Tapestries of Scraps and Hookers.
These days, as they are shorter and the darkness longer, the temps are dropping and the once brilliantly colored trees are starting to drop their seasonal garlands. I've always loved fall, which admitting it probably makes me a little basic white bitch. Usually I would say oh well, but these days . . . eh. National events aside, the power to persevere in the face of life itself is sometimes lost on even me. Moments in between, and stopping to literally smell the falling leaves, has kept a balance. Not a metaphorical one--as that one is just crazy, spiraled, and ugly--but a literal moment in time to stop and stare.
Yet, these days I've got an ugly planner . . . one that is colored, just about indexed, and as I'm told every minute of the day is planned. Just about . . .That being said, a crushing schedule comes on the heels of needing to find normalcy, financial balance, and all that jazz. There's also avoidance at the being ghosted twice in the same calendar season by the same dude. Yeah, I'm an idiot . . . let's just say, I'm seriously thinking that giving it a "second chance" policy is overrated. That sad part, he was not one of the flesh twinkie sharers. I mean, come on . . . you didn't think I was really going to jump on any of those now did you? There are some things I won't be that desperate for . . . just sayin'.
Yet, like the '90s Riot Grrrl I am I keep walking on like Nirvana said it best in "About a Girl."
"I'll take advantage while you hang me out to dry, but I can't see you every night for free."
Yet, in moments between sleeping, grading, and shuttling about I rescued some scraps of silk and passport stamps and crafted a couple of bras.
I know, I haven't posted about the things that ooze from my sewing machine in awhile, but rest assured they still happen. On Instagram I've posted a few, but in all honesty the bra fit is down, the tee shirt fit is down, the knit pencil skirt, the wrap dress . . . how many times do you want to read me wax poetic about basics? Okay. Okay.
Here though, think about it like this . . . these scraps, left over from a silk-blend from Bulgaria I crafted a Seamwork robe from, worked out just perfect. The side bars are actually cut on the cross grain (don't do that, there's a reason I had to adjust the straps to make it sit properly). That being said, this one was thick enough to not need a lining, and I added two rows of decorative top stitching to mimic the insane fabric pattern. That ladybug charm on the power bar is from a scrap bag I was gifted filled with ribbon, zippers, and buttons. The decorative elastic came from Romania, and the silk thread I used to stitch is all up with is from my favorite silk blouse. In some ways, this bra could tell a story of its own.
From the fabric I made a largely self drafted drape tank. I used parts of three tanks to create elements of it, then I french seamed the shoulders and sides, and finally hand stitched the binding and hem. This blouse--hands down--is a favorite. When I'm normal sized Nessa is falls and hits my hips with a nice drape and grace. When I'm bloated-Lupus Nessa it blouses and creates a nice billow effect. When I wear with it a pair of jeans . . .you get the picture. I loved it so much that it was part of my capsule wardrobe during last summer's travels, and I wore it and my hot pink silk, twill shorts so much I was certain someone in Corvallis was going to ask me if I owned another shirt (or pair of shorts).
The irony here, that I am well aware of, is that I've got a lingerie drawer befitting a high class hooker. Yet, I get laid less than a nun. And, seriously, it is not for lack of opportunity--as well . . . the albino asparagus and dangling metaphors are in my digital trash, and if I really wanted I am certain I could trot my jolly self to any of the local watering holes in my mixed, gritty, and chaotic 'hood to find myself a "man" willing. Of course, willing and my letting him in the door (yes, I see the pun) are of differing levels of embracing my mantra of no rules.
That being said, as fall slips away to winter and I sit here in a flannel and yoga pants I shimmy a little knowing there's a hooker bra hanging out, bringing anything but mundane or misery to an overbooked day and well taxed soul. It's the little things, moments, and hidden scraps of silk and lace that weave these moments together . . . making them a tapestry of life and pleasure verses darkness and dismay. Even with a double ghosting (in a singular calendar season), the crushing of mid life, and chilly nights left wandering why I still put up the good fight there's the soft and subtle caress of silk left to be found. Between song lines, on the subway when you look around and realize you are the only white person on the train but you are safer here than probably anywhere else, and while purchasing Ayran and the clerk ignores the line to chat with you as he misses speaking in his native tongue and finds your cobbled Turkish a refreshing break among guttural calls for apples, coffees, and egg sandwiches.
Sometimes the hooker isn't a hooker at all. Instead, she's a part of the fabric itself.
(And, yes, there's a print hanging in the back of my closet. There just is.)
A little array from a Long Island campus (left to and far right and the Bronx in the middle).
Yet, these days I've got an ugly planner . . . one that is colored, just about indexed, and as I'm told every minute of the day is planned. Just about . . .That being said, a crushing schedule comes on the heels of needing to find normalcy, financial balance, and all that jazz. There's also avoidance at the being ghosted twice in the same calendar season by the same dude. Yeah, I'm an idiot . . . let's just say, I'm seriously thinking that giving it a "second chance" policy is overrated. That sad part, he was not one of the flesh twinkie sharers. I mean, come on . . . you didn't think I was really going to jump on any of those now did you? There are some things I won't be that desperate for . . . just sayin'.
Yet, like the '90s Riot Grrrl I am I keep walking on like Nirvana said it best in "About a Girl."
"I'll take advantage while you hang me out to dry, but I can't see you every night for free."
Yet, in moments between sleeping, grading, and shuttling about I rescued some scraps of silk and passport stamps and crafted a couple of bras.
I know, I haven't posted about the things that ooze from my sewing machine in awhile, but rest assured they still happen. On Instagram I've posted a few, but in all honesty the bra fit is down, the tee shirt fit is down, the knit pencil skirt, the wrap dress . . . how many times do you want to read me wax poetic about basics? Okay. Okay.
Here though, think about it like this . . . these scraps, left over from a silk-blend from Bulgaria I crafted a Seamwork robe from, worked out just perfect. The side bars are actually cut on the cross grain (don't do that, there's a reason I had to adjust the straps to make it sit properly). That being said, this one was thick enough to not need a lining, and I added two rows of decorative top stitching to mimic the insane fabric pattern. That ladybug charm on the power bar is from a scrap bag I was gifted filled with ribbon, zippers, and buttons. The decorative elastic came from Romania, and the silk thread I used to stitch is all up with is from my favorite silk blouse. In some ways, this bra could tell a story of its own. 
Bulgaria, a little forgotten country of Eastern Europe, refreshed me in some ways. A couple of days in the Balkans did my soul some good, I met a couple of great people, and the feel of that air and the breath taking beauty of Rila still walks with me. My mornings in Sofia were the most breath taking time of day for me. The petite balcony I had encapsulated me, while letting me hang over the city and capture the faint echo of carts rolling and the gleaming rays of the rising sun.
The chaotic mix, the juxtaposition of poverty and middle class, and the rolling country side emulate this disco, near retro '80s, punk print. FYI: it's the basic Marlborough Bra I've done a dozen or so times now.
These days there isn't much I wouldn't give for a couple of days in that apartment, overlooking the city, meeting my landlord Dani for coffee, or having a beer with someone random . . . though, in true fashion a bar tender tried very valiantly to teach me the sentence "I would like a beer." I settled with "bira" while flashing a smile and blue eyes. I've been told recently that blue eyes mean power . . . well, I'm without power so I'm like "what the what," but I like to think the smile is really what got me that beer.
Alongside that bra, of scraps and memories, the robe hangs on the corner of my bed like a poetic memory that I use in moments of flutter around my studio.
Beyond the '80s retro, hooker tacky bra I dug up some other scraps from the heap to make a second bra of absolute luxury. In a charmeuse-type silk from Romania, that was a panel print--end of the bolt--I had just enough to A) cut everything on the grain and B) match it. That purple lace was a remnant Sarah from the old Grey's Fabric sent me, and the rest is scraps . . . this one is even lined with black bra fabric.
From the fabric I made a largely self drafted drape tank. I used parts of three tanks to create elements of it, then I french seamed the shoulders and sides, and finally hand stitched the binding and hem. This blouse--hands down--is a favorite. When I'm normal sized Nessa is falls and hits my hips with a nice drape and grace. When I'm bloated-Lupus Nessa it blouses and creates a nice billow effect. When I wear with it a pair of jeans . . .you get the picture. I loved it so much that it was part of my capsule wardrobe during last summer's travels, and I wore it and my hot pink silk, twill shorts so much I was certain someone in Corvallis was going to ask me if I owned another shirt (or pair of shorts). 
That was along the Corvallis, OR waterfront . . . after a bike ride in silk. IN SILK. Yeah, I know. Laugh at me.
Back to that bra . . . when I posted it on Instagram I remarked about how when I met my MD I went in there on a laundry day. I honestly didn't think I'd have to worry about a full on exam, but as my karma goes . . . yeah, imagine my mortification when he saw my store bought full-on hooker bra REPLETE with rhinestones. Yeah. I still remember the encounter vividly, and hand-to-god when I book a MD appointment (with him or anyone) I stash a bra in the back of drawer now. Why? Um, no need to duplicate hooker girl. It's a good laugh though. I know you are . . .
Though, I added a rhinestone from a batch of vintage cast offs, and I have to say that I think my rhinestones function like a little ray of hooker underneath. Why yes, underneath my sensible shoes, tights, pencil skirts, and cardigans there's a hooker pent up in the conformity to pay the bills and make it through a day of subway hopping without getting full on groped. I do live on the seven, after all.
The irony here, that I am well aware of, is that I've got a lingerie drawer befitting a high class hooker. Yet, I get laid less than a nun. And, seriously, it is not for lack of opportunity--as well . . . the albino asparagus and dangling metaphors are in my digital trash, and if I really wanted I am certain I could trot my jolly self to any of the local watering holes in my mixed, gritty, and chaotic 'hood to find myself a "man" willing. Of course, willing and my letting him in the door (yes, I see the pun) are of differing levels of embracing my mantra of no rules.
That being said, as fall slips away to winter and I sit here in a flannel and yoga pants I shimmy a little knowing there's a hooker bra hanging out, bringing anything but mundane or misery to an overbooked day and well taxed soul. It's the little things, moments, and hidden scraps of silk and lace that weave these moments together . . . making them a tapestry of life and pleasure verses darkness and dismay. Even with a double ghosting (in a singular calendar season), the crushing of mid life, and chilly nights left wandering why I still put up the good fight there's the soft and subtle caress of silk left to be found. Between song lines, on the subway when you look around and realize you are the only white person on the train but you are safer here than probably anywhere else, and while purchasing Ayran and the clerk ignores the line to chat with you as he misses speaking in his native tongue and finds your cobbled Turkish a refreshing break among guttural calls for apples, coffees, and egg sandwiches.
Sometimes the hooker isn't a hooker at all. Instead, she's a part of the fabric itself.
(And, yes, there's a print hanging in the back of my closet. There just is.)
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