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Musings on Music

When I restarted this blog, my initial plan was to write about a musical experience. Something else needed to be said first, however. Actually I've been struggling with whether or not my musings on music and live concerts was worth reading anyway, and a pause before leaping was a good thing. In the end, I've decided that my need to write trumps whether or not anyone else reads, cares, or agrees. It is worth writing if only because that is the only way I know how to make sense of my own peripatetic thoughts.

I wrote the above paragraph 10 days ago and my thoughts are still circling. I am not sure that I ever really wanted to write about the music itself or my reactions to the music. In that sense, time is a gift, and the fact that these things still hold a strong place in my thoughts is relevant. So, let's get started.

In late May there were two performances, memories of which are still dancing around in my head, nearly a month after the fact.

The first was the Knoxville Symphony Orchestra's May concert which included Dvorak's New World Symphony and a new commission by Derrick Skye titled "Between Suns: A concerto for African Drums and Orchestra". I really did not know what to expect, but I was excited about the prospects going in. The truly fabulous concert was far greater than my hopes. Derrick Skye was unfamiliar to me, but I have since listened to some of his music on YouTube and seriously hope that a recording will be made of this piece. Between Suns is a true concerto, a true melding of the two genres of music, not just a symphonic work with occasional drum cadenzas. The music felt comfortable spanning both idioms, tethered to neither really, although I have friends who felt it strayed perhaps a bit too far outside of the Western Classical tradition. I disagree.

Yes, the music pushes at the boundaries and constraints of the western classical tradition but it comes nowhere close to abandoning it. At least not from my understanding. But I tend to think we can all, myself included, sometimes get lost in our own assumptions and biases. And I have long been attracted to music, art, ideas, that push at boundaries and make me think in new ways.

In Between Suns I heard passages reminiscent of Copeland, and even Beethoven in the second movement. The Beethoven reference, as I learned later, was intentional, since Beethoven used this same rhythm, which is an ancient drumming rhythm which crosses cultural boundaries and is thousands of years old. Beethoven himself was tapping into something ancient in human experience, blurring categories. Other parts of the work reminded me of medieval polyphony and I was charmed, intellectually challenged, and moved by complex poly-rhythmic passages and remarkable shifts and changes in the music. It was not just in the drumming and the skill of the drummers that thrilled me, but the musicians in the orchestra as well with the complex and nuanced ways the musicians played together, pushing outside normal parameters. Some of those passages, some of those moods, still haunt me today. This is not just a month-old memory however, as the concert was rebroadcast on a local radio station a week ago, and will be rebroadcast again in September. But I dearly hope that this is a piece that will be recorded, and that I will be able to hear again, to experience it and understand it more fully.

As mentioned previously that concert closed with Dvorak's Symphony #9, "From the New World" and it was a warm and wonderfully engaging performance. It was the perfect way to close out this concert, urgent and exciting where it needed to be, calm and uplifting in other moments. It was as nice a performance as I could ever hope to attend, the perfect melding of art, musicianship, and the energy present in the concert hall. There was a moment, very brief, where one trumpet was just barely off, a quarter breathe perhaps, and it sounded like the trumpets were fighting, but the whole thing couldn't have lasted more than a second or two, and I was once again lost in the music. I've tried to let my critical brain rest when I attend concerts, but this captured my attention. I decided it was fitting in some way, that even the stress of that brief discordance celebrated the experience of live music, of disparate perspectives and voices coming together, not always in perfect harmony, but working toward it. I relaxed and happily just enjoyed the moment, the melding of old and new, a constantly evolving understanding of "New World".

The second performance that has stuck in my head was Knoxville Opera's performance of "Stuck Elevator", and opera based on an event that actually happened in 2005, when a food delivery man from the Bronx was stuck in an elevator for 81 hours. As is true of all good stories, and all good operas, the actual events merely served as a stepping stone to a greater story. The opera is short, 81 minutes for an 81 hour ordeal, and it beautifully and emotionally explores suffering, love, loss, the struggles of families and peoples to survive, to emigrate, to seek betterment for their families, to navigate pain and loss. I felt the experience was almost too short, but I know others who felt it too long. Some of the passages and scenes were complex, challenging for the audience, even risqué in places, blurring musical constructs and styles in ways that were beautifully handled by the fabulous cast. It was an opera that pushed the assumption of the audience, questioning our very ideas of the nature of opera, of musical theatre, even of our expectations and biases in life. Part comedy, part tragedy, part fever dream, the quiet ending was almost shocking in its simplicity. After this emotion-laden drama, the door opens and our protagonist, Guang, simply slipping away into the night, lost to history. But not to my dreams.

I suppose, since so much time has passed, I cannot write without also mentioning the musical event that occurred between that weekend of fascinating new works and the actual appearance of these words on a computer screen (page?). I went to New York to see "The Queen of Spades" by Peter Illych Tchaikovsky at the Met. I had a wonderful evening, enjoying the opera very much, with no regrets, even though I felt the performance was flawed. The music was lushly bewitching and perfectly set the scene as the opera played out through what seemed like a series of disconnected stories. I thought the female voices were outstanding although the men got the "best" songs, not that the men were shabby either. In fact the singing and the music all made me happy. That disconnect was still present however. There seemed little chemistry between the male and female leads, and although I could enjoy the music in a very intellectual and abstract way, emotionally the performance did not bridge the lack of continuity. It is true that my mind tends to wander at some point during most performances. Perhaps wandered slightly more than usual here. I could only imagine how much fun Tchaikovsky (and his librettist) must have had playing with the music for this piece which also seems to mock human frailties and the subjects of so many operas. The idea tickled my fancy, although I cannot say it will resonate in my mind as deeply as the two previous performances, but it was still a fabulous evening, and I am glad I went.

But now the summer season is upon us, and in my life that usually means less music. Much as I love concerts I am happy to rest.

June 14, 2025
The View from My Window, Skittering Thoughts

(This post was written when I was in fact in New York City last week. It is only now that I have had time to revisit it and post.)

Here I am, in New York City and I find myself with this inexplicable sense of wanting to write you. Why? It has been months. And I have been content in my rather quiet life. I do have to admit though that the only reason I brought my laptop with me on this trip was a sense that I might indeed want to write.

This is the view from my window as I write. It makes me happy. The penthouse apartment across the street with the lovely patios, in a beautiful old building. The contrast of old and new appeals to me. The shiny glass building on the right; the scaffolding on the left. I’ve always thought that the signs of human industry are beautiful in their own ways — and yes, I can extend that to even our more brutal invasions such as power plants and mining sights. The beautiful ugly. Once I thought I would like living in the city. Now I see peace in my morning suburban walk, in the greenery. in my hands in the dirt, even as I fail, daily, to keep up with the weeds.

But I also recognize that all of this could change in any instant. I recognize that peace exists only in my own head and heart, in where I allow it to enter. It could be found anywhere; it could be found nowhere. The choice is mine. In this moment, in this window, I choose peace.

Openness to new ideas and curiosity; those are the important things. They are not the same, although they are related. And they are each thoroughly interior qualities. They are not about gallivanting about, throwing oneself into new experiences, although they could be, for some people, in some circumstances. But the opposite could be true. Curiosity can also be found in solitude, in quiet moments.

One can travel the world and do all kinds of exciting things, without ever changing one’s mind; a person can gather up facts and experiences, while yet remain closed-minded and set in their ways. I’ve known people like that. I also have known people who have lived in one place all their lives, rarely leaving, but who know more of humanity and the world, who are more open, more curious about ideas and experiences than most. The difference is not always obvious.

I had forgotten how early it gets light here in Manhattan. I shouldn’t have; it took me years to adapt to how late the sun rises in Knoxville, which is very close to the Central Time Zone line, much further west. I do miss this. I don’t actually know if my natural circadian rhythm is to wake early, or if I acclimated after living in New York State for over 35 years, but since I moved to New York in my late teens and early adulthood, I suspect that my rhythms matured into the rhythm of that particular environment. The Knoxville summer light still throws me even though I do often sleep later than I used to. It should not surprise me that an hour, here or there, should make a difference, but of course it does. Look at all the research on the health impacts of our semi-annual shifts to and from daylight savings time, and how harmful it is. Not that science changes anything when butting heads with tradition. Anyway that is not the topic of this post.

You probably noticed that this second photo is really the same view from the same window. The reflections seen in the window of the glass tower is, at least partially, my own building. I am sitting in one of those windows, reflected, small and insignificant, invisible even. I like that idea. I like the way the reflection is somewhat distorted, the layers of images, of life. It reminds me of how small my life and my choices really are inn the greater scheme of thing — insignificant really in the grander scale, in the life of cities, in the life of the human race itself. I might as well be true to myself, live the life that resonates we me. All of our power is in the small bits,

But even the life of the human race, even our impact, as great as it seems, is again a tiny speck, not really seen against the whole. Our planet, earth, has its own life, a life of which we are a tiny speck, occupying but a few seconds? hours? perhaps days? in an otherwise long life. An unseen face in a window filled with reflections, lost in the greater scheme of things.

I am reminded of Samantha Harvey’s novel, Orbital. In that novel, the astronauts are, at first, attracted and drawn to the sparkling lights they see during the nights of their rotation, the beauty of the human civilization of which they themselves are a vital part. And yet as their time in space lengthens, they grown more attracted to the daytime views of earth, where humanity is less in evidence, just the earth itself, taking on almost its own life and its own light.

Such an idea of the moment, that. The earth is its own life, and we are just a small bit of dust occupying its face. Almost a cliché; and yet no less valid. a thought and creation defined by our own moment in space and time, our own zeitgeist. This is not a criticism per se; that humans before us thought they were the center of the universe simply is a fact. That we have learned we are insignificantly small simply another fact. And I am not criticizing Orbital here; I love this book. And quite frankly my own musings are as ephemeral, of the moment, and inconsequential as anything existing in this world. They remain simply another example of the clichés and worldview of my own generation and time, but far less eloquently stated. A post going nowhere, circling on itself.

I am not putting my own thoughts down. I am not claiming anything. There is much in the word that may be good, and much that may be evil as well. In a sense we are each individual cells in a giant creation the is earth, if not the universe itself, and each of us has a role to play. We are insignificant and yet also mighty.

I am here, in NYC, in upper midtown, very much in my own comfort zone, both physically and, in many ways, mentally. Circling around the musings and mutterings of my own brain. It feels like I have been working my way back here for a long time. It is a comfortable a good place to find myself, even in a world that sometimes feels very much at odds with what I hold dear. To my own brain each echo of light and image in glass, each fleeting thought, each eruption and seismic shift in either the earth or humanity, is a significant event. How do I choose? I can only live in each moment.

June 3, 2025
Playing with My Food 2025.01

Although I've always loved to cook, I go through phases, and occasionally get stuck in a rut of the tried and true and familiar. Over the past year or so however, I've found myself increasingly in play mode. This is due in part to cookbook clubs. I've been in one, run through the Food 52 organization, now discontinued. for years, participating off and on. Ii threw myself into it more fully last year, determined to at least try every cookbook, even those I had doubts about. and I found the experience exciting and inspiring, opening my mind and taste buds toward thinking about food in new ways. Then I joined another cookbook club and the fun increased further, even though I do not always manage to keep up with the clubs.

And yet, I want to write about some of my adventures in the kitchen.

II purchased this book, Made in Taiwan, by Clarissa Wei and Ivy Chen last December but didn't start reading or cooking from it until this year. I do love reading cookbooks, and admit that there was a period where I did more reading and less cooking. Not this book. For the first time in a long long time I want to cook everything in this book, even things I don't normally eat or make. I enjoy the nerdy details, such as making rice noodles from scratch, and even recipes for how to make the rice flour from raw rice kernels. Yes, I could buy rice noodles, but I also love learning about the background and history of a thing, and I firmly believe that our food says so much about who we are. We build large communities based on cooperation, and we cook our food; how could these things not say something about who we are? Anyway, I am intrigued enough that I will eventually try most of these recipes even if I never make them again..

So far however I've only made three dishes from this book. Each dish was an absolute winner and I very much look forward to cooking more.

The first recipe I tried was for a stir-fry of sweet potato leaves. A basic thing, right? I love green vegetables and don't believe I've met a green leafy vegetable I haven't liked. It also seems like every cuisine I've learned about has some basic technique for cooking green leafy vegetables. Although the greens are different, the techniques are similar in that they incorporate some basic fat, aromatics, and water.

So sweet potato greens show up in my local Asian market, and recently they have even begun showing up in the farmer's markets. The greens in the Asian market are young and tender, perfect for this recipe, whereas the ones I got at the farmer's market last year were large and tough. My attempt at stir-frying those was a failure, but I suspect the farmer in question was thinking of them more as a braising green. If I see them again, I am now ready to explore the possibilities further.

But back to the greens at hand. The leaves of this bunch of sweet potato greens was smallish and tender, the stems tender as well. With the right greens this dish was a relevation. The stems displayed a small bit of toothsomeness with an almost nutty hint of bitterness to them. I discerned no particular bitterness in the leaves however, just a light, almost buttery flavor with just a hint of floral fruitiness that offsets the garlic perfectly. They are light, much the way spinach is light, but with slightly more crispness to the mouth-feel than spinach, and without spinach's sometimes mineraly flavor.

And, while I am on the subject of greens I tried another new to me green when I made the recipe for Sacha Beef with Water Spinach. I don't believe I'd ever knowingly had water spinach before, but now it is a regular addition to my grocery cart just so I can make this dish.

The recipe is simple and quick to pull together. The most time consuming thing is slicing the beef thinly and then letting it marinate for a full 15 minutes. Everything else can be prepped during that time. Most of the success of this dish is due to the sauce. Although I originally wanted to make the homemade sacha sauce in the book, I am so enamored of a purchased Bullhead sauce, recommended by the authors, and available in my local Asian grocery, that I can't imagine doing so anytime soon.

The beef is tender and flavorful and I find the combination of the beef, water spinach and the savory umami-rich sauce almost addictively good. There is a bit of grittiness to the barbecue sauce, but it is not unpleasant and it added a nice counterpoint to the combination of flavors. There is a hint of the dried shrimp in the sauce also, but I did not so much find it fishy as complexly rich.

This is a dish that is far more satisfying than would expect from the minimal effort involved. In fact, I've enjoyed this so much that, as I mentioned above, I purchase water spinach each time I see it in the market, just so I can make this dish.

The last thing I made before getting distracted was congee. I didn't discover that I liked congee until fairly late in life. In retrospect this seems surprising as I grew up on hot cereal, and learned as an adult that although I still love porridge in any form, I prefer my porridges on the savory side. Still, I had basically only eaten basic plain congee with a collection of savory toppings and I was eager to try this recipe for Shiitake and pork congee.

My congee is more deeply colored than the photo in the book, or is probably traditional, but I used an asian-inspired bone broth from my own pantry rather than the recipe in the book (or chicken broth, although my own chicken broth is sometimes dark as well since I often start with roasted bones). I also soaked the mushrooms while the congee cooked, and didn't start my mise en place until the congee was finished cooking, which meant that the congee thickened while I was prepping and cooking the pork. I didn't mind this as I think I prefer a thicker porridge anyway.

This was savory, delicious and very satisfying and I will absolutely make it again. I don't actually eat porridge very often anymore but when the craving hits, nothing else satisfies. Comfort in a bowl.

This seems like such a small start, and yet I find the whole process of cooking an act of both discovery and refinement. So much fun. Hopefully I will have more to report.

March 22, 2025
Knitting. Writing about Knitting…Writing.

I didn't intentionally stop writing. I got one of the dread viral infestations that have been running rampant this winter, and then it seems like my energy levels have been slow to recover.

Then I finished this cashmere shell.

Well, I was planning to finish it, but finishing is one of those love/hate situations. It always takes longer than anticipated, and I both love the detail of it, of finishing something nicely, but by the time I am at the finishing part, I just want the whole thing to be done so I can start something new. And I know better than to start a new project before I finish the old project, or the old project will simply languish in a pile because, well, knitting is more fun than finishing.

But this project was an exception. At least partly. It was seaming the sides that thrilled me beyond anticipation. These curved edges had worried me. Until I got started, and then I was captured by the magic of the curved side seam.

Who says a seam needs to be a certain thing. Who says a life needs to be a certain way? IT feels to me like the world is descending into chaos, and yet all I have control over is my own small life. That doesn't mean I don't care or that my actions don't have impact on those around me. But I am but a tiny droplet in an infinite pool. I cannot control the choices of others any more than they can control mine (unless I allow them that privilege). The simple truth is that as long as there are humans it appears there will be strife.

But as long as there are humans there will also be beauty, and kindness, and creativity. We can choose which parts of ourselves we feed.

For a while I wondered how I could write in this world. Then I realized my world is my own. And even these simple distractions are just as present, just as worthwhile, just as much a part of my own tiny puddle of existence.

March 14, 2025
On Hold

I had a note in my calendar that I was supposed to write a blog post on Tuesday. Unfortunately I spent most of Tuesday in bed with some kind of vicious chest cold. I wasn't doing anything on Tuesday, or yesterday either for that matter. Today. I've gotten a little simple mindless knitting under my belt but am still lacking in energy and have a lingering cough, which probably lingers further because my chest muscles are so sore from coughing that my attempts feel a bit pathetic. In fact I do not feel inclined to do much of anything, but I'll try to string some words together.

I went out to the store Monday morning to see about getting some fish for dinner. I picked up fresh sardines. By the time I got around to scaling, cleaning and filleting them, I was already coming down with cold symptoms. Truthfully I didn't feel like doing it, but I also didn't want to waste the fish. My patience, and therefore my skill, was lacking, but I got everything done. The process brought up happy memories of sitting outside with my dad scaling and gutting bluegills when I was a child. I think he would have approved of the sardines as well although I don't recall ever having fresh sardines when I was young.. These are rolled around a mix of breadcrumbs, orange zest, golden raisins, pepitas and caciocavallo cheese and baked with additional orange slices. They were not difficult and they were delicious, but by the time they were done I was so tired I had to force myself to eat. At least they didn't go to waste, and I probably needed the protein..

Otherwise I've not been up to much. Two days in bed. Today barely puttering about. I'm working on a garter stitch blanket in Plymouth Yarns' Baby Alpaca Grande that I started in late 2021. The pattern is the Modern Log Cabin blanket pattern from Mason Dixon Knitting although at a much larger gauge and yielding a much larger blanket. I knit the first five blocks and then abandoned the project, probably because I made the temperature blanket in 2022, and one blanket at a time was enough for me.

I am currently knitting block 5. You can't see the number because it is hidden by the yarn swatch, but it is the teal block above blocks 3 and 4. Actually I will probably finish that block tonight and pick up stitches for block 6. I've been chilled to the bone and can't seem to pile enough sweaters or blankets on to feel warm. The extra layer of alpaca feels delicious.

My other two projects are too complicated for me to work on at the moment. I'm knitting a lime green cashmere shell. I finished the back last week. I cast on for the front and knit one pattern repeat before I got sick. There are four more pattern repeats before I begin binding off at the underarm, but I don't see anything happening on this until I am feeling better.

Also in the active project bag is a jacket knit out of Prism half-inch wide rayon ribbon, but I've been avoiding it for a while. I think the last time I worked on it was in October. I am finding that the yarn is very twisted and I have to iron each skein before I knit it. This is the annoying part. I usually enjoy ironing, but untwisting and ironing 100 yards of ribbon at a go is not fun. I finished ironing a skein just before Thanksgiving, and the only reason I didn't start knitting it up was because then I'd have to iron another skein of yarn. The knitting goes faster than the ironing. Silly no? I've also learned that I tend to twist my projects and my yarn in funny ways when I knit, which doesn't help in this specific case. I know I will love the cardigan though, and I am determined to finish it this year. There are three more skeins of yarn. If I do a skein a quarter, I'd be contented with that.

January 30, 2025
Musings, Mutterings, Knitting.

Hello blog! It seems I have been absent although in many ways that is not surprising. It seems that I have been swinging wildly between being present in my life and at the same time being absent — not as in depressed, although that has probably been the case on occasions. More that I have just been sorting out some things in the hopes of reconnecting with something essential to myself. That has seemed like a slow process.

At the moment I feel fully "back", meaning increasingly settled in myself but not a promise that the blog is back, although I hope it is. I intended to attempt a start-up in January, and although it is not the beginning of the month, it is still January. That is good. There has been a lot of hemming and hawing here, fretting over wanting to write, letting my inner voices argue over whether or not I had anything to say only to find myself back in a place of apathy, where the whole blog thing didn't seem worth the effort.

I had an idea to write about movies, or a particular movie, but the negative arguments won, the voice that says "who cares what I think", which may or may not be true. By the time I resolved the issue the movie in question was weeks behind me and it seemed hardly worth the point. The idea may find its way back up, or not. The only thing I know is that I want this blog to be about whatever is on my mind at the time I am writing it, and that it is an extension of a journal of sorts. I tell myself that I should write polished essays, and I occasionally work on those, but that is NOT what I want this blog to be about. My original idea was for an online journal, really purely for my own reference and entertainment, and then I let the idea get perverted into something else, something I didn't want. I don't really know what I want now but I am willing to let the impulse play out.

So, after this long, and mostly irrelevant introduction, the remainder of this sweater is going to be about sweaters and knitting. Specifically it is about sweaters and knitting and colors, specifically puce and muted wines.

Puce seems to have been the color of the year. I knit two sweaters in the color. In fact the color of neither yarn was called "puce". The color name for the yarn used in the first sweater was "vintage wine". You can see that sweater here.

It is a lacy cropped cotton cardigan, knit in a 4-ply yarn. Technically a summer sweater although I am not likely to wear it in the hottest months. It is a color that has a presence throughout my wardrobe, a few pieces popping up whenever muted wines and roses become fashionable.

I never really thought about the color as puce until I was finishing up this cardigan. Technically I would suppose puce is darker, with a bit more brown. But it struck me that the range of muted brownish purply pinks suite me well, and I am consistently drawn to the range.

Then, in December I felt the urge to knit a warm snuggly sweater and I decided to knit another sweater in an alpaca boucle. Although this wasn't planned, the yarn I ordered falls into the same color range. This time the color is named topaz.

I finished it in early January and have been wearing it steadily throughout the current cold spell. I am not quite sure how my dream of an oversized snuggly sweater morphed into this shorter, slightly more fitted sweater, but it did, and I love it. Even though I do not always like sweaters out of bulky yarns, this sweater has ended up being exactly the sweater I wanted. It is a sweater that sits a the top of the hip, that looks good with a pair of pants, and which has fairly close fitting sleeves that do not get in the way. It is a color that makes me feel warm and happy.

In fact it goes well with my most-frequently worn coat, at least most winters in Knoxville. Seen here with an assortment of reds, all of which are really pinkish or brownish reds.

This photo was taken last winter, when my hair was still permed in an attempt to maintain those post-chemo curls. It is not permed now, and I am wondering if I regret the decision to grow my hair out and stop perming it. I am not thrilled with my hair the moment, but I can always go back. It is just the transitional process that is difficult. Transitional processes are always difficult. That doesn't seem to get easier with age.

Perhaps this blog, like my hair is in transition. Like all transitions it will take time to see what develops. And, in that spirit of transition I am going to toss this out, messy as it is, because once I start editing, doubts will set in, and my words will fall into the bottomless pit, never to reemerge,

January 21, 2025
September Reading

I skipped a few months, but I will continue the count and, hopefully, fill in the middle one of these days.

45. A Dance with Dragons: A Song of Ice and Fire Book 5, George R. R. Martin.

46. Smoke and Ashes: Opium's Hidden Histories, Amitav Ghosh.

47. This is Why We Lied, Karin Slaughter.

48. The Five Star Weekend, Elin Hilderbrand.

49. Golden Girl, Elin Hilderbrand.

50. The Covenant of Water, Abraham Verghese.

51. Katherine, Anya Seton.

There are some books on this list about which I have little to say. The George R. R. Martin is part of a longer post that has been swirling about in the back of my mind, a post I hope to get to one of these days, although at the moment my days are busy enough and I am content. This state of affairs does not drive me toward greater achievements however. There are many things I wish to accomplish, and a long bookish post on a fantasy series is just one project among many.

I wrote about The Covenant of Water a year ago, after my first reading. I read it again for book club. At that time I wanted to discuss it in book club, and found it far more compelling and thought-provoking than the book that group read in lieu of this one. When my second book group chose to read it this year I was eager, although we really didn't get into the meat of the book. Still the book works so well, both as a compelling and touching story, and as thought-provoking novel and it holds up well to re-reading.

Five Star Weekend and Golden Girl are both summer beach reads, light, fun, entertaining and unsubstantial. They fall into the category I call "popcorn fiction". They are books that you dive into, read too fast, want to read more than you should, and which are then rapidly forgotten — fun, filling, with no nutritional value. Still, I enjoyed them. I was recovering from a flu-like virus and my brain wasn't really up for anything more compelling. Books like these can be great palette cleansers, whatever their genre (mystery, romance, fantasy) and they are quick reads. But indulging in a diet too heavy on this kind of reading and I feel like I become a dull girl indeed.

I enjoy Karin Slaughter's novels, although perhaps "enjoy" is not the best word as they tend to delve graphically into the darker aspects of human behavior. I preordered This is Why We Lied, and started reading it pretty much the instant I took it out of its package. I'll also admit I enjoy the main characters and have followed their development. This is also a pretty fast read but it sticks with me much longer, not so much because it is insightful as it is disquieting. Still, I think it is good to read things that disturb us, that make us think about the aspects of life we would rather avoid. Am I willing to read disturbing books more now that I am retired and live in my own peaceful little bubble, more than when I was out in the world and wanted to escape every day pressures? I don't know the answer to that. I'm not sure the question occurred to me before today.

I was sixteen the first time I read Katherine by Anya Seton. I loved the story, the romance of John of Gaunt and Katherine Swynford, but I also loved all the historical detail about life in medieval England. In fact, this book kicked off a long time love of medieval history and early English literature, a passion I still carry today. I have carried that book around, and it is one I read occasionally, although it has probably been over 20 years since I last read it. There are books we hold onto as much for the emotional weight of their influence on the people we become as the merit, historical or literary of the works themselves. I'll admit that I cannot read Katherine without, at least in part, connecting with memories of my younger self. And yet I also see the book differently than I did. I understand that we know more about the period, and about both Katherine Swynford and John of Gaunt than perhaps was known when Seton researched this book. This knowledge does not significantly alter the worth of the book, or my enjoyment of it; the book is about a time and a place as it is about a particular love. That endears it to me further. If anything the depth and extent of the "extraneous" details, the attempt at historicity, the development of people and a culture who think differently than I do, think differently than do the people of my own time and culture, makes the story itself, and the romance, all the more solid and enjoyable in my mind.

That leaves me with Amitav Ghosh's non-fiction book Smoke and Ashes, which was, by far, the most compelling and absorbing book I read in September. Not surprisingly, it is beautifully written. I loved reading the book despite the sometimes heavy information load. There was a great deal of information that I knew little about, as well as some things I might have known vaguely, along the fringes, but about which I had never connected the dots: Information about the drug trade, exploration, and the what I see now as perhaps unsavory, and certainly morally questionable, foundations to the very structure of a society in which I live and from which I benefit. Anyway, this is just my reading and my understanding, and my long-standing policy with non-fiction books is not to review the information, but rather that the way I rate the book is based on how likely the book is to make me question my own understandings of the world in which I live, and drive me toward doing further research. Said research may uphold or refute the authors statements.

My main goal in life is to never become complacent. I find complacent people, and complacent books, boring as hell. This book is anything but complacent. A worthy addition to my library.

October 4, 2024
Continuing On…

Hello Autumn! I welcome the arrival of fall, although the world feels oppressed with summer-like heat at the moment. Not summer. The days are shorter, the light different, the summer colors have long since begum to fade. I love the autumnal fade, the process of winding down and preparing for rest. An interesting dichotomy that, as the natural world winds down, the social world, the school world, the world of the arts seems to kick in high gear. It is autumn and winter I look forward to, but it is also autumn and winter in which I feel most pulled in multiple directions.

As usual in September I am behind in the garden, and ready to look inward to the studio. I am also behind in the studio as August and September seemed to toss a few minor hiccups my way. But that is of no import, and I am surprisingly sanguine about projects getting resolved in their own good time.

There are two unfinished projects on my sewing table right now, one almost finished, the one I'm not going to write about, the past being the past and all that. Don't you just love being teased and then dropped? And a second project, one that was cut out and then, completely unintentionally, set aside. That is my subject today, simply because the project may have been abandoned, but it was not forgotten, and I am about to pick it up and finish it.

In July I was working with the Simplicity pattern pictured above, Simplicity 9147, long discontinued. This is the pattern I used for the simple, straight-legged elastic waist pants I made earlier in the summer and have been wearing since. This time however, I was working on the vest pattern.

One of the reasons I started a sewing blog oh so many years ago is that I am terrible at keeping records, writing things down on random bits of paper or notebooks and then tossing them out in an organizational frenzy. Blogging helped me keep records. But here I am two months after starting this pattern trying to reconstruct what I did. There are some basic facts however, and I can start there.

The largest size on the pattern I have available is a size 14, which, according to the pattern information is for a 36-inch bust. Now my full bust is not 36 inches, but my high bust is 35 to 35 1/2 inches. For older Big 4 sewing patterns I have found that buying the pattern by my high bust measurement works best for me and I would get a far better fit through the upper chest and shoulders by starting with the 14 and then adding a full-bust adjustment. My full bust is 4 inches larger than my high bust, which means that I actually have to do a full bust adjustment on most patterns, unless it comes with cup-sizes. This still puzzles me to no end, because I had to do it when I was younger as well and I have never felt like I presented as particularly busty. But then again perhaps I've just never gotten over my mother's comment that I didn't need darts because I had a "dartless" figure. I now know that was clearly not true, and I've always had at least 3 inches between my high bust and full bust measurements, even when I was a skinny young thing. The problem was more likely that I just couldn't get bras with small enough bands at JC Penney in the 1970s.

But back to the pattern at hand. Even though I know I often need to cut patterns single layer, I cut the first muslin as designed, on the fold in back and with two identical front pieces. I did my full bust adjustment. In measuring the pattern it did not appear that I needed to add anything to the back of the pattern. Then because I also know that I have what is called a shallow chest (hollow in the upper chest), and a forward head, I made those adjustments. Both meant moving the neckline a little forward at the center which also means tilting the shoulder seam forward at the neck. Based on more recent experiments with a sloper and my knitting, I figured I needed to drop the center front about an inch, and because changing the neckline also affects the shoulder seams, adjust the shoulder seams accordingly. I did all that and made the first muslin.

The first muslin fit pretty well, surprisingly well in fact and I was excited because a year ago I just felt overwhelmed by all this stuff. I don't know why, I suppose I was just out of practice. It is only math after all. My initial adjustments were good. The bodice fit, the bust darts provided ample room and the bust point was in the right position without my having to move it up or down. In fact, this Simplicity pattern fit me pretty well, with only minor adjustments (since I always need to do the full bust adjustment) and the bust point was at the right point for me, unlike both the Love Notions Cadence dress and the Closet Core Cielo dresses, where the bust point was an inch too low.

The only minor quibbles were at the shoulders. My right shoulder rolls forward, and I needed to move the shoulder seam forward 7/8 of an inch at the outer shoulder edge, and there was also a wrinkle at the arm where I have a smaller shoulder joint on the right and a slightly narrower upper torso on that side, resulting from my flatter egg-shaped upper torso. All of this is related to my scoliosis. Further alterations were needed, which was not unexpected. But I was happy to have taken a two-stage approach because it made the process more clear. After moving the shoulder forward (both front and corresponding back pieces) , I still needed to remove extra fabric at the front edge of the armscye between the side seam and the shoulder without removing the needed extra volume at the center front. A minor adjustment when tackled incrementally as I did here, but it does substantially reshape the armscye and increase the size of the dart on that side.

Once I finished the pattern adjustments, I redrew my pattern pieces. As expected, I would have to cut this pattern single layer, as each piece is different. The differences are actually slight, but the implications for fit are significant. I cut the garment piece out of gray linen and put it aside, thinking I would sew it as soon as I returned from a quick trip to Texas.

It is still waiting, but I am planning on starting the project now. I am making this out of a light summer weight linen, perhaps too light for fall, but you wouldn't think so based on today's temperatures. I actually have doubts, wondering if perhaps the linen I chose is too light for the planned garment. But it is all a learning process anyway and I am going to go ahead. The worst thing that will happen is that I don't like the garment, but I have learned something from the process.

I will keep you informed.

September 23, 2024
Clothing. Thoughts and Questions.

A couple of years ago I was in a quilt shop in Bandera Texas when I spotted a camp shirt made out of cotton batik. The colors reminded me of the autumnal colors of Texas grasses and the limestone of the Texas hill country. I was reminded that once upon a time I would have lived in such shirts. Not only that, there was some part of me that wanted to reacquaint myself with this perhaps neglected portion of my psyche. Neglected, because I wouldn't have worn those shirts during my NY years, during my career years, during the time when I was perhaps too attuned to the dichotomy between my childhood west Texas self and my professional NY self.

A couple of years went by when I wasn't really interested in clothes at all, an anomaly in my life. I've always been interested in clothes, in the way people put things together, and in fashion, even as, at the same time, I struggled with fashion. I've never been particularly fashionable, or stylish, or cool. Perhaps my interest is more abstract or intellectual. I would buy something I loved and then let it sit in my closet for six months or a year, until it settled in, and then wear it to death, even though it was probably "out of fashion". I suppose then my interest in clothing is both practical, because I have to wear clothes, but also sociological, because I love watching the way people wear clothes, even myself sometimes. I was also reminded that clothing is, in many ways our armor, the way we present ourselves to the world, a signaling message which we can employ deliberately, or sometimes even unthinkingly.

I was reminded of all of this recently when I attended a Lafayette 148NY trunk show.

I love the brand, and if I still led a professional life, I might well live in it, but there was very little in this collection that appealed to me. Mostly this was a color thing. One thing that did catch my eye was the suit shown above. The color was perfect. I loved the graceful lines of the jacket and the high-waisted faced pants. There is no picture of it currently available on the website, so my impromptu snap will have to suffice.

But truth be told, I could probably justify that suit: it is not particularly corporate, and there are occasions I could wear it. I don't need it, but I could wear it. Except….. except that I am going through an entirely different internal monologue concerning pants right at the moment. I could buy that suit, and it could be tailored to look good, and I would wear it, but there would always be small issues with the fit of the pants that although not particularly noticeable to others, make them uncomfortable for me. When I was younger, I just assumed that this was one of those inconveniences of life and I just lived with it. But this year I have made pants that fit pretty well, that are comfortable, sitting and standing, and walking and bending over and doing all the things that we humans normally do. And I have learned that I really like that level of comfort. The pants I made so far are not tailored, but are instead rather casual, straight, loose pants. But that doesn't mean I couldn't take the lessons I've learned and attempt to make a more tailored pant. I can alter tailored pants so that they fit better and look good, but perhaps I could achieve even more. I don't know. I'm not sure I'm ready to commit to a pair of ready-to-wear pants at this moment. And so my suit dreams fade.

Or do they? Do I even care about suits? Or am I just trapped in a stroll down memory lane? When I was cataloging my pattern collection I would look longingly at blazer and jacket patterns, and at suits. I'm not sure I would ever make a suit again, but I remember suits past, and am not I suppose ready to give up the thought of suits future, or at least the patterns that contain both memory and promise.

I don't know if I am going to make tailored pants, but I suspect I probably will. I do not know if I will ever make a suit jacket or blazer, but I might. I know I will make camp shirts. But I also know I'm not going to make all my clothes, nor buy all my clothes. I like the process too much, and I am privileged enough to have options and skill and choice.

At the moment perhaps I feel pulled between the idea of camp shirt and suit in the same way I feel pulled between various changes in my life. In some ways the camp shirt represents the life I increasingly aspire to, and the suit the life I have mostly, but not completely, relinquished. And between them is some middle ground, that is broad and wide and probably accommodates both.

Reality is a pastiche of things,

The second thing that caught my attention at the trunk show was this dress. Above (my photo) is a more accurate reflection of the color (at least on my monitor) than the photo from the website (below).

I took the photo because I like the idea of the dress and the way it is color blocked (all in one color). The dress is silk in a mixture of fabrications; georgette, crepe back satin, another silk, perhaps a heavy crepe de chine. Both sides of the crepe back satin are employed, creating matte and shiny surfaces. The different weaves reflect the light in different ways.

There is room in my life for a dress like this, but I would never buy or wear that dress because the color is one that would make me look particularly ill. As inspiration however, it sings. A similar idea could be used in any dress in any color. It is not so much the dress that appeals to me as the idea of the dress. To me the dress embodies the idea of play but it is also wearable, and even elegant. There is a thread between quilting cottons and suits and party dresses, between our career selves and both our early and late childhood selves. We can allow ourselves to play. What interests me in the sandbox of life may not be what interests you. But it is all the same sand.

"The world is so full of a number of things" wrote Robert Louis Stevenson. I'm sure you know the rest of the line, I shall not copy it here. When we are young the world is only as small as our imaginations, we can be anything and everything. And then we grow up and grow smaller. But perhaps we are each of us also as full of a number of selves. As we grow older we can choose to relinquish the narrow constraints that "adulthood" has placed on us, we don't have to be defined as the one thing that we were, but can embrace the many things that we are. Quilting cottons and fancy silks bear equal weight on the spectrum of our imaginations.

July 30, 2024
In My Own little Corner

This is one of my happy places.

In the library, the corner where my desk sits. Of course I look out at all the books except the ones behind me, but it is easy to roll my chair around as needed. This corner houses my cookbook collection, or about half of my cookbook collection. The other half is downstairs in the breakfast nook. The wooden stool is not usually there, but I needed to access a high shelf.

I recently resorted all the cookbooks. I had thought about it for a while; I've been cooking a great deal the last few months — exploring new recipes, revisiting old favorites, thinking about the way I want to eat now — and in the process realizing that the way my cookbooks had been ordered recently wasn't really working for me. But shifting books, especially big heavy hardback books, is a job. It is a job made all the harder because the books are on two levels of the house and when I started I had only a rudimentary idea of which books would go upstairs and which would be downstairs. All I knew was that the previous method, straight alphabetical by author on each level was confusing. The books I used the most were downstairs; the remainder were upstairs. But then I would start using a book that was upstairs more, and a book that was downstairs less. When I wanted to cook Thai, or Spanish, or whatever, none of the books were together, and I like to compare recipes. Long ago, when I cooked a lot, I grouped books by category. It was time to go back.

Admittedly I never really stopped cooking, but I had grown a bit staid and stale. Then I bought a new mixer after contemplating it for about 3 years. I hadn't really done any baking in those three years, whereas I used to bake a great deal. Baking for one is problematic, and my church no longer has a coffee hour on Sunday, so I no longer have the excuse of baking things that I can take to church. Yet I miss the act of baking and making dessert. I actually miss making desserts more than I miss eating them.

So I bought the mixer above and started playing. This will be a good mixer when I get to bread, but I'm not there yet. I started with simple and familiar basics: choux pastry (which does not require a mixer at all) and meringues and pavlovas. I made choux puffs to make tiny appetizer sized lobster rolls, then I made cream-puffs, where the mixer was required for the pastry cream, and savory puffs filled with pimento cheese, and salmon mousse. I made multiple batches of pavlovas with spring berries. I made a batch of cupcakes and then I stopped baking for a while. I'm not worried, I will start up again, probably as the weather cools. But the mixer, and the baking, shifted my brain from the utilitarian "I need to eat" setting to "let's play in the kitchen" mode. I'm still playing.

It seems like I've been doing everything except writing. I play in the kitchen. I work in the garden, mostly weeding, but I went through a period where my early mornings were all spent wrestling with chicken wire as the rabbits were feasting on my vegetable beds and my flowers. I've been sewing, slowly but steadily, learning new things as I go, but also making things I am happy with and happy to wear. Knitting. Reading. Occasionally seeing friends.

All of this makes for a very full and happy life, but it is not necessarily an interesting life to write about. What would I say? "I cooked dinner, I am working on a muslin, I knit four rows of lace?" Who cares? I've been reading, but mostly reading genre fiction which I have thoroughly enjoyed but I don't really have anything to say about the books, nor do I need to say anything.

Mostly I've just been wondering what the purpose of a blog is in this world where the internet and social media in particular sometimes feels like it has become too commercialized, to politicized, too fraught. I was an innocent when I started this blog. I am terrible about throwing away pieces of paper. I've lost a lot of things. I thought of this blog as a journal I couldn't throw away only to regret it later. A part of me wants to go back to those innocent days. That may not be possible. But it seems that writing here fills a role, provides some outlet that I still need. Throwing words out into the digital void is different than writing a journal. It is not better. It is not worse. It is different and I write differently. I also see myself differently, and learn about myself in different ways.

Somehow, a post Lisa wrote in 2011 came up on my feed. That post is here. I don't know why, I think I just needed a little kick. So I think I will post a picture from my kitchen window. If I am standing at the sink, this is the view from my window. But the entire outside wall of my kitchen is windows. I neglected to put in upper cabinets because I wanted the view. In the house before this house, the condo I lived in when I first moved to Knoxville, there was no kitchen window. The kitchen was in the center of the house, there was no view to the outside. I hated it. In retrospect perhaps that contributed to why I lost interest in cooking. George died. I had only to cook for myself. I felt claustrophobic in that kitchen.

It has taken me a while to settle fully into this new house; there were reasons, but I am here now. My kitchen is another one of my happy places. I watch the robins while my coffee brews in the morning. At the moment my big fancy espresso machine needs a bit of fiddling and I don't have the patience for it, so the drip coffee maker is out. Apparently this is a happy place for my orchid as well. No complaints here.

July 20, 2024