My Life as a Luchadora

My Life as a Turkey,  I never thought I'd be so engrossed by the shenanigans of wild turkeys.  The documentary, which I stumbled upon on Channel 11 will suck you in.  It may make you do strange things--like put on a lucha libre mask.  Check it out.

Enter Lucha Libre mask designs on Spoonflower.  I saw these and couldn't resist.  So I ordered some for Thanksgiving. 

Because don't these masks just scream about gratitude?  Don't you think?  No?

Anyway, I thought they'd be fun.

So I ordered 4 designs.  I wasn't so good at paying attention to the detailed descriptions of the fabric.  As a result the Lucha Libre Mask of All Time is a bit small. 

I don't regret ordering it though, because it has little spikes for the headpiece--and that's just too cool.  The mask just barely fits on my head without any lacing up the back.  But as I said, that doesn't matter, because it's way cool.

Josephina felt so thankful about her Mariposa Magnifico mask that she wanted to go rob a bank in it.  However, this post will ruin the anonymity factor--meaning bank robbery just won't be a part of our expressions of gratitude this year. 

Anyway, the most delightful surprise so far with these masks was El Fuego Furioso which was designed for a cotton knit.  (Spoonflower folks were extremely patient and credited me since I originally ordered it on a regular quilting fat quarter and then had to reorder it on the knit.)  It was a worthy reorder.  It really works like a lucha libre mask.  You can pull it over your head.  It fits snug.  Perfect for giving thanks, for robbing the rich to give to the poor, for doing the laundry, whenever you feel you need a little extra oomph or a bit of super-strength...

Burda dress completed!

Ok, we left off long ago...
But the dress is done.
On the last day of the class...I stitched the bodice to the skirt (both the lining and the dress).  Then...the invisible zipper!!! Duh, duh, duuuuuuuuhhhhhhhh.

In all honesty, the instructor put in the zipper.  This was, on the one hand, good, because I wanted to finish the dress and wear it.  On the other hand, I don't think I know how to do it myself.  We'll see.

I'm fairly confident that I can do the whole rest of the dress by myself (except for the invisible zipper).

Anyway, the dress was not done when I left that final class, but what was left was all within my scope.

Done on my own:

1.  stitch lining to zipper tapes

2.  hem the lining  (Which I did during breaks from Shochugeiko.  Imagine me, sitting in sweaty gi pants on the couch in the dojo, hemming the skirt of the dress.)

3.  hem the skirt
4.  viola dress is done

I love it.  I love it.  I love it.  I love it.

Did I happen to mention that I love the dress?  Really really love it?

My summer has not been wasted.

First Burda Dress Continued...

So, I will confess that I picked this dress because it did not have sleeves.  I was traumatized by my first and last (so far) experience with sleeves...oh and with collars.  The dress doesn't have a collar.  It looks fairly simple, but has a nice shape.  And it's a petite-sized pattern.

But, things with Burda are not so simple.  The directions are simple.  They seem simple.  They are simple if you have lots of sewing experience and know what you are doing.  But that's ok, because I'm in a class. And my teacher, knows what she's doing.

So.  What I was trying to avoid by avoiding collars and sleeves, was working with putting together two pieces of fabric that don't exactly fit.  I find that annoying.  However, I'm beginning to understand that it is necessary when making something stylish that has more shape than a potato sack.  Curves seem to require this kind of finagling.  And I have curves, baby.

So, what I've learned so far...the beauty of stay stitching.  Yes it is a wondrous thing.  I get it now.  So, what you do is this.  The two pieces that are supposed to get stitched together, but don't look like they could possibly work, will work if you stay stitch the shorter piece 1/2 inch in from the edge.  Then, put the two pieces together, clipping into the allowance up to the stitched line as necessary.  This kind of spreads the fabric, helping it to grow and adjust itself to fit the longer curved piece.  Clip, clip, clip.  Pin, pin, pin, and if you are lucky, you will only have to stitch once.  Not so lucky, out comes the seam ripper.  Rip, rip, rip.  Pin, pin, pin.  But when all is said and done, you've created a magical seam.  You've made two pieces of differing lengths magically match up.  You are a sewing Goddess!

Next.  These simplistic instructions do not really explain what needs to be done so that this dress doesn't have raw, exposed edges.  There's no facing.  No bias strips.  It's all in the lining.  The lining does all the work and it's fabulous.

Sewing: My Very First Burda Dress!

So it is summer and so I'm taking the Step Beyond Beginner sewing class at Vogue Fabric in Evanston  again.  This time, I'm making a dress and it's lined.  I'm excited because I picked the pattern out of Burda magazine.  I subscribed, even though I've never made one of their patterns, mostly because I enjoy looking at the clothes and imagining that I could make such a thing...one day...one day...

dress-with-a-line-skirt

So...the challenges for this beginning sewist.  Burda prints shloads of patterns in their various sizes onto the same massive sheet of paper, so you have to trace the pattern (in your correct size)--meaning you have to somehow find the correct line to trace amidst all the other lines that are just screaming to be traced.  Then, what I like about the class, is that the instructor adjusts the pattern so that it will fit properly.  So we adjust, then you have to add in the seam allowances (because Burda doesn't add them in like most commercial patterns do).  I'm not complaining.  It was good, in that I think I'm starting to understand how the shapes work.  I'm not so good with 3d imaginings based off of a 2d paper pattern.  But having to trace it out, and then go back and add in seam allowances and hemlines, is prepping me to see it (I think).

The Birth of a Sweater

Taking a three week class at Loopy Yarns.

The goal, to crochet a "sweater".  Now, I wouldn't normally consider this garment a "sweater".  But it is sweater-like.  It has the basic form of a sweater.  It has a neckline, has arm holes.  It is very tiny.  I guess it makes sense since the class is only three weeks long.

But the big deal here is that it is indeed a garment that can be worn.  You have to get into it, poking your arms through the arm holes.  It has "construction" to it.  Not like a scarf or a shawl.

Then the other big thing.  I've owned two of Doris Chan's books for a while now.  I love looking at the designs.  But the patterns intimidate me terribly.  I've done one.  One of the simplest patterns from her Amazing Lace book, the mobius cowl.  But didn't have the guts to do something from Everyday Crochet.  So the opportunity to try it in a class was perfect.

I'm glad I did it.  At first, the pattern was confusing.  But I'm slowly beginning to see the light.  I can't wait to make another one, so I can feel like I truly know it.

The other thing I like about Doris Chan's patterns is that they build off of one another.  So now that I've done the Mei Mei, the next challenge will be to do the Mocha Rocha which has actual sleeves, looks like a real sweater, could be worn at work to shield me against frigid air conditioning or winter temps.

Here is the progress of this tiny sweater/shrug/thingie.

More on the entryway redo...

So, I made that first trip to Ikea with John.  Good friend, John.  We bickered at Ikea over the cubby.  Was I sure I wanted the short shelf?  Didn't I want the tall shelf?  No.  How about this one over here?  No.  This one? No. No. No.

I need something that's open on both sides, because I know I'm going to throw the bag into it's spot.  It can't have doors.  It must be OPEN.

As we stumbled about Ikea, John stumbled upon a display of tall shelves.  "What do you think of this?" He asks.

"I think it looks expensive," I say.

He looks at the tag.  It's actually reasonable. Hmmmm...I say.  "Maybe for the future.  But not today.  Today, I want to get this cubby thingie, with maybe some organizers, dining room chairs, and (if there's money left a small but comfy chair for the entry way."

We look at chairs.  John finds the perfect one with a lovely faux embroidered print on it.  Yes. Yes. Yes!!!

We eat Swedish meatballs in the cafeteria.

We stumble through the light fixtures.  John looks at a lovely modern, sculptural fixture and starts egging me on.

"It would look nice in your entryway."

I wasn't planning on buying a light fixture.  But it would look nice...  "Will it work?"  I ask.

"Oh yea.  It's easy to install."

"I hope so, since you're the one who's gonna install it."  We laugh.

We come home with the cubby, four dining room chairs, the lovely chair, the light fixture and some organizers.

John is the most generous person I know. 

And I keep thinking about the tall shelves that were fairly reasonable.  About three weeks later, we return.  This time we have big plans.  Two tall shelves, a big light fixture to mimic the little one.

We are set.  We know exactly what we want.  We aren't going to spend a lot of time in Ikea.  No Swedish meatballs today.  We're going to go in and then out.  We are on a mission.  We are going to put everything together this afternoon.  I cooked in advance, so I can feed us.  I just need to heat up the food in the microwave.  I mean, I am ready.

I buy the stuff and John waits with it while  I go get the car.

First I have to start the car.

But the car won't start.

My igo car won't go.

Battery's dead.

We wait for an hour and a half for the mechanic to come.  We eat sad Ikea hotdogs from the ground floor level.  We freeze by the loading area.

The mechanic dude jumps the car.  We load it and we are off.

But now, we just want to get home and unload the car.  We have no illusions about assembling stuff.

We get all the boxes into the house.  Then go out to return the car...but it's dead, again.

Back into the house.  John decides to install the small light fixture from the first Ikea trip.  It looks lovely.  We eat dinner.  Mechanic arrives again.

Several weeks later, John comes over after work and the madness begins.  I take everything off the old bookshelves to make space, while John starts to put together the new shelves.  I pull down the fabric panels that were trying to bring color into the room.  Boxes are everywhere.  But we put together both shelves and they are up!!!

Thank you for all your help, John!!!

Entryway redo

So...I don't really open my mail.

Ok, that's a confession.  Well, at least, I didn't used to open my mail.  Not in a timely manner anyway.  Most of it's junk.  Some of it's bills.  Rarely do I get actual correspondence by snail mail.  When I do get a card or a letter (with actual handwriting on the envelope) I definitely open it.  But regular every day mail.  Nuh-uh.

So what happens to it?

I throw it on the floor.  Yep.  And it accumulates.  Into big messy piles.  Unruly piles.  Crazy piles.  And then when I need to find something in that pile, there is a mad frenzy of opening envelopes and throwing stuff away until I find what I was looking for.

This not the most efficient method for mail sorting.

I decided I needed a system.

I thought about this for a long time.

Meanwhile, my entryway hit bottom.

This is bottom.

I had to really think about what it was that I needed.  Why do I throw my mail on the floor anyway?  Because I'm lazy?  Well, yes, but is that all?  I'm always carrying a bunch of stuff.  I'm always coming in the door with a heavy back pack.  And since I have two jobs, and one of them requires me to go to several locations, I'm always unpacking the backpack and throwing everything onto the floor, packing it with what I need for that particular day, then dumping stuff out and scooping stuff up off the floor for the next day.  And then there's aikido.  That blue bag with the gis in it is also on the floor.

I need a place to sit when I come in to look at the mail.  And it would probably be a good idea to have the shredder near by, so I can simply shred those blank checks credit cards companies always send me.  And a place to put my book bag that's easy to get to, and a place for the aikido bag, and a shelf to put the stuff that gets taken out of my book bag one day only to be repacked the next.  Yes.....

After a trip to Ikea...

But that's not all.  There is more.  

Two trips to Ikea.  Much putting together of furniture.  More more more.  

But not now.

Later.

Fragile

I keep coming back to the same idea:


We are so fragile.


Only when I think this it’s more like a lament:


--a cry a sadness that washes over me a desire to cry a desire to love and to be loved--


we are so fragile we are so fragile why are we so fragile why are we so how can we be so fragile why doesn’t everyone see how fragile we are is it only me who is fragile is it only me who can see fragility why does this fragility make me want to cry fragility is met with more fragility your fragility makes me want to cry it makes me want to cry it makes me want to hold you it makes me want to run away I don’t want you to see how fragile I am I don’t want anyone to see my fragility I am not this fragile I am not fragile I am not I am I


How quickly humans can go from tears to something else entirely.


Inside fragility is agile.


I won’t fall apart if you breathe on me.


Though there’s no telling what one soft breath might do.  Alter time.  Suspend gravity? Bring on the rain?


The ripple effect of one kind word is more frightening than a fist.  Why is that?


Violence is easy.  We know that kind of pain with a dumb understanding.


Kindness is something altogether different.  It tears open your heart and leaves you vulnerable.  Leaves a feeling of indebtedness.  And it’s easier to pay back with a fist than to pay back with a kiss.


Compassion is painful.

Catholic Guilt Inspires Action

So, when I was walking to the Blue Line stop at Cicero on my way back to CTC from Michele Clark High School, I see a person lying on the sidewalk, face-down.  At first, I took said person to be a drunk construction worker.  He was wearing jeans and boots and had messy longish hair.  Some sirens cut through the air and this person sat up suddenly, so I knew that he wasn't dead.  There were other people walking about and no one else stopped but me.

Then I see that this person is a woman, and she is obviously high as a kite and is nodding out while trying to pick up some change that she dropped on the sidewalk.

I yell, "Hey!  You're sleeping!  You can't sleep!"

Meanwhile the traffic on Cicero Avenue is barreling along, the cars getting onto 290 are whizzing by.

She kept nodding out.  But eventually, she stood up.  I picked up her change and handed it to her.  All the fingers on her hands were swollen like sausages.  I don't know how she was able to hold the change in her hand, yet she did.  She could not walk in a straight line.  She kept wobbling and veering and almost walked into the street.  I held her back a couple of times.  Finally I saw that it was clear to cross.

"Do you want to cross?" I asked very loudly.

She followed me across the street.  Once across the street, I was worried that she wouldn't get far enough away from the corner to avoid falling into traffic.  She got as far as the light pole and the concrete barrier for the overpass above 290.  "Sit down."  I kept ordering.  I figured she could sit on the concrete edge of the overpass.  She did not listen to my pale orders.  Instead she nodded out until she was folded in half with her head down and leaning against the light pole.

I walked several yards away and called 911.  Told the lady on the phone that this woman appeared high and was going to get herself run over by a car.  I also mentioned that her fingers looked like she might have had frostbite.  "Do I need to stay here?"  I asked the 911 dispatcher.  "No, we'll send someone."

I walked up the block to the train and went through the turnstile.  From the platform I could see the firetruck, then the ambulance, then the cop car come by.  I think they put her in the ambulance so at least I can rest assured that she won't get run over by a car (at least not today).

Later, I tell Ange the story and muse over her fingers...how I assumed frostbite, but I don't know maybe something else could cause that.  Ange, ever the doctor exclaims, "could be leprosy."

"Leprosy!?!  People have leprosy in the United States?"  I freak out in my ignorance. "I touched her!"  I exclaim.

Ange consoles me, "You probably won't get leprosy."

Hmmmmmm.  Great.  Just great.

Still, felt horrible watching that woman and how out-of-it she was and how dangerous her life is and how she didn't even seem aware of her sausage fingers.  Ugh.  I hope she is ok.

Marching on...

February felt full of flights of fancy.  Fretful fearsome foolishness.
Now onwards with March.
Mucho meditation is needed.
Must master moodiness and misguided machinations.

Happy Hearts

I've been crocheting little hearts lately.  Not something I ever would have thought I'd do...using tiny crochet thread and a wee hook made of steel.  Deadly on the eyes.

I saw the pattern on A Foothill Home Companion and since Valentine's Day was coming up, I thought, why not?

They became little gifts for people.  I like making little things that I think will make someone smile.  Valentine's Day is a weird Hallmark Holiday. I've never been too into it.  I like chocolate, though.  Any holiday involving chocolate has to be good.  But, this one, can incur sour grape-like feelings if you're single  (which I am currently) and you are tired of all the coupledom around you.  However, I'm not feeling that right now.  I'm liking reading all the crafty blogposts with Valentine crafts.  I'm liking all the hearts. I'm liking all the red.  I think after the snow and the bitter cold in Chicago, I want red.  I want the illusion of heat, the suggestion of fire, the illusion of happiness.  I'm ok with illusion. Sometimes, the illusion is just what is needed to get you through February and March in Chicagoland.

So, anyway, I made crocheted hearts.  Chains and stitches.  Winding the hook, pulling it through, weaving the ends.  It was meditative.  It required a bit of tedious work (dislike weaving in ends).  But once completed, they were recognizable as hearts.

So, here's my heart.  I'm giving it to you.

Snow Walk

More snow today.  The big fat fluffy kind that sticks to everything.  I had to be out in it, even though the streets are treacherous, especially for someone who can't see over the small mountains of snow accumulated at intersections, crosswalks, and corners.

A little tour of the neighborhood.  The sky was completely gray, almost white.  The boughs of the trees are inky black and frosted in white icing.

There is something about a large snowfall like this that changes people.  I wasn't the only one walking about with a camera.  The appearance of everything changes so drastically.  And then there's the physical difficulties that the snow creates.  Huge puddles of slush at the crosswalks.  Or crosswalks that have been buried in mounds of snow.  Uneven, unstable paths of packed snow from many feet.  People just have to be more patient.  You wait for the person in front of you to negotiate the narrow pathway.  You can't push ahead, because there is no room to do so.  You have to walk around snow piles to get to an area that's not inundated in slushy snow water in order to cross the street.   Nothing is simple or clear cut.  I think that provokes some childlike qualities in the city.  For instance, the childlike need to lay claim to...oh let's say...shoveled out parking spots.

"Dat's my spot!"
"Na-uhhhh."
"Uh-huhhh"
"My spot, see.  I'm saving it with this here chair."

I believe in the sacredness of the Chicago chair system.  I know there are many who do not agree.  But as long as I can remember, there was the chair.  I don't drive any more, but walking past a chair setting in the snow, makes me smile.  There's a twisted, desperate logic to it that I can appreciate.

Paths cut through two-feet high snow, remind me of building forts out of blankets and chairs.  I remember dismantling the bed and using the mattresses and the pillows and the chairs to create these fantastic tunnels.  Little cozy enclosed spaces...

Then wide open ones.  Reaching the lake, it all opens up until it feels closed, because you can barely tell the difference between the lake and the sky.  They are both a gray-green.  And the lake water has a layer of slushy ice.  Like a giant Lake Michigan flavored Slurpie.  And there are little trails in it, as if a duck pushed its way through the slushy ice.  The lake has soft little swirls of white ice like a green marble.

And don't forget the trees.  The weeping willows are orange.  Their leaves hang down like soft flames flickering against the frozen sky.  Their fringe frames the lighthouse.

The weeping willows don't look sad in the winter at all.  They look like a fantasy.  I picture fairy princesses regal in their gowns, traipsing about under the fringes, highly aware of their beauty.  The trees themselves, could care less.

Snow Days

I am thoroughly enjoying the snow days.  I am experiencing an unabashed joy at not having to go to work. CCC, CPS, and NEIU all closed for the past two days.  All the initials I am affiliated with, closed.  The CTA is working though and I hear that LSD is cleared.  Other abbreviations.

I spent about two and a half hours shoveling the alley even though I do not have a car.  But now, there is a path out of the parking lot and out of the alley and onto the street.  So, that's an accomplishment.

Ok, after all the back to back travelling I did in November and December, I am thoroughly content to be snowed in.  And I'm not even being that productive, and I feel absolutely no guilt about it.

I did walk to the lake.  It is fun to see how things are transformed.  The painted benches by the lakefront in my header pic are almost entirely covered in snow.

But it's so beautiful out.  The sun was shining today and the sky was blue.  The sun was glaring off the white snow.  Mother Nature tarting it up.  Not so subtle there.

In case you were thinking of jumping in.  Don't.

Icy Sestina

Even in the winter, there are waves.

The movement of water is difficult to stop.

Even when the lake is covered with large scales of ice--

seemingly static and unmoving, listening carefully, you can hear

the relentless movement of water, pushing, shoving,

thrusting forward, slamming up against the frozen waterline.

I’ve always loved it, when a man kisses me at my hairline.

He’s really brushing against the waves

of my burdens--shoving

aside my insecurities with his lips--stop

ing my incessant self-criticism mid-thought, forcing me to hear

the beat of my own heart.  The ice

underneath the surface is fragile. Ice

is like that.  There’s no telling what’s actually below the waterline.

--all the mixed messages; desire...to crush, to melt, to conquer, to be conquered ...you hear

it underneath the silence of ice; the constant conversation of waves

which, so far as I know, never stop--

always continue their jockeying and shoving...

Buddhists attempt to stop all the shoving.

Better to be still like ice.

Accept whatever state you are in.  Stop

the wheel of desire.  Step to the waterline

and drink.  Ride waves.

But most importantly,listen.  Because you might hear

the precise moment when the ice fissures and the heart opens.  I hear

great tectonic plates of ice shoving

through, creating a path, dragging the detritus, along with everything good, on waves

of love.  Remember that ice

is merely another form of water.  And the coastline

is where the water finally comes to a stop;

a rest.  This is where the pitch of the song is stopped

and the change can be heard.

The truth of things comes out at the coastal line--

the fact that I don’t want to shove

or jockey for position.  I’d like to lay, not like the iceberg, formidable and foreboding, but like the ice

that’s melting and in the process of becoming something softer, to eventually ride the waves

travelling to the edge of the waterline.  Getting rest at that stop

to ride the waves again and again. Listening to that music you can hear

underneath the shoving and desire.  And finally, for a while anyway, put the fear on ice.

© 2011 Germania Solórzano

The Love Poetry of Aikido

Two hours of aikido tonight and my mood has drastically changed for the better.  I've been moody.  Crying.  Sad and silly.  Tonight I was tossed about and maybe that knocked some sense into me.  Or got my endorphins going.

Watching Sato Sensei demonstrate, I started to feel myself turn all poetical.  I thought, tai sabaki is practicing the same pattern over and over again...like love...

You reach for someone, they deflect, they block, they turn you around, spin you on your axis then toss you.

You get up.  Go at it again.  Maybe believing that the more you fall, the more tenderized your heart will be.  Or perhaps because your body is dumb.  Or is it your heart, that learns so slow...?

Then, the tables turn.  Someone reaches for you.  You deflect them, you block, you turn them around, spin them on their axis then toss them away.

Over and over, until the technique changes.  Some fancy switch-o-change-o of hands behind your back. Some jazzy snazzy magic thing.  You do it over and over just because you like the feeling that you can.

Hmmm....

Then another change.  Not so easy.  Everything changes when there's a weapon in someone's hand.  Or does it?  The stakes seem to change.  Life is more serious.  Life is precious.  Take things slower now. Pay more attention.

How silly that a wooden sword or staff should seem so scary.  A heart is vastly more frightening, either way.