She is a light hearted creature who dwells in the dark - yes, yes, she embraces contradictions, lives for them in fact. She is Felicia "lucky" Fortuna.
41, Aquarius cusping ever so slightly on Pisces. She frequently gets herself in trouble by speaking her mind, blurting out insults and embarrasments at inopportune moments, then apologizing profusely for any hurt feelings. She tries to behave, occasionally, but has more fun courting danger and disaster. Her spiritual guide, when she needs one, is Kali, hindu godess/mother of divine chaos and disaster who keeps the world on its toes.
She wears her heart on her sleeve, is prone to extended drunken crying jags and fits of rage. She has recently discovered a passion for arson. She reads voraciously, equal volumes of esoteric literature, art rags, historical fiction and trashy novels. She reads on the toilet, reads herself to sleep, reads in the bathtub, reads while she eats. Did I mention she's a sculptor?
Stitches leather, stuffs it with sawdust. Casts metal. Tufts objects with hair. Those who don't really get it assume she's obsessed with sex. Of course she's obsessed with sex, anyone who's being remotely honest is obsessed with sex. What's not to like? But there's more to it than that. It starts with sex, incorporates fear/terror and humor, whistling past the graveyard. She works the edge between seduction and repulsion. Magnifies microscopic horrors, works in some sharp edges, is never, ever satisfied. She only likes it when it scares her and makes her laugh at the same moment. She knows it's working when it makes people nervous, even her best friend and illicit lover (who suffers from chronic ambivalence / impotence, but knows how to really - i mean really - get her off when he wants to.)
She needs a new lover, or needs to rekindle interest in her long suffering husband, to be known evermore as The Poor Slob. Oops, got off the track, away from her art to her dirty little secrets, but it's really all the same thing.
Now for her beret. It's soft wool felt, a maroon so dark it's almost black. Oversized. Smells of cigarettes (imported) and Bushmills. There are a couple of stains on it, as she's careless and impulsive and not overly concerned with her appearance. No ribbon or trim of any kind, she's dramatic but always understated. A sweat-stained lable inside reads La Feroce, Paris/Rome/Milan. She wears it pulled down over her ears, with her short, graying hair tucked inside. It repels rain and keeps her ears warm. There's always a little dog hair clinging to it.