I still am not quite sure I know what people mean when they use the term "Goth"
Bauhaus is playing in concert right now and I am missing it. All the black clothing in my closet is crying in protest. This isn't quite true. Bauhaus was playing in concert the night I originally wrote this, but that was months ago. Of course, it is entirely possible that Peter Murphy, Daniel Ash, David J, and Kevin Haskins are actually performing somewhere, right now, as you are reading this. But that wouldn't necessarily cause my clothes to grow vocal with me for failing to be in the audience.
It’s the wrong door.
When is a door not a door? When it is a Ducasse.
Oh the humor that kept the teenage goth girl giggling and how dull and drab it seems now, fifteen years later.
Was goth even a term we used back in the day? I remember referring to people as punk and unless someone can provide evidence to the contrary, I am going to assert that that was pretty much our default term for the people who wore combat boots, motorcycle jackets, and shaved their heads. Then in college, the people who dyed their hair candy colors and listened to SupPop bands were called coolies (which always makes people who hear my stories from those days do a double take. “Are you talking about Chinese slaves from the Nineteenth Century?” They ask.)
Not that I ever was very goth when I was a teenager. I mean, I wasn’t pink and perky with blonde highlights, but I wasn’t very punk rock or coolie either. I was just nothing. Too normal to fit in with the “weirdos” and too weird to fit in with everyone else. I didn’t wear enough black or the right kind of black on the outside and I was too black on the inside (because if I can’t reference Morrissey at a time like this, when can I?) In high school, I envied the kids who had the courage to dye their hair, shave their heads, wear combat boots, etc. Even though my clothes didn’t fit, I never actually defied the school dress code. I didn’t want to waste time writing out the norms of conduct in JUG (what detention was called. It stood for “justice under god,” because God cares if you were chewing gum or talking in class.) Also, in spite of being unhappy and disaffected, I never really wanted to annoy my parents (I was talking to Aushra about how punk rock she used to be in high school. She mentioned how people would come up to her and say, “I love your hair. My parents would never let me do that.” And her response was along the lines of, “Parents? You don’t ask their permission, you just do it and they get angry. That’s the point.”) Finally, and this is the part I have the most trouble admitting (though it shouldn’t be as it is the part which is perhaps the most obvious to everyone else,) I didn’t shave my head, dye my hair colors not found I nature, rip up my clothes, etc. because I wanted to be pretty. I wasn’t, and didn’t believe I ever would be, but I was afraid of going too far in the opposite direction, because I still hoped. So I was just enough of an outcast to be miserable, but not enough of one to actually enjoy myself.
I can’t help but think of the “goth kids” on South Park. You must prove you are not conforming to society’s rules by conforming to ours. Does anyone use the term comformist after they graduate high school?
All that black in the closet and where does it get you?
All that black in the closet and eventually it grows boring.
There comes a point when you start to rebel against the black. When you begin to feel an almost visceral desire for color. Suddenly fuschia and royal blue become appealing.
Freshman year of high school I owned so little black, but I wanted to own more. I remember the comments I would get when I would wear only black. I remember how black seemed to be a subversive act. Now it is just de rigeur. I don’t feel subversive, sophisticated, or sly. I just feel impervious to most stains.
My brother recently commented that he inherited all the flamboyance in the family. Not quite. I sort of feel like I was flamboyant enough in high school and college, that life with a child is too difficult and I don’t have the time to invest in planning my outfit for the following day the way I once did. Back when I was a teenager, I would spend hours deciding what I would wear, often tying pieces of fabric together and wearing layers. I was fond of scarves. I wore a lot more color then. I didn't necessarily care if my clothing clashed with myself. But now, I don't have that kind of time and I don't have that kind of courage (though I might argue that it is hardly courageous to ignore the visual dissonance created when pairing paisley with polka dots.)
My infant son sees random women dressed in black walking by and thinks they are me. He has actually NOT RECOGNIZED ME on days when I wear a color other than black.
Reasons to wear black (and why they are lies.):
This font is called Bauhaus 93. (Except, of course, it isn't on blogspot.)
It’s the wrong door.
When is a door not a door? When it is a Ducasse.
Oh the humor that kept the teenage goth girl giggling and how dull and drab it seems now, fifteen years later.
Was goth even a term we used back in the day? I remember referring to people as punk and unless someone can provide evidence to the contrary, I am going to assert that that was pretty much our default term for the people who wore combat boots, motorcycle jackets, and shaved their heads. Then in college, the people who dyed their hair candy colors and listened to SupPop bands were called coolies (which always makes people who hear my stories from those days do a double take. “Are you talking about Chinese slaves from the Nineteenth Century?” They ask.)
Not that I ever was very goth when I was a teenager. I mean, I wasn’t pink and perky with blonde highlights, but I wasn’t very punk rock or coolie either. I was just nothing. Too normal to fit in with the “weirdos” and too weird to fit in with everyone else. I didn’t wear enough black or the right kind of black on the outside and I was too black on the inside (because if I can’t reference Morrissey at a time like this, when can I?) In high school, I envied the kids who had the courage to dye their hair, shave their heads, wear combat boots, etc. Even though my clothes didn’t fit, I never actually defied the school dress code. I didn’t want to waste time writing out the norms of conduct in JUG (what detention was called. It stood for “justice under god,” because God cares if you were chewing gum or talking in class.) Also, in spite of being unhappy and disaffected, I never really wanted to annoy my parents (I was talking to Aushra about how punk rock she used to be in high school. She mentioned how people would come up to her and say, “I love your hair. My parents would never let me do that.” And her response was along the lines of, “Parents? You don’t ask their permission, you just do it and they get angry. That’s the point.”) Finally, and this is the part I have the most trouble admitting (though it shouldn’t be as it is the part which is perhaps the most obvious to everyone else,) I didn’t shave my head, dye my hair colors not found I nature, rip up my clothes, etc. because I wanted to be pretty. I wasn’t, and didn’t believe I ever would be, but I was afraid of going too far in the opposite direction, because I still hoped. So I was just enough of an outcast to be miserable, but not enough of one to actually enjoy myself.
I can’t help but think of the “goth kids” on South Park. You must prove you are not conforming to society’s rules by conforming to ours. Does anyone use the term comformist after they graduate high school?
All that black in the closet and where does it get you?
All that black in the closet and eventually it grows boring.
There comes a point when you start to rebel against the black. When you begin to feel an almost visceral desire for color. Suddenly fuschia and royal blue become appealing.
Freshman year of high school I owned so little black, but I wanted to own more. I remember the comments I would get when I would wear only black. I remember how black seemed to be a subversive act. Now it is just de rigeur. I don’t feel subversive, sophisticated, or sly. I just feel impervious to most stains.
My brother recently commented that he inherited all the flamboyance in the family. Not quite. I sort of feel like I was flamboyant enough in high school and college, that life with a child is too difficult and I don’t have the time to invest in planning my outfit for the following day the way I once did. Back when I was a teenager, I would spend hours deciding what I would wear, often tying pieces of fabric together and wearing layers. I was fond of scarves. I wore a lot more color then. I didn't necessarily care if my clothing clashed with myself. But now, I don't have that kind of time and I don't have that kind of courage (though I might argue that it is hardly courageous to ignore the visual dissonance created when pairing paisley with polka dots.)
My infant son sees random women dressed in black walking by and thinks they are me. He has actually NOT RECOGNIZED ME on days when I wear a color other than black.
Reasons to wear black (and why they are lies.):
- Black is slimming. (Except that people who wear black are either very skinny anyway or are not supposed to care about that sort of thing.)
- Black is subversive. (In what universe? Black is always the new black.)
- Black is still, to this day the color which sets one apart from everyone else. (Except that everyone else wears black, too.)
- Black goes with everything (except itself. After all, there are so many shades of black.)
This font is called Bauhaus 93. (Except, of course, it isn't on blogspot.)
posted by alimum at 10:15 AM
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