A soon-to-be college graduate scours the streets of Austin, Texas, looking for a deal. A deal on shoes. The recent trend of kitten-heeled or wedge shoes made it possible for the said graduate (me) to drink a bit and still dance the fuck outta the night. These shoes fit the bill-too uncomfortable to wear for a full day but fantastic enough for the poorly-lit dance  floor. They cost me four whole dollars, that is two dollars a foot! How could something so complicated be worth so little and what could that mean for our society? Did the person who created these shoes get more for them, beautiful wonders that they are? I can only hope so.

Time in Austin was key in development but one thing I hadn’t truly learned during my university experience was to create. At a liberal arts college with a ginormous fine arts program I learned so much about process, history and analysis of art. My eyes keener, hands sharper and brains addled after four years, I still knew nothing about creating or what that meant in daily life. My goal was to consume and be consumed. So my work suffered; pithy lines on insincere parchment. 

Four years later, I know the value of a day and hours, even minutes key in its foundation. Maybe the concentration of this new town I live in, White River Junction, breeds a creative fervor in its inhabitants. Without the call of a mall or movie theater in walking distance, we often resort to making our own fun (as the saying goes). All I know is my friends and loved ones are all driven to do more, be more than a paycheck or a smear on the wall after the rolled up paper of life smacks them. That need to consume is still beaten into our skulls by advertisements and even psychologists. Buying a new outfit can temporarily provide the body with endorphins and simulate happiness!

To hell with that I say. Create something instead. Take clothes you already have and staple ‘em, stitch ‘em together, bleach ‘em, color ‘em, anything! Mod something you sorta like and make it yours forever. Tired of the restaurants? Find a recipe on the internet or better yet, a friend and make it! We forget how much joy there is in using our own hands unless it is exchanging money for something tagged or eating off of dishes that are not our own.You need not spend an exorbitant amount on shoes or food or even make your own yet consider your daily choices and live fully. Go from ‘had’ an interesting life to ‘having’ one now because you only get worn out on that dance floor so many times before you’re pitched.

-JenShare/Bookmark

It is not your fault I lost your mate, perhaps deep in the recesses of my closet or in a dumpster the right shoe awaits you. I do know that I bought you to match the one suit everyone dreads donning. The suit meant for funerals and interviews. Bought hastily the day my dad died in 2006, your metal studs are understated club attire but that is no matter. My short punk hair cut and rhinestone snap shirt surely directed attention away from you. Is it coincidental that you are all alone now? Merely half of the bipedal DNA left to support this aging beast. A ghost of you exists: the right to my left, the father to my mother. 

So let’s just hope for the two of us that I never have another proper interview again.

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Teal shoelaces added when I used the others to lace up a corset!

I settled on the British Beauties for their colorful collage of sketches of popular English tourist spots. British guards, double-decker buses and the Union Jack. Little did I know what an impact the police call box would have on me later in life. Years later, I apologized to my mom for buying me such expensive shoes. I had plenty of others and did not need a pair pricing in the trip-dig. But since I still wear said boots, my mom claims they were the best bipedal investment we had ever made! While I can attest to these not making those middle-school lunches any more enjoyable; I knew that when I looked at my feet, I’d smile.

-JenShare/Bookmark

I remember the day I bought these was on a trip to New York for the NYC Zine Fest. The call came on June 26th when cartoonist, Robyn Chapman, told me the thrift store near her had RAINBOW shoes and she thought of me. At that moment, my car started itself and I jumped down from my bedroom through its opened classic Honda moon-roof just like a cowgirl jumping onto her horse from atop a saloon. We sped the mile to the thrift store where Robyn waited to point them out. I fell in love. Paying all of THREE dollars for such beauties (or as I like to say $1.50 a foot) I realized the only way someone would give these shoes up was if they died…my enthusiasm waned.

Until I put them on! Rocking all the way to New York I sold the shit out of some of my menstruation comics, met Margot Dabaie and went to Mk Reed and Liz Baillie‘s old studio. The shoes wait in my closet for the day when the light is finally right, the birds trill and the sun sings a cheerful song. Preferably some Black Rebel Motorcycle Club or White Ghost Shivers. Thank you.

-Jen VaughnShare/Bookmark