys and landscapes and volcanoes- because (we're supposed to be inherently self-interested, remember?) I've been experiencing a tension between the tightrope I've wound between my inner core and outward representations. Most of the time in the midst of angst and frustration I blame it on my age, because fifteen is some fertile ground for growth of such personal crises, or I blame it on the people around me, because a culture of conformity simply cries out for a troublemaker of some sort to upset the status quo once and for all. But really I know that the most coupable of all is a personal obsession with leaving a mark somewhere, the next best alternative to having people come up to my brain while it's being cracked open and watch the colorful chemicals and thought processes and glitter gush about and exclaim "Yes, she's alive indeed!" or even go beyond that to see that maybe there's a little more pink glitter and rainbows in my head than someone else's they may have seen on the street and appreciate that. It's a the-world-revolves-around-me thing.

The collective effect of many things I came across and was exposed to eventually kicked this crisis into motion (and sprouted problems with relationships with the people around me, including losing faith and/or interest in the relationships themselves and shifting the focus of my interest to the people alone instead, girl hate, occasional bursts of passion from a mother who doesn't understand why her daughter had become a misanthropist overnight and wants to reinvent her wardrobe so badly that she wouldn't step out of doors unless necessary until it is done and is redirecting steam from her academics to pursuits such as this blog and creation and an increasingly tight circle of friends, really a kind of survival test based on natural selection, whom I trust to entrust entry to the backstage and whom I am sure will remain standing and applauding up till the finale of the performance of my life). I've cried, bawled, whichever, complained, scorned, questioned- all those things girls do in the shower or under the sheets at night or in front of a computer or in a journal or to a friend or to the mass of air and space that stretch down from the top of a cliff (I've never taken serious physical steps towards suicide, though.) But I've also apologized and repented- to whom, exactly? My teachers for not turning in assignments on time because at that time I really felt that reading a particular theorists' work would benefit me more in the long future? My mother (though I think I owe her one. A renegade daughter added to the list of an absent father and brother that I hope is growing up) for switching priorities in my life? My friends for being extremely volatile (okay I owe them one too. I think they've started to label my time periods. Now it's the angst age, with a 'z') and giving them the impression that they are not worthy enough as confidantes because I myself am overwhelmed by the flux that takes place in the outer and inner world? And most of all to myself, because maybe I'm ruining it all for myself by letting go of the title of first honors in return for something that may not work out?

I'm beginning to see the value in being unapologetic for all these fluctuations and flaws. Because I really did gain a lot from reading that theorist's work. Because I know that my mother and my friends place trust in the decisions that I make- albeit the anxiety they display while I'm in the process. Because I know more than I ever have in my life what I want to get out of this strange sensational experience we call life and am trying everything in my ability to figure how to get there.

Besides, I'm having lots of fun.

And making a u-turn around the cherry bush I shall finally get to the point of my post today, which was supposed to feature a list of inspirations which contradict what I have perceived to be my core, when I began to be aware of its existence. I've thought of my core as minimalist- because I'm biologically attracted to the skeleton of anything- theories, visual arts- not dissimilar to how beauty affects the psyche, if such a process existed and is attributed to biology. The entire anti-cluttering process, which with a keen sense of irony requires the creation of that clutter in the first place, and pinpointing of a skeleton and afterwards a slight embellishment on my part (with a satin ribbon, no doubt) helps me deliver the reflections that have been sludging in my mind with coherence. But I've gotten excited over these inspirations in the same way, and I guess they've all come down to these, and I would like to celebrate (as opposed to celebration's more vulgar counterpart, legitimize) this other dimension in the core with the below list.

1. Nostalghia, Interview Russia

Images the courtesy of models.com

This isn't the best representative for the anti-minimalist in the list today, but the attention to the detail of the garments- the collar badges, the careful and almost deliberate arrangement and angular shape of the collars themselves, the knits and prints- embody the spirit of excess in themselves, because it requires the eye to take it all in from top to bottom, and in the process relish the intricacy of each detail.

2. Orla Kiely's fashion films

Orla Kiely a/w 2010

Orla Kiely a/w 2011

Always lovely to see fashion in motion- directed by its most intimate partner, the designer herself. The video presentation for the autumn/winter 2010 season reminded me of a dear Pixar film involving fidgety lamps. Both brim with youthful energy channeled from the 60's- and perhaps of no coincidence it strikes the same note as Tavi and her gang at Rookie, from the quirky tunes right down to the schoolgirl knee-high socks tucked into heels.

3. Tim Walker photography

Images the courtesy of timwalkerphotography.com

What else can I fully articulate about these photographs apart from them being absolutely divine? The richness of imagination and angelic romanticism in these works of art provide sufficient impetus for the birth of another body of art- theatre, literature, film. The power of the visual is on display and glows, in his photographs.

4. Magical Mystery Tour, Lula Magazine

Images the courtesy of models.com

The circus for me provides a strong symbol for many things wicked and magical- for talent and stardom, for childhood and nostalgia, for evil ringmasters and fiery animals which defy domestication and artists which defy gravity and popcorn. If I explore the circus right now it'd take a decade, so for now I'll redirect you to The Butterfly Circus, a beautiful short film:

And also a novel by Peter Hoeg, mind-boggling to read but one of the most startling pieces of literature I've ever encountered in my life, about a most extraordinary clown: