Right, so now I have to explain these shoes. Ummm: Mardi Gras, sparkly things, homos, disco, Brazil, Oxford Street, whimsy, I'm bored, why not and friends. Yup, that sums it up in short.
The longer version is that every year since I've been in Sydney I have missed the Mardi Gras parade. There's been something else on or I've been a party pooper, whatever the case may be I've missed it. Until 2010. I had just arrived back from Brazil and was on a super duper high. That place, gosh I hardly know what to say. Anyway, I was in super relaxed mode and got a call from my dear friends Mauricio and Peter who were looking for extras in their float for the Mardi Gras parade. Bring it. Did it. Loved it.
I had the perfect outfit, a samba swingey clingey shiney pinkey goldey thingee I picked up on Ipaneama beach from a toothless old lady from the Favelas (the hand stitching gets me right in the heart strings every time). But no shoes! Being Mardi Gras I realised that I had to find something over the top, trashey and matchable with my Brazilian Carnaval outfit. These were the best I could do with the approximately 5 seconds notice I had. I think they worked.
Needless to say, I haven't worn them since but I don't want to discard them as I am too nostalgic for the sense of grace I felt when I was a part of the parade last year. The grace I felt in that parade was the celebration and joy of embracing being human, whatever that means. It also reminds me of my wish and hope that those who taught us about grace would embrace it themselves.
The dishonour of wearing these horrific shoes was worth the honour of marching in the Mardi Gras parade.
Yes, each flower was hand stitched, the head gear went sky high and I'm not going anywhere near what the back looked like.
x
The longer version is that every year since I've been in Sydney I have missed the Mardi Gras parade. There's been something else on or I've been a party pooper, whatever the case may be I've missed it. Until 2010. I had just arrived back from Brazil and was on a super duper high. That place, gosh I hardly know what to say. Anyway, I was in super relaxed mode and got a call from my dear friends Mauricio and Peter who were looking for extras in their float for the Mardi Gras parade. Bring it. Did it. Loved it.
I had the perfect outfit, a samba swingey clingey shiney pinkey goldey thingee I picked up on Ipaneama beach from a toothless old lady from the Favelas (the hand stitching gets me right in the heart strings every time). But no shoes! Being Mardi Gras I realised that I had to find something over the top, trashey and matchable with my Brazilian Carnaval outfit. These were the best I could do with the approximately 5 seconds notice I had. I think they worked.
Needless to say, I haven't worn them since but I don't want to discard them as I am too nostalgic for the sense of grace I felt when I was a part of the parade last year. The grace I felt in that parade was the celebration and joy of embracing being human, whatever that means. It also reminds me of my wish and hope that those who taught us about grace would embrace it themselves.
The dishonour of wearing these horrific shoes was worth the honour of marching in the Mardi Gras parade.
Yes, each flower was hand stitched, the head gear went sky high and I'm not going anywhere near what the back looked like.
x
