of a feather

On August 1, 2015 by theseventhsphinx

First of all, everything is unified, everything is linked together, everything is explained by something else and in turn explains another thing. There is nothing separate, that is, nothing that can be named or described separately. In order to describe the first impressions, the first sensations, it is necessary to describe all at once. The new world with which one comes into contact has no sides, so that it is impossible to describe first one side and then the other. All of it is visible at every point.

                                                                                   — P.D. Ouspensky

feather clutch

I was smitten with this little feather-embellished clutch the moment I saw it. The soft cream leather, the abundance of glossy copper and teal turkey feathers. These are colors I never can resist, anyway. These are my colors. 

Picked up this little gem at NYX Studio in Cambridge, one half of the duo known as Observatory Boutique (a shared space with a talented florist).  This is a wonderful shop with a distinctive, personal-feeling collection of jewelry, antiques, and charmingly potted succulents. One delights in finding such indie spots, where you can speak directly with the designer and have that sensation of genuinely patronizing the business that is lost once a company reaches a certain size.

turkey feathers

It’s always refreshing to me to find a beautiful object. One needs the nourishment of beauty. One needn’t buy it, of course…but it’s not surprising that I would often want to possess beautiful discoveries. I have clearly been influenced by our materialistic, capitalist culture. Not that I buy every little thing I like, but I sense a desire to possess that is often, on reflection, immature-feeling, or hollow-feeling. I’ve been trying to discern subtler nuances in the urge to possess things, such that it is only best of the best that actually comes home, though I still have a ways to go, and sometimes realize that some lackluster item has gotten through the filters.

The ‘best’ things being, here, the most personally harmonious things. Those things which, if left behind, might haunt me.  In the ideal scenario there is a rightness to these things, a mine-ness. They seem, effortlessly, as if they are meant to be mine, without question or doubt or debate. As if they are a natural piece of the intricate machine of me. Not critical, exactly, but part of the whole just the same. Part of a translation, maybe. One small word or phrase contributing to the translation of me, and in some cases a brief encapsulation of me. Who am I? Well, this about sums it up.

On some level I think it really does.