So, in light of this recent call for connected-ness (and thanks to a prompt from the ever supportive Robin Waters of Peacock Dreams), this blog is going to detail some random facts about your very own Wizard Behind the Curtain: Kristina Smith of Imp and Petal Dreads & Accessories. Feel free to skim over the things that might interest you and leave the rest, it got a little lengthy! <3
Getting lost in that world of color and texture is my ultimate happy place. Music blaring, rainbows swirling, ideas burning holes in my brain... that's my everything. That's why I go through life with decade old underwear. I'm not even kidding. I totally wish I was kidding!
My ultimate goal for Imp And Petal is to put enough in, and build it up to the point where I can give another creative wonderful person or two a job working with me, and being able to add more readily available merchandise to adorn the bodies and hearts and souls of all these amazing people that keep coming back to tell me how I've helped them to find themselves somehow. Helped them to feel empowered, beautiful, strong. I want to do that for every single person that would like me to, forever. I want to be able to hold HUGE charity events. Offer pay-what-you-can dread sets every once in a while. Spread my art and my love as far as it will possibly go.
You know, typical stuff.
But it doesn't matter at all, because I am absolutely CRAZY IN LOVE with it. I don't know if I have loved any hobby this much ever. Why my mother didn't shove one of these magical four-stringed wood and plastic contraptions into my hands when I was 14 and horrified and angsty and miserable and said, "Hey, kid, take this and go work some shit out" I will NEVER UNDERSTAND. I mean I guess she tried, with a piano. It isn't the same. (I still love you, Mom).
A few weeks ago, I managed to have the honor of handing my shitty little Makala Dolphin over to probably the only famous person I have ever felt even close to calling my hero; the woman for whom I owe my nerve to pick the thing up in the first place; and asking her to sign it. That was the best night ever. I probably wouldn't have had the courage to do it at all if it weren't for Whitney over at DarcRainbow.com. She said if I didn't take it and hand it over in the signing line, she would intentionally neglect to learn to play the mini accordion she has. I expect all of you to assist me in making her follow through on that promise. Maybe one day we'll do a little US road-tripping tour, installing dreads, doing private dreadmaking lessons and playing really bad music for people we love in living rooms across the country. ;)
Seriously though, never in my life have I been so madly in love with a product line. I would marry LUSH. For real.
(That ain't no affiliate link yo, I just really love Lush, dammit).
He's 3. Sometimes he says really hilarious stuff which I try to keep a running tab of via twitter. Most of the time I want to lock him in the basement. I'm stopped of course by the fact that we don't have a basement. There are days, though, when I'm pretty sure I just want to go ahead and make one to put him in. Dig it out. With my bare hands.
What you should be taking away from this is that I hate every three year old in existence. Don't get yours near me, thanks, I have had quite enough. Also, the next time you're quick to judge some lady that looks like she hasn't showered in days, shaved in months, has a coffee stain running right over her left tit, a twitching eye, and is trying like hell to reason with a young child with absolutely no patience in the world remaining, you should switch off the judgeblinders and go offer her a (very large) cup of coffee and a kind word.
(Seriously though, I love my kid. Mostly. Ask me again in about 6 months).
We're getting invited to children's birthday parties now, (which are hell for anyone, anxiety or not... unless I throw them, in which case fun is had by all and I'm not even sorry for bragging about it) and just... God help me.
Anti-anxiety medications are always bound together with depression medications... and while I also struggle with depression, much of it stems from my problems with anxiety. I don't really fancy the thought of tackling them in reverse order. Also, I don't want to mess with my creativity.
So this is all a battle I am smack in the middle of and scared, all the time. Not sure where that's headed. For now, as long as I can make beautiful things, I'm okay.
It took a crafty writer to pull me away from Chuck Palahniuk, but over a decade ago when I was 21 and miserable, cleaning rich people's ridiculously large houses for a living, I stumbled upon Coraline as I was putting away the children's monstrous mess of toys. The cover was haunting. I cracked it open. I couldn't stop reading. (I was let go not long after... whether it was related I will never know). Henceforth every time I picked up anything of Neil's, I was his, completely. I haven't read it all. I have to pace myself. I have to save the sweet nectar of fresh, delicately balanced fantasy horror to last me as long as possible. My favorites so far though, if you happen to be curious, are Neverwhere, Blueberry Girl, and two short stories; My Last Landlady and October In The Chair.
If there were ever a mind I would like to crawl inside and find a safe place to peer out at the scenery for a while, it would be his.
It's possibly a little unhealthy.
So, if anyone has anything they'd like a detailed and brutally honest review on, get in touch!? >.<
Someday I want to write horrible YA Novels. You know, the ones that are so bad they're great. and possibly trash airport romance, as well. Because, satire! Maybe something real. Maybe.
I was fortunate enough to escape the worst of things. I had a mouth on me, and was tall. Stronger at a younger age. I scowled a lot. I guess that kept me out of trouble. I caught a few rocks, mostly a lot of sodas. (Which, even at 30 miles per hour is not exactly a laughing matter). Mostly my heart was broken. The worst of it wasn't the kids hating other kids because they were different. It was the adults, the teachers, the administrations that told us to just STOP BEING DIFFERENT.
"Scrubs" They used to call us. "Park rats". All the kids who were odd, in ripped jeans stitched back together with rows of safety pins, smoking cigarettes out on Morse Street between classes. Girls like me with mosaics of marker doodled over the knees of our jeans. Creatives. Outspoken kids. Sad kids and Scared kids. Loud kids. The beauty standard broken.
The sporty upperclassmen would roll by in truckloads, all piled in the bed of a Ford so big you wondered what it was compensating for. They yelled threats. Threw rocks. Sodas. Worse. Ambushed the boys and took turns taking punches. Assaulted the girls with words or hands. Or worse. For no reason other than how we looked.
So in closing, thank you. You all give me a reason to keep going, keep creating. You fulfill my needs on so many levels, and I truly hope all of you hear me say that. Whether you've placed an order with me in the past or not, just by being here, to share a tiny sliver of your lives. Your support means everything to me. I love you.