The bizarre and beautifully ugly.

Throughout my adult years I’ve pride in having an abnormally strong immune system. Headaches come only 2-3 times a year, I have no recollection of the last time I had fever and neither do I have a medicine cabinet – in fact I haven’t even had chickenpox which frightening given the dangerous affects it has on adults. But today reckoning came and brought my feet down on earth as my inflated claim of benevolence has been punctured by the illness I’m currently battling. An intense cold or a mild flu I contracted last week reached its peak today, forcing me to send a mass cancelation text for a meeting that was scheduled. Rarely do I let ill-being hinder my day to day life but this time I had to surrender myself to the misfortunes of human life.
Coming to terms with the despair, I have hospitalised myself in the bedroom and nursed myself with four cups of ginger/lime tea to ease drowsiness and jolt me with energy. More bored than homeschooled infant, the menace inside me has pushed me into pursuing the prospect of becoming quad-lingual. As a speaker of English, German and Swedish the new language adventure doesn’t stem from the Germanic language tree and neither did I image myself ever growing curiosity for it. It’s the language of the country where mouse you’re using to scroll this page with is made from – it’s Chinese. For the sake of correctness the language is Mandarin, the official language of China, as opposed to Cantonese which is the second most spoken language in the country. The language is perplexing and an exercise in stretching the capabilities of your lungs and mouth muscles in ways I will need a year to get accustom to. Mockery should not be made of Mandarin though because it’s the official language of 1.3 billion people. Shockingly, only a futile two readers are accessing this blog from China– a baffling reality which I attribute to the internet censorship imposed by the Chinese government. Neither resentment nor criticism is boiling inside me because acceptance of the contradictory is in my nature.

The extra terrestrial aspects of life can be intriguing, and at times quite humours, like a young lad I encountered wearing an orange jumpsuit and bizarrely a pair a glasses over another pair. Good mannerism tell that one shouldn’t laugh out loud at other people but the outburst that was building up inside me was impossible to contain, and exploded the moment the daring gentleman was out of sight. I do however applaud his efforts in breaking the fixed London template of main style: Navy blue suit, brogues, white shirt, quilted jacket and a Range Rover for transportation. Fashion is brightest and most interesting when it doesn’t follow logic. Italy is probably the piloting country on this front. Roberto Cavalli, Gucci, Dolce & Gabbana, Missoni, Versace and Armani are all based in Milan but share few similarities in design language and execution -- unlike designers in other countries which conform to a comparable outlook on what fashion is. Italian designers are masters of variety and surprises.

Passion and emotions are at the heart of style and logical isn’t a part of the formula. Right and wrong does not always apply, thus the concept of perfection is an illusion. Subjectivity cannot ignore because fashion is not a universal language. Even in city like London, fashion comes in many distinct dialects. Musicians in Shoreditch don’t dress alike socialites in Fulham and neither do they aspire to do so. Strangely the most beautiful objects in life are those that split a room into two opposing sides, and those objects tend to have an element of unattractiveness. Think of them as imperfect angels. Because self-satisfaction triumphs over public acceptance one should be unafraid of adding and abstract piece of clothing to their wardrobe. Even something small as a winter scarf with a mystic pattern can breathe excitement into repetitive and monotonous choices of attire.