And she knows that I'm her shoo-shoo

My birthday was three days ago now, so I've been spending most of the last few days away from my computer.

As an early gift, a new Barnes & Noble franchise opened nearby me. It was quite different from the one I'd semi-frequented at a younger age; it was sleek and modern in design, with the playful children's section - once decorated with comforting characters with a cardboard-treehouse atmosphere - now boasting not much more than two LEGO tables, as large and well organized as it was. Too, the DVDs were arranged with spines to the world just like the books; I was used to them in a flip-able display, the media section sequestered away from the rest of the store, graphics evoking a hip mental state fueled by jazz and classical CDs hanging above a strange, barren pasture of vinyl albums pressed fifteen years ago and left to sit because no-one was buying records then and no-one is buying the bands now, and probably a listening station left to collect dust, and the selection of films skipping around in quality like children playing hopscotch. I already conspired to take advantage of the half-off Criterion sale, how well they treat their films, and took mental note of a lonely copy of Lola Montès, by Max Ophüls - the most beautiful use of color on the screen.

Most of the trip, though, was spent lamenting the cheap quality of just about everything we saw. Poor David Foster Wallace, poor Toni Morrison - Beloved, with a cover so thin the front sticks up? Really?

I considered a paperback Joan Didion before remembering I could buy an original hardcover on eBay for just a few dollars more, and I couldn't decide between the maybe five(!) Eve Babitz novels they had in stock, so I left with I'm With the Band only. It was the second time I've seen a book of Miss Pamela's out in the world, and boy, is it glorious. Her sexual frankness is as revolutionary as it is stone-old hilarious. If only women nowadays felt free enough to spend their spare social time in the nude - not that that or her pretending to be the bride to her girl friend's groom are what people seem to be remembering when they read it. Bisexuality is for the boys nowadays, and it's usually forced upon them psychically by girls who have taught themselves that masculine vulnerability is something one-note and something to be fetishized, who are probably the ones who need the excess nudity the most.

It feels serendipitous reading her recount of her recoil against Robert Kennedy's assassination, though, as sparklers flicker across the country. Unfortunately for most who may stumble across these pages, I would suppose I'm proud to be an American. There isn't much I can do about it, anyway, and everyone who goes rash about how much they hate having been born within these borders doesn't know what it's like to get physically nudged out of conversations by hotshot boys who think they're more 'radical' than you. I've never been 'radicalized', anyway. Disillusioned, maybe, but I lean towards words that don't buzz. Nothing I do is radical; it's all natural.

All in all, I'm out to remain healthy and communicate myself to others and not let myself get too anxious about those most heinous vices of throwing out built-up plastic grocery bags and fabric scraps, and someday I will have a great little family under my belt in a beautiful little house far away from civilization (though close enough to all the good antique shops), and I'll be able to say that in the buildup to all of that I never wanted anyone else to get hurt or suffer or die. More people ought to have being proud of such as a goal in life.

Think of it this way: I stopped reading The Air-Conditioned Nightmare thirty-some pages in a short while back because Henry Miller, bless him, was saying every thing that people say nowadays about America, America, blah-blah-blah, and yet none of these recent people have any clue who Henry Miller is, or his importance to literature or how his struggles paved the way for them to speak in such ways. If no one knows what the right way to govern a country is in the first place, then who can act as if they know everything? Most of these people probably haven't gone on any sort of a road trip through their country to properly soak it all in, talked to people from all walks of life (and I mean all walks of life) along the way, let alone been to Europe long enough to form a definitive opinion on the opposing systems of living, or at all. You'd even think they'd never been in the backseat of a car passing through on some nature road as the sun's going down, illuminating every blade of dewy grass and cluster of leaves with a fine, warm gold. Not even as a child.

Before we talk about literacy in this country, let's discuss letting children be illiterate to such pretentiousness. Let the children write innocently and incessantly. Then, read their books...

Have you ever ridden horses through a rainstorm?

Well, let's get back into this, shall we?

I hoped to keep this webpage as a living document of my sewing experience however many months ago. Then, as it does, life happened. Now, I'm back here, returning to [this] form.

That is the simple explanation for why I took a break from this blog. The more complex one is my ever-at-odds-with-each-other personal attention to my writing as a whole, especially as I have been submitting much of my creative work to assorted literary magazines. 'Previously published work' is obviously not at the front of my brain, hence.

The reality is is that if I am going to write, I might as well have others see it, and I might as well keep in practice regardless of what it builds within me. Let's call it the diary that happens to be anthologized in real-time slivers as opposed to transcribed from leatherbound journals years after I pass.

Too, blogging [is a word I have come to have an increasingly prominent disdain for - ] is something so rooted in fleeting moments, shot straight from the heart. Each fleeting moment becomes monolith, building blocks of a person's life. If I write about something I enjoy, I'm the Fill-in-the-Blank Girl, ever squealing and mewling and drooling. (I plan not to write about too many things I dislike, since that itself I dislike.) If I write about doing something new, I feel as if I'm portraying myself as some neophyte, stumbling as I check off boxes with my left hand. If I write about something past, I feel as if I'm clutching on some long-gone feeling I'm unable to let go of the memory of. I don't live through a veneer of nostalgia, nor am I defined by anything external to me-myself-I.

In 'putting myself out there' in such a manner, I wonder, do I kill a part of myself that is humble? Do I stab mystique, privacy, the sanctity of myself as a whole and autonomous person in the hardened belly? Do I infinitely tarnish how even one person in the world will view me forever? My life isn't revolutionary nor is anyone's. Communicating the humanity of others is what is most important to me. In 'putting myself out there', in framing my life and experiences as something someone else should 'care about' and devote time to, do I chew a bit of my own humanity off, as you would a fingernail? Is there a hangnail there?

Will it grow back? Yes.

Let me talk about Terry Reid...

Terry is a singer. He still performs and I hear his performances continue to be very wonderful. He is most often juxtaposed with fellow vocalist Robert Plant - primarily because Terry infamously turned down pal Jimmy Page's offer to front Led Zeppelin. I'm not one for the rock mythos, the choicely strange or seismic stories that surface over time and come to define the legacies of artists. The whispers aren't even true half of the time, and I really don't care about a car in a hotel pool at the end of the day when the music is good and the people making it are honest. The recent documentary, Becoming Led Zeppelin, is existent proof of the redundancy of pretending that such discussion is important. I was lucky enough to see it in the theatre when it was released with a good friend of mine - he helped unearth some footage from an early festival performance of the group from the basement of its author, so we had the added bonus of getting to cheer for his name rolling by in the credits. While the film starting at a ridiculous hour of the night - the only time that worked for us - probably contributed to me not getting a full positive experience with it, it was simply not a satisfying watch. It only skimmed the surface of the group's origins despite being focused around them and a good two hours long. There was also a choice section where the group's rise was juxtaposed with the moon landing, rocket-as-phallus and all! It was likely the most ridiculous thing I have ever seen in a film, and I have seen everything Ken Russell made that had a theatrical release.

And it's a shame. From every recount I've heard Robert Plant seems like a really down to earth, sociable kind of guy. He seems hard-working, creative, and grounded, which is how I like people and how people ought to be. And while Terry Reid can be seen as quite commendable for not giving a puddy about joining an embryonic version of the group [or Deep Purple, for that matter] it's his own work that matters, not some passed-down tale that only exists to overshadow it.

I am, however, amused by a seeming link between Jimmy's Yardbirds in '67 and Terry on this album the following year both quoting 'Tinker Tailor', the schoolyard rhyme. The 'birds would soon 'age out' of such hop-skip-and-jump music - or had they already with that bit in Blow-Up? - with their dissolution and the rise of the meaty and meticulously composed body of work - Becoming...'s best feature, aside from the old footage and stills of Robert with baby-mod bubble hair, was definitely the ample time given to Jimmy explaining his process. But Terry - Terry revels in a childhood innocence perverted. "Why is it that we're just looking for someone? We're just trying to realize. I never thought of you, never knew that love was so true." Sonically his 'Tinker Tailor' sounds like my life, strutting around with soldier-sail feet slipped in heels that I let crush my toes. But I keep on walking, around the swirl, through it; with the wind, against it. It is paralyzing.

 His rendition of 'My Baby Shot Me Down' is too, and I get out of it what I think I am supposed to get out of Led Zeppelin: complete surrender. It is not controlled or solemn like the better known Cher or Nancy versions, but lovelorn wailing that surges into psychotic footstomp.

Elsewhere on the album Terry draws 'Season of the Witch' out ten minutes, then 'Summertime Blues' into six or so. Both fair-faced fun-time Donovan poetry and youth-angst discharge become dirges in his hands, against his guitar. Is he called 'Superlungs' simply for his other interpretation of Mr. Linda Lawrence's work, or is it his ability to make you so aware of the air you're breathing?

Terry makes music about the stepping stones to living a full life, about learning those choice lessons and watching those situations that just feel off from the sidelines only to realize weeks, months, years down the line that you evaded something that would have utterly, drastically, ruinously changed your life. Which is what his record is about to me. It's about humanity, that quality I hold so dear, and all its nebulous manifestations and trappings. I think Bang Bang You're Terry Reid is my favorite title of any album. What does it mean? I'm Terry Reid? What do I mean? 

I bought the album, quite the beautiful copy, at Tom's Music Trade two days ago. It's a little slice of heaven of a place on most days. Two days ago, though, I was pretty anxious. Anxiety is fleeting; men with bangs are forever.

I also bought an issue of the Trouser Press for the first time in eons. I was a real snot-nose the last time I bought one. It has an angel who thinks Their Satanic Majesties Request is under-appreciated on the cover. He, too, has bangs.

Then I happened to put one laying atop the other so I happened to take a photo and put pretty filters over it to make it look like as much a fairy tale as the music all is. It took me all of two minutes to decide which ones.

I love writing.

Just like the real thing

 In the past few days, in no particular order, I've:

• Put the wraps on my final assignments for the semester.
  
• Emailed lots of lovely people about how much their role in my studies has meant to me.
• Sunken back into the warm embrace of home, especially the lovely sewing room my mom has been assembling for me since I've been away!
• Recovered from a snuffy nose and scratchy throat.
  
• Mended the clasp on a skirt that was underloved as it is, even though it fits my waist in a terrifyingly perfect manner.
• Sewn a shirt! Even with the "Jiffy" marking on the package, I was shocked at how quickly this Simplicity 6890 tunic came together. I had just barely enough of both fabrics to eep this baby out and was forced to use the thick, brick-red bodice fabric to line the neck, which proved quite bulky. However, I liked how it peeked out over the pale edge and did some topstitching to keep it all down. 1975 is proud of me.
  

• DISCOVERED A LED ZEPPELIN SONG THAT MOVED ME. Listen, I appreciate Robert Plant like anyone else - he seems like a really humble, down-to-earth guy. But I was never impressed by his vocals on the Zeppie songs you always hear (why call them Zep when Zeppie exists?) and was physically shocked to learn years back that "Sea of Love" was, well, the "Immigrant Song" guy. Bless my heart for having a blind spot in my discography, I guess. I just never paid too much attention, because hearing "Hey, Hey, What Can I Do" over the vintage mall PA the other day made me do a double take. 1975 is, once again, proud of me.
• Dropped my already-on-its-last-legs sun-yellow iron face down on my orange shag rug, making me and my mom accidentally run ourselves ragged after an already long day for a new one because the closest place to our house only had ones that weighed two tons.
• Finished another dress, just in time for attending the Philly Vintage Flea. She's Simplicity 8805 from 1970 and how I finished her in three days I have no idea. It involved these absurd two-part darts in the front and some slightly terrifying front facing to achieve its low cut. I was genuinely concerned it was going to be too small for a big part of it, despite it literally being an extremely reliable size. Well, it fits me perfectly, and I got many a compliment on it, and everyone who commented loved that I made it myself. The collar being amazing, however, is likely one of the only things that is certain in life. She'll definitely get a more proper showcase later!

As for the Vintage Flea, it was a fascinating experience observing the current state of ~vintage fashion~ outside of my little bubble of cute women sewing their own clothes and buying nothing made after 1978. When I shop for anything I'm surprisingly really good at tuning out other people, unless they're yelling at their poor children for no reason (which always makes my blood boil) or something. It means that I don't get to see people look at me weird, but it also means I'm unbothered and efficient. It was, however, impossible for me to ignore the presence of young, lanky men in oversized gray denim pants, mostly because multiple of them had really bad senses of moving out of the way of people like normal people do. They were likely very focused on 'looking cool', and I was, too, given that the specific pair of tights I wore turn any outfit into Static City, no matter how much cold water you run under your dress.

The clothes, too, were very concerned with image, mostly of the oversized-shirt-and baggy-pants variety, which is just not my thing. I did, however, get a real kick out of seeing a shirt for the original run of the Broadway musical of Tommy, my favorite album. Certain aspects of the Broadway version make me want to give Pete Townshend a stern talking to, but I still enjoyed the chance to see its revival this summer on the Great White Way itself (everyone involved was very talented and passionate) and have been carrying the tote bag I got at the merch stand everywhere I go since. A photo op was in order.

I was half expecting the convention hall to be filled entirely with these sort of stands, though there was plenty of amazingly lovely stands run by kind people whose wares appealed more to my frivolous, girlish interests. Seeing the plethora of stands catered to hip, sexy, nineties and oh's clothes was also very fascinating, especially that I, personally, could never imagine spending $30 on a skirt from the mall that just happened to be from 1998. It was, interestingly enough, these stands that seemed the most egregious on their prices for true vintage - a $200 Gunne Sax on the wall and what have you. Otherwise, the prices at the stands I checked out were actually very fair.

It's also eyeopening seeing how being able to make my own dresses turns me off from actually buying them, despite my love for them - I'm picky with clothes as it is, but having the power to make them myself sees me passing up everything I see! Why would I buy something that doesn't click with me - or anything, for that matter, when I can make something similar myself and have it be all mine? I did, however, make some great purchases and ran into some wonderful people (thanks, Ming Lu, for sharing my photo!). A textual roundup since it's all in the wash right now:

From Dopamine Queen: some lovely hand pressed badges; a nice pale linen frock with a light chestnut waistband (from the cheap pile); a peacock-perfect dress shirt from Dollhouse (from the cheap pile - how?!); a black top with flowery black sleeves and silver and white trim on the collar and wrists (from the cheap pile); a spectacular blue velvet jacket trimmed with crisp white lace that ties in the front.

From Bright Side: a prairie romp-ready skirt from The Red Eye; a sturdy button up in navy and rusted red stripe that came out of the five dollar bin and fits me perfectly to an agonizing degree.

From Totally Vintage: a little hat that just became part of my outfit at some point; the coziest crochet wrap.

From Vintage Jewelry Addicts: the most perfect off-white string of pearls.

Hopefully I got all those credits right from the sea of business cards I now own! Overall, I'm ever so satisfied and am now going to lock myself in my sewing room to make even more dresses until I have to visit my extended family for Christmas Eve, and then hole up again. It was fun while it lasted, outside world.

A Smattering of Essence

Given that I'm currently trapped in a hellish limbo state where my final week of classes for the semester stands between me and my sewing machine, I figured I'd start off my blog in a state of virus-like nostalgic reflection. I also chose not to start at the beginning. Not at the first dress I ever made - a soft turquoise shift number that wound up being the size above mine in the multi-size pack that surely cost too much (all patterns do nowadays, don't they?). Definitely not at the pink polka dot pajama shorts I made in middle school home ec. Rather, I figured I'd start at the dress that served as my first thesis statement, if you will, in my journey as a seamstress, back when I had bangs and a failed Goldie Hawn haircut.

This baby sprung from what might already be one of my all-time favorite patterns everrrr, McCall's 9556 from 1968. A true relic of the summer of love's muddy runoff, with plenty of room for experimentation among styles and three (three!) sleeve variations. For this first go around I chose the mutton ones - or are they balloon sleeves? The back claims they're mutton, but every fashion resource you'll find will say otherwise. Regardless, it's a bit glorious, especially with the lovely square-ish neck, one of numerous gifted to me by Andrea of Lunaria and Sol.

The bodice - green with red, almost fractal flowers arranged across - and skirt - warm brown with a subtle, geometric floral pattern - both came from a slightly disastrous fabric fair, hosted inside a flat brick building in a industrial mall nearby my home. In what seemed to be a belated holdover from the COVID daze, only a certain amount of people - I believe ten? A dozen? - were allowed in at a time, leaving the rest to wait in line outside. While annoying, this would have been decent to experience if the fair hadn’t taken place in the middle of a searing heat wave. The poor little girl passing out paper cups of water spoke for all of us with her solemn presence.

We finally made it in to discover that there were many more people than the originally proposed limit inside the multi-room and decently roomy expanse of the fair - go figure. I did find some good fabric, though, and finding those two pieces was enough for me to work out the dress in my mind. The sleeve fabric - creamy off-white and lightweight - would come a short bit later in the fabric section of a semi-local thrift store, where I also got some more patterns.

This dress would mark my first ever ~pattern mod~, or what have you, given that I chopped the flimsy paper sheet in half to make it. Why wait for a pattern with an actual empire waist when you have fabric scissors? It initially annoyed me that the seam connecting the two parts was slightly uneven, and I even considered covering it with ribbon. With time I've grown to not even notice it.

 

Only when I was part way through constructing the dress, with its mini-skirt, distinct bodice and billowing sleeves, was I reminded of a notable dress Pattie Boyd once sported. It's sort of become the thing of legend for young women getting into old clothes, given Pattie's having been hitched to two of the world's biggest musicians, and the garment itself's outrageous-ness that seemingly goes against every design standard of the current day. (I've actually seen multiple tries at recreating it online!) Obviously my dress is much more muted than your average psych-garment. I had in mind something much more grounded - a playful sort of pastoral type thing. The kind of thing you'd wear to tread around foresty farmlands on a hot spring's day, picking dandelions or...whatever one does when let loose on foresty farmlands. It was about an essence less than any one action, anyway - something intangible, something to be felt inside as opposed to by touch.

That's the thing about this dress to me: it didn't have one set 'muse', so to speak. Whenever I design a piece of clothing, especially in the sketching phase, I often try to imagine an ideal model. In many ways, she is myself, yet she isn't necessarily myself literally - different hair, a different height. In more concrete terms, she is a facet. She is someone with as much depth as external beauty. Much of the latter in a person relies on the former; to me, they go hand in hand. Yet she, this nebulous 'she', remains a fragment; she isn't real, even if I'm thinking of another person specifically who would, hypothetically, do the garment justice.

'Hypothetically' is the key word. Who can truly know another person, no matter how much time you spend with them, no matter how many photos you spy, quips you read? If this dress were designed explicitly for another, would there be some small detail she'd change if given the opportunity - even something as simple as adjusting the length or a different color for the buttons? Making clothes is less a matter of being literal and exact than it is a manner of making a grander statement - of capturing concepts to the best of one's ability, making something tangible from a loose idea - an 'essence', as I described it. To make clothing that is infused with such an essence - the ability to communicate an entire lifestyle with a single garment, with all its complexities. To me, that is a pretty special thing - to not try to be one specific thing, to try and exist within a continuum, one that permits variation and experimentation.

That was the mindset, the homegrown essence, behind this one. It's an essence I think gets lost in the hustle-bustle of our daily lives, not to mention the consumerism that latches itself onto even the most simplistic attempts at trajectory. But that's a tome for another post - what's important here is that I had an idea in mind and I wanted to encapsulate it, and I think I did a pretty good job at doing so. So good, in fact, that I have a dress with very similar aspirations from the same pattern all cut out and ready to be sewn. (I've also had a sketch for one in those far-out flounced sleeves prepared for quite a bit, though that one is to end up a bit more city than countryside, and the one I have in the works is about maximum countryside.)

Reflecting on this dress, I deeply admire it and will always enjoy wearing it. Its construction is,  admittedly, imperfect, but it's honest and sturdy. Despite its earthy aspirations, it's proven itself to be quite versatile - even in winter, when those farmland fields seem far-off and almost intimidating. I plan to keep on wearing it - and keep on taking its message to heart.

An Introduction

 My name is Sophie. I'm a rather silly student who is interested in far too many things for my own good. I'm an American who better get her pretty little arse to the United Kingdom someday. My life is very strange and incredibly unique.

I'm also a writer. I once even upkept a blog, centered mostly around hot button issues of the day and going to concerts. I lost steam after quite some time. I tried to revive the momentum by writing opinion pieces for my university's student run paper. I quit before the semester was over, as I'd realized that I could not come up with a topic to write about that wasn't something negative - something that made me angry. I realized that was one of the big hurdles in life - reveling in what ticks us off as opposed to striving towards something better - and exactly the reason why my old blog had withered away.

Over the past few months or so I've picked up a love for the indelible art of sewing. It's a craft that brings me great joy and heaps of mental fulfillment. As I'd reignited my creative spark some months earlier - I'm almost a year into writing what's surely not my last novel as I write this - I began to realize that, as I got used to the art, sewing is a craft with just as much depth as a poem, painting, or what have you. The sewing process, to me as a seamstress, is very three dimensional and even emotional. Every article of clothing is a culmination of influences, which are often very disparate and very leftfield. A song, a person, an idea of a person, the glimmer off the hood on a car on a scorching hot day - any of these things can help turn a good piece of fabric into something to be worn with depth.

 I just so happen to view a lot of things this way. With such a perspective in my head and hands, it's more of a framework for the way my mind processes all these influences, at least in this context. It's also a way of making yourself look good, and there's no way to make yourself feel good better than putting on clothes that actually fit.

I just hope whatever posts follow can grant you a little peek into my world - whether I'm discussing a dress or something I just made, an encounter I had, or something inconsequential that fascinates me. Who knows, and maybe someone will care.

The name of this blog is derived from a poem I wrote this summer of the same name. I often write in very spontaneous bursts, so I planned on this being something longer and more song-like, but I moved on to the next thing, so it's sort of stuck as-is for me. I still like it, though:

I will pick the flowers and you will lord the land
You will cut the wood and I will ask if I can hold your hand
After I remove your splinters

Who will wear the crinoline in this ol’ batch of sin

Pretty neat, eh? Please hire me to write lyrics for your old-style prog-rock band circa 1971. I'll make you a glittering cape free of charge and I can even play the tambourine.

Here is a photo of me so you all know I exist. It's cold right now.

Tschuss,
Sophie