Stuff talks. Even our trash is chatty when we ask for our truth.
The architect living under my ex’ apartment peaked through his door. I had matched my red Dolce dress with red heels, which made climbing stairs a sensual act. I wondered if the mini skirt would reveal my lace underwear to somebody looking up. When I turned around the architect’s door closed real fast.
My ex told me a couple days later that the neighbor had pulled him aside and asked him with a secretive voice if he had hired a call girl?
I laughed. I was a confident entrepreneur who just came back from shopping in Paris in my new Beamer; feminism had slipped my mind for a moment.
Judge the woman by her cover
When we want to exude power, we wear red. When we need courage, we walk our truth in blue boots. We use golden tones to remind us of our inner royalty and white to evoke clarity and new beginnings. We wear pink or punk when ready to rebel and frumpy clothes to hide. Slick cut boss babe dresses or plunging necklines, Gucci belts or Goth chokers go with our scripts of success on many levels.
Do you give a damn about your outfits and why? Are you obsessed with being on trend? Have you used your style to make a point? Have you, from “narcissist to nobody,” been misjudged because of your style?
Color psychology or fashion therapy give us deeper insights to the soul we wear on our sleeves or hide from the judgments of the world. If you want to know if the roles you play align with your truth, ask your wardrobe. But there’s more; you are embodied everywhere and if you don’t see yourself in what surrounds you, get new glasses; it’s time to re-feel, rethink and reinvent.
The Pandemic literally makes us “sit in it”, in the mess we have created. We transform boring by seeing “more” like detectives; what are we sitting in? Literally? We don’t need to meditate on a far away mountain; we find our truth in the world we created.
Let’s be Russian dolls and open up; from outfits to cars, interior design, apartments, houses and even countries.
What transports us
“It’s just a mode of transport…” My son dislikes cars; it might be because one his friends kissed the asphalt after driving with me. Other than fearing for our safety what does it mean not to care for the bubble of metal in which we sit every day, sometimes for hours?
The cars of my life show my feelings no matter if I am rich or poor. My eccentric English convertible supported the Gonzo reporter. The SUVs in Portugal and New Mexico fed my muscly adventurer. Broke in the first years in Los Angeles, I bid on theatrical cars in auctions. Hands trembling from the bidding war I forked out 700 bucks in cash for a red Fiero hatchback, which attracted traffic fines as much as kids calling it a Ferrari. After it over heated, $500 won me a vintage Nissan 280 ZX. In my drama mode everything was about effect, I had no sense for the practical.
My wedding planner success landed me in a brand new gun metal gray Camry Hybrid, reminding me of successful Beamer times. I changed into a rejuvenating Mini Cooper when I left grown-up-ness behind and went for a risky writer’s career at 60; lots of rough suspension while shooting for S power.
Three years of outfit explorations, which I call “woke fashion” and memoir writing later, my iPhone sports pictures of Jeep Renegades and vintage Broncos. The pictures were a wake up call; I yearn to own my muscle again.
Does your car create a feeling? Is it inviting or bully? Happy, sad or angry, submissive or cocky? Strong or sweet?
Do you have a story of cars? What are you driving now? How does it make you feel? Do you have a dream car?
Mirrors in our homes
We know that mess on desks reflects disorderly brains. We are aware of our overwhelmed, indecisive minds when navigating around furniture overflowing with stuff. We try to declutter from the outside to the insight, longing for clarity. Symbolism helps. Even our trash holds clues.
Interior design and architecture
My tree hugging love for life sorts my neighbors recyclables into the bins they belong. Their trash says that they’re still careless even in a Pandemic. I also collect pieces from flea markets or discarded furniture from the curbs. I’m a Scorpio, I live to transform crap into gold or up-cycle people’s rejects. Every item in my restaurant in Portugal was, from the antique floor tiles to the reconstructed cinema chairs either hand picked or reinvented. It said, “be green or die” and “look at me, I’m one of a kind.”
My visiting father who I tried to impress since I was a toddler rolled his eyes asking if I could ever be normal? I didn’t answer. I ran to the bathroom letting only the hand painted mirror witness my tears. Would my truth ever be cool enough to be seen?
Two hundred house warming guests commented “church”, “theater stage,” “Greek temple” or “Barragan” to the renovation of my seven hundred-year-old farmhouse. “Architecture of freedom” was a flattering title for the eclectic crazy of a mini version of the Quinta de Regaleira in Sintra. My Adobe palace was never finished, it was open ended like the medieval love and betrayal story it revealed, Mea Culpa, my upcoming Trilogy written three decades later. I was always with one foot outside the door waiting for the next call, the next city or country. “I’m not ready,” was an involuntary mantra that structured everything. I only rented after this, no more commitments.
Who do you see in your furniture, art and decor? Which colors and forms dominate and why? Is your lighting on the darker or lighter side? Does your interior design reflect what you love or is it convenience? Was it created for you?
Do you rent? Why? Does it feel like home? Or what do you “own”? What do your concrete or stonewalls tell you? Is your house the temple of your soul? If you were a casting director, who would you outfit with your home?
The vibe of cities and countries
The countries, cities or villages we chose have different energies, they mirror and influence who we are. They await us with their stories and will enrich us if we are open enough to listen.
I was intellectual and curious in Germany, visionary in the magic of South of France and Portugal and learned about unconditional love in Santa Fe, NM. Topanga, CA revealed my inner martyr suffering in a soul-torturing job. Entranced by old beliefs I only woke up in the creative chaos of LA where I slowly, like a convalescent, regained my love for words, design and fashion. The city of angels showed me my duality, which I discovered between fancy art shows and rough alleyways. I live my Gemini rising here, creating content for all kinds of media and always in love with two; the princess and the warrior, the diva and the struggling artist.
My Instagram vlog, “What I love in LA and the outfits that get me there,” was cut short by Covid. LA has closed her doors and I take that personally. Do you mean our time is over, angel sister? Will I have to move back to Portugal to finish the trilogy and end the story?
When we are happy and thrive our energy has aligned with our surrounding; we support each other. If we’re grumpy and stuck, investigating what the house, city or country has to do with our blockages is an eye-opener.
Do you love or hate it or yearn for “your” country? Do you feel aligned with your community? How did you get there and why are you still there? Is your environment stifling or uplifting? Do you feel called to move? Take a selfie, cut the background and paste your self into the surrounding of your desires. Who do you see?
It’s messy where I dwell right now; I have to move out and don’t know where. I pulled stuff out of boxes to declutter or keep, sell, toss or reinvent. I find myself walking around those piles, reminiscing about my past; surprised, inspired, even enlightened.
Epiphany: I create chaos when searching for clues.
My fuzzy black and white Tibetan Terrier sometimes looks lost. She’s always peaking into doors, sniffing for something. In my big comfy overall that says, “ego leave me alone,” I sniff with her. Perhaps my next move is written into the pavement of my hood. The clue might be right round the corner, at Texino, a millennial-ran enterprise, which moved in last year. They equip, rent and sell Mercedes campers.
Traveling self sufficient; independent from all even the creative chaos of my styling studio, which is my daily joy. Is that the mirror I need, that my home is in my self? Did my dad mean that I didn’t have to try so hard to be “somebody”? That my “normal”, the “just me” in an overall is good enough? That I am powerful, loving, lovable and relevant when I follow what truly matters to me?
I jumped on my trampoline and floated freely for fractions of seconds.
It said, “suspension of disbelief” is the answer.
Angie Weihs left three decades of successful entrepreneurial adventures behind to answer her soul’s yelling; “You’re a writer and journalist, girl!” Th… Read full bio