Greenstorm's Journal

I'm writing about sewing again, but this is really a post about clothing in general.

Most of the time clothing is at least a little uncomfortable for me. It can be a problem in several ways: it can restrict movement, which then limits my abilities and can also be hard on my muscles and joints since I have to do movement workarounds to accomplish what I need to. It can give me distracting or painful sensations, anything from full-on hives or shooting pain in my legs to just low-level static that I don't notice which takes up some cognitive load to manage. And then, it can fail to keep me protected from the elements so I'm cold (or whatever) (and then can still have those other issues).

Clothing has always been uncomfortable for me so I don't think about it much. I grew up in a place where clothing was necessary for comfort but not for survival and most of my clothing was from thrift stores; it kind of fit, it was made from whatever.

When I was just out of high school, I remember my mom trying to get my brother go to for walks. He lived with dad, and he wouldn't. Eventually they realized that his shoes were too small, so it hurt him quite a bit to walk with her. I remember thinking at the time that limiting comfortable clothing was such an effective way of controlling someone, of limiting their ability to take joy in the world outside their home.

When I first started summer studenting up north I had more freedom to get myself clothing than I'd had before, ever: I was making some money, and it was important that I spend some of that money on clothing that enabled my work; you don't go to the bush in jeans. I bought into a mostly-proper layering system, on sale so weird colours and kind of cobbled together from merino or standard waffle knit skin layer pants with used army pants over them; a wicking running sock with wool oversocks; thin quick-dry tank tops with either sheer cotton men's dress shirts or my one prized brand-name moisture-moving thick wicking long-sleeved shirt; a brand-name slightly puffy zip jacket. I wasn't entirely new to this sort of thing, since I'd been working in landscaping for years, but in landscaping I could work harder when I was cold and soak a headscarf with a hose if I was too hot. It was in landscaping where I started wearing a headscarf, which is possibly the best extreme-weather-mitigating piece of clothing I've found. In timber cruising it was full speed ahead through effectively an obstacle course, lifting legs to step over hip-height or belly-height logs, bending down and slithering under, all that jazz. Then, once I got to the plot, it was standing still and taking very careful measurements for an amount of time, writing it down, and starting the whole thing over again. My clothing also had to deal with unconventional movements: lifting my legs up to belly-button height to climb over logs, or bending to squirm under them.

I more-or-less got the right clothes. This is where I started to learn that clothing didn't have to be uncomfortable, but I didn't fully realize it at the time. I was living in a cold environment so I couldn't use the clothing workarounds I'd used before, light unconfining dresses and tank tops. A lot of people wore this sort of bush clothes to the bush. Cold in the north just didn't affect my body as much. I did notice just a little that when I went back to the coast for the winter I felt freer outside but I just thought I was in better shape, or didn't think too much of it.

Fast forward seven years and a lot of those clothes have worn out. I'd sewn a batch of similar stuff my second year in the bush to supplement what I got on sale the first year; it's much cheaper to sew with fancy fabrics than it is to buy already-sewn objects. I've spent the last couple years buying the cheapest versions of the more obviously-necessary layers (merino long underwear wears out fast, especially the cheap stuff) and my outer layers have been slowly degrading and I've been wearing whatever is to hand overtop: stretch jeans, socks meant to be an all-in-one system, long underwear tops with a scarf since my fancy light jackets have been seriously compromised at this point. My favourite non-farm boots wore out and the new pair, bought more cheaply, is still insulated but doesn't breathe as well so my feet get damp and then cold, especially without a two-layer sock system.

My world gets smaller.

And I don't just mean I'm not as good in the bush. As I conserve that fancy expensive wear for bush work I wear lined jeans or cotton shirts with a sweater in the house or to work, and my world there is smaller too. My house is really unevenly heated, so I avoid sitting in the cooler parts of it. The waistband on jeans or bought long underwear doesn't fit as well, so it does that weird thing where when I sit for too long my legs get jumpy and painful. I spend less time outside since it's usually colder. I spend less time bending and stretching since my clothes have far less range of position than my body does, so I avoid activities that ask for bending and stretching; I sew a little less, I garden a little less, I never spontaneously break into dance in my livingroom. I don't go outside and get down on the ground with the animals as much because the warm stuff I have left is more like conventional sweaters, and it picks up dirt and straw. I'm less likely to go for walks with folks at work because my boots are more slippery on the bottoms than my old ones. My warm gloves wore out so I just don't touch things in the winter as much; not as many projects get done.

And not just my movement is limited. My expectation of comfort reduces as well. Little by little I tune out the scratchy itchy whine of my skin when there's cool pressure put on it, or the hot prickle of bits of straw that aren't excluded by the loose weave of cheap long underwear or by an outer layer that I go without as often as possible because it bites into my upper hips. Little by little I associate being too cold with being out of bed and going about my day is tinted with shoulders lifted and tensed against that discomfort.

None of these are huge impositions. I'm not shivering in a corner over here; if I was I'd get a blanket. I can bend down and touch my toes better than most people even in jeans over long underwear. I don't know whether this is a sensory sensitivity thing, if most people just don't experience this kind of limitation from their clothing. I don't know if this is a poor thing, if most people allocate a larger percentage of their budget and are more able to regularly get clothing that suits their needs.

I do know that it erodes my quality of life.

So this winter I spent a bunch of money on fancy fabric; military surplus and off-print technical fabric to cut down on price. I spent enough to buy maybe even four fancy outer garments. I'm slowly working my way through sorting patterns to fit my body, and then I expect to turn out several years' worth of garments. This post is being written in my second tester shirt; the first one I wore, unfinished and not quite the right fit, three times in the first week I made it. This one I put on to test the neckline (need to adjust it) and I haven't been able to bring myself to take it off. It's comfortable.

I'm looking forward to being warm again, and being able to move again?

But also as I do this I'm feeling so grateful to what allows me to take on this project: some days off over the winter, and lots of time to myself in the evenings. A storage container supplied by a friend that allows me to have enough room to store things outdoors, which allows a clear sewing table indoors for a couple months and which will allow for stored extra fabric. A sewing machine I had the luxury of toting with me through over a dozen moves, and another machine given me by a friend. A lineage of women who sewed: my grandmother's sewing machine that I learned on, my mom's patience and willingness to explain principles and then allow me freedom to play on the machine as a child instead of making it a chore I was doing wrong. A short course in high school that contained a sewing element. An explosion of sewing videos on youtube, which help me understand the flippy funhouse-mirror spatial aspects of constructing shapes out of other shapes. And the time, patience, and cognitive function to think through my plans, to test things, to problem-solve those tests, to try again and again until I understand what's wrong, fix that thing, and manage to do it right. These are all rare in life, luxuries that support the luxury of my fancy garments.

Clothing is one of those things humans do; it allows us to adapt to so many environments. The right clothing allows us to adapt better to environments, sometimes in surprising ways. Tonight I'm thinking about how different my experiences of that adaptation have been, and wondering just how much quality of life could be improved if everyone could access comfortable, suitable clothes.

-20C last night, probably -30 tonight. Last night was a windstorm and I think it snowed, but everything blew so much it's hard to tell. The outdoor tap was frozen this morning, even after I stoked the fire. I ended up putting a toque on the tap and turning the fire way up (this 24-hour period I'll go through three loads of wood instead of the usual 1) and it finally thawed around 2pm.

Everyone has had a bunch of water and food. I couldn't dig the cord out of the ice to give the muscovies heat so I gave them a ton of fresh straw. The front of the pighouse blew off (that A-frame is just falling apart) but when I went out to fix it in the sunshine I lost most of my visual field due to a migraine and had to come in for a bit. It's dark now, I'll go out and carry a ton of straw to the pigs and put the front back on for them, hopefully I'll be able to see this time. I hope the visual thing is just the normal non-pain parts of a migraine and going out there won't launch a full one.

House is warm, I've got a bunch of wood split for the next few days, but really when it's this cold I just want to hunker down inside and stay safe.

Last couple days I've sewed a test sock and a test fingerless glove. Both need alterations (fingerless glove needs width added at the wrist, sock needs to figure to how to angle the toes instead of going straight across). I wore my test Marie Claude all day today and it seems ok under the polar fleece I have on. The sleeves are just that touch snug. I think the reason the back is a little weird is the whole thing is sitting tilted backwards, that is, the shoulders are sitting too far back on my body, maybe because the back of the neck comes up too high on my neck (because I sewed the band on messily?). Tempted to make a big shaggy thermal pro version of it anyhow.

Ooof, ok, it's dark and work is over. Wish me luck on the migraine/whatever it is.

Today, instead of doing a second iteration of the stasia, I did a mockup of Jalie's Marie Claude. Again I made it in the grey powerdry grid stuff with roughly 35% stretch or so. My initial size is "AA" and I made the pattern as-is, with no alterations.

This size is good as a second layer, or for slightly more thick fabrics. I'd size down a total of 2-3" around the bust, to X or Y, for a light jersey skin layer. Otherwise it fits well, good length, good neck size (though I cleaned out all the bobbin ends on the neck band, which was possibly not the wisest place to use them up).

The one exception is, I need to make the arm bigger around: both the shoulder and the forearm, I guess, though the bicep itself is tolerable. I plan to do this by starting 5" down from the neck on the sleeve, splitting it the long way, and spreading it an inch down to 15 or 16" (where my elbow is) and then opening it about 1.5" from there. I mean, this is more of a gradual spread than that sounds like, but you get the idea.

I'm hoping that sizing it down will get rid of a little extra fabric around the armpit.

I really like the sleeve length.

Note to add a front princess-seam panel with a phone pocket in it if I want.

Edited to add: I may want to take a long wedge out of the pattern from between my shoulderblades to the bottom hem, maybe a total of 2-3" of fabric at the bottom? and maybe a horizontal diamond across my lower back that's an inch or two? I do notice that as I wear the shirt things are settling nicely into place in general.

Edited again to add: I bet the princess seam piece could be used to add that s-shape curve across belly and back that the pattern is lacking, plus hold the phone pocket.

And when I make it in a floofy fabric maybe I can use a light stretch woven for the pocket?

It always starts out utilitarian.

I've approached something sideways. There's something I'd like in my life, to store excess pork, to see how something grows, to wear comfortable clothing that fits.

I can't really afford the easy solution: buy another freezer, hire a gardener or get fancy raised beds built full of groomed soil and irrigation systems, shell out for the kind of high-end clothing that both fits and suits my set of temperatures and activities.

I sit with the lack awhile and live, either in anticipation or in real time, with what happens if I keep on business as usual: half my carefully-loved pork goes bad, the meaning and connection in my life disappear, I don't want to get out of bed and am in varying degrees of discomfort when I do.

The pressure of the unsatisfactory situation builds until a spark manifests in the right place at the right time: an article on old-fashioned meat curing, a post on seed diversity and appropriate variety selection, an ad from somewhere I bought mask-lining fabric a couple years back.

It neither looks nor feels like an explosion. It's not really a spark. It's a seed crystal falling into supersaturated liquid. Is it saturated with discontent at my current situation? Is it saturated with my current knowledge and love of patterning? That's not what it feels like. It feels like I'm suddenly part of a structure, a part of humanity, that has always existed, that I'm being woven into the world one strand of knowledge at a time.

I click on a linked article. A strand of knowledge connects me. Another article is suggested and I read it too. Another piece of crystal forms, another stand in the web patterns me in. Maybe I search for a facebook group and join it. Facts, technologies, methods, approaches, new ways of playing, new ways of engaging with the world: some I see and they pass me by, but others click into my situation. They give me options other than my dissatisfaction.

I can't afford to kit out a charcuterie fridge but there are bags that help regulate humidity and can let a regular old hand-me-down fridge stand in for one. Pink salts (not the himalayan ones) prevent botulism, which grows in the absence of oxygen. Smoke can delay rancidity. It doesn't take much to buy one of those fancy bags and put some meat in it; once I've done that I might as well try a different cut of meat, a different set of spices, a different salt level.

I can't afford to make a conventional controlled garden but there are animals that can dig the soil, mulch that can smother the lawn I can't afford to have tilled under, varieties that will grow without the infrastructure of a greenhouse. If I put pigs on the lawn I can eat them later and their feed cost is basically just paying for fertilizing and rototilling and the eventual meat. Straw is cheap. If I assemble relatively inexpensive seeds from people who have similar environments and do selection on them and their offspring, I can get ripe tomatoes and squash from much more garden than I can afford to cover with greenhouse. Once I'm there I might as well use ducks and chickens for bug control, geese to mow the lawn, and I get such lovely nutrient-enriched straw from them. Once I'm there I might as well select not just for ability to ripen but for flavour and beauty and story since I can grow out so much on my land and don't need to expand greenhouses to do it.

I can't afford to buy expensive fancy fabric straight up but there are misprints, seconds available that have the same function, places that sell weird shapes and amounts and colours more cheaply. I can't afford to buy dozens of patterns and the highest end fabric but I can alter a pattern to accommodate the cheaper fabric, the one that has less stretch but equal warmth and softness so is a significantly less cost. I can't afford a ton of fabric but I can use every last bit of what I have, can make neck warmers and fingerless gloves. And I can sew scraps together, use different types of fabric in one garment so nothing goes to waste, and now I'm colour-blocking and using precious stretch fabric on side panels where I need the most movement and using bits of fabric for pockets on everything and planning out overlapping uses for each garment so I need the fewest different ones without doing too much laundry.

I'm curious, I have an outcome in mind, will I meet that outcome or will I learn something? Either way I get drawn in and meeting my utilitarian goal becomes a way of playing with the rules of the universe, and also of playing with the people who have come before and have worked and frolicked and built knowledge in this same pool. They talk about parallel play and in some ways this is it: people play and they write or video about it, and I take that and alter it and run with it and maybe write about it back. I almost never find people who want to do the thing close to me physically but there's an undeniable closeness from playing the same game as someone else, even if I'm playing it somewhere else.

And that play is pretty much where I find my joy.

I'm not consistent. I do charcuterie a few times a year, I garden a little more than half the year, maybe a little more than that if you count the spreadsheeting that always comes with my interests. And apparently I do sewing every six years or so.

My memories live in these activities and I access my past and future self through doing these things.

I remember my mom and brother helping me put the first batch of pork in cure, and they help me often enough with these things that my brother's handwriting is on a lot of my meat. I remember those first pigs, their noses peeking out of the little house. I remember the long wait to learn what was too salty, the way each spice sparks curiosity: what would juniper taste like in prosciuttini? What about madagascar peppercorn? Homemade absinthe? Berbere? I remember sharing things I'd made and trading them for my old boss's tinctures, opening the way to new explorations in a way that felt like an unobtrusive collaboration.

I remember the scent of the first plant I interacted with, fennel growing out of the paving stones in Las Angeles, and I remember harvesting Lunaria seeds in the side-garden a few years later, and hauling manure in a wheelbarrow up from the barn years after that and so I remember the barn and the texture of the side of the house as I put up nails to strong my tomatoes on. I remember my first greenhouse, built with Juggler, and I remember my first black tomato. I don't have to reach back far to remember the first time I saw hugely varied textures in tomato foliage. My downstairs is still a cornucopia of widely varied squash, one of which my cat hauled to his bed last night.

I remember the month in college (was it more than a month?) where whenever I left home not in a work uniform I had to leave it in a newly-sewn outfit because I couldn't tolerate anything I already owned. I remember the florescent-lit basement of the cheap fabric store where the extra-cheap seconds were. I remember scoring the full rolls of "athletic fabric" I still use for mock-ups, and my skirt, strap-vest, and veiled top-hat ensemble I put together for an event that now escapes me. I remember laying out patterns on Josh's floor before our winter backpacking trip, measuring and checking and measuring and checking to make pairs of pants that would work for me. I remember learning about fabric structures and I remember the sound of my friend the sewing machine and my body remembers how to swoop the thread down and sideways and up and around and down again to settle it into its guides. I still have a few tattered garments that don't set my body off, that don't send pain and electricity down my legs, that don't raise hives on the front of my thighs or the tops of my hips, that let me get out of bed in a cold environment and move freely through it.

The next situations of dissatisfaction are an inability to afford new snowboots (could I really make boots?!) and my inability to afford fresh vegetables (when lettuce is $8/head, hydroponics does seem to be the answer, and that's what kratky was designed for).

All this is to say that I have pork jowls in my freezer that need to go into cure; seeds I crossed this summer in all manner of ways from controlled to insect-and-crossed-fingers and it's good. Then, after spreadsheeting and fabric buying and pattern cutting, last night for the first time in years I felt the clatter of my cheap little sewing machine and the silky hum of Josh's antique Singer. It was, as is everything I do, utilitarian to serve a purpose I could not otherwise afford. I even paused a moment and thought - what would I do with my time if I could just buy these clothes? Would I talk to friends? Spend evenings watching TV and lazily chatting? Take up jigsaw puzzles?

So I'm not writing all this to say it isn't work, and that it doesn't come at many kinds of opportunity cost of time, thought, knowledge acquisition, and energy.

I am writing it to say that this way that I accommodate myself in this world also feels like coming home within it.