“For me, the most poignant issue is the fact that the United States gave away its entire garment industry,” she says—an industry that this country previously dominated. Where the United States once made 90 percent of Americans’ clothes, it not makes as little as 3 percent, she said.
“And you know, if I had written this book before the recession, that point probably wouldn’t have hit quite so close to home…. One of the main industries that allowed people to move up in the middle class, especially in a place like New York, was the garment industry. It’s largely gone now.”
Elizabeth Cline making the case for a “slow clothes movement” and for reading her new book, Overdressed: The Shockingly High Cost of Cheap Fashion, which she’ll be presenting tonight at Powerhouse Arena.
You are the North wind,
cold, bitter and stark.
Driving down mountain passes,
bearing through the valley,
bringing with you
the chilling animosity
of a thousand years of winter,
as we shiver through our sweaters.
But I am the North star,
guiding all men home.
I shine with the solidarity
of millennia of unanimity.
I am a light
in dark places.
Weary travelers follow my tail,
and blaze a trail to their front doors.
You cannot overtake me,
I am high above.
Fog may forsake me,
cumulus obscure the sky.
But while you turn powers to evil,
chilling men to the bone,
I still light the path,
the star that guides men home.
I left my home in the little valley
nestled in the Siskiyous,
tall pines waved goodbye as I drove away
but were not sad to see me go.
The river rushed alongside the road,
like a child chasing grandma’s car down the driveway
shouting and waving farewell
long after we were out of sight.
The sky opened on wide horizons,
the likes of which I had never seen.
Mountains gave way to plains,
to desert, to endless farmland
fields of corn, soybeans, cattle.
Heartland, lifeblood of a nation
or GMO poison,
Raced through the Badlands,
Pacific, Mountain, Central,
on highways of endless asphalt.
Freeways flow through the land
like concrete rivers,
their banks cut deep
by back-hoes and power tools,
roughly hewn man-made endeavors.
To the land of ten thousand lakes,
to the North Woods,
deeper and colder
than the River Styx.
Where native blood still flows
through the earth, ground water
released in bubbling springs
breathes life into a desolate landscape.
Snow falls now in a thick blanket,
deep and soft as a down comforter.
But in my heart there are only mountains,
sun on the rivers, and the smell of pines.
A circle boasts absolutes.
It’s completion is imminent,
a guaranteed infinite,
secure in it’s confines and rules.
I am the Pi symbol.
I stand for a great truth,
representing mathematical proof
of relations within the circle.
But all I am is squiggled lines,
A-symmetrical and imperfect
unable to grasp the complexity
of my own innate symbolism.
I may hold the key to secrets,
but I don’t know what it looks like
or where the hell it goes,
or how to use it if I did.
Without an interpreter,
I’m just a pointless scribble
screaming my own name into the void,
desperate for the echo to validate me.
Frozen Pines, frosted with snow
My heart’s twice as cold,
Though shipped to warmer climate.
To all my Haters,
out there in the world,
you sub-par debaters
of religion and morals,
I don’t give a fuck
what you choose to relate
you’re trapped in the muck
and spew nothing but hate.
So why should I listen,
respect or attend
to anyone given
to believing in pretend?
When I know for a fact
the truth that you seek
lies not in a contract,
but within you and me.
So go on, hate away,
you haters of mine
‘cause at the end of the day,
it’s my life that’s divine.
You could secretly be a vase,
temporary home to some transient flowers,
all tied around with ribbon and lace
displaying the product of these April showers.
But when I fill your chamber with milky white smoke
like a bullet in the barrel of a six-shooter gun,
then empty it quickly, with a cough and a choke,
injecting 500 cc’s straight into my lungs,
It becomes quickly apparent, that vase you are not
though similar in form, in function quite strange
the smoke cloud erupts, translucent and hot
whilst the THC pulses through my veins.
Your power is understated, misjudged you again,
but when the smoke clears, we’ll still be best friends.
Gin, Tequila, Vodka, Rum,
Triple Sec and a splash of Coke,
Sent reeling like a drunken bum,
Slurring like I’d had a stroke.
Tall glass of ice and lemon wedge,
Complete with tiny plastic sword.
Shrieked like a banshee jumping the hedge,
Fighting off the imaginary horde.
Internet jukebox in the dive bar
Plays Don’t Stop Believin’ after 3Oh!3,
Buy me a drink and we’ll see how far
My reputation has preceded me.
Call a taxi, get me home,
Make sure I don’t go to bed alone.
tumblrbot asked: WHAT IS YOUR EARLIEST HUMAN MEMORY?
My very earliest memory is a bit foggy, I’m about 2 years old, at a petting zoo with my parents. My mother is pregnant with my younger brother, and there are goats. The second earliest memory is a little more lucid. Its maybe a few weeks later, when my brother was born. I remember being in the waiting room of the hospital with my aunts, and my Grandmother bringing my play doctor’s bag and a stuffed bear, so that I could play doctor in the hospital. I don’t remember seeing my brother, or even my parents really. Just being so excited to play doctor on that bear! In retrospect, that was a genius move by Grandma. She was always very imaginative and perceptive.
Poison-tipped darts sing through the air
sharp tongues words fall on deaf ears
Here in the sanctuary of light and love
we are protected by the stars above
No demon can cross the threshold we guard
though the ground beneath it’s feet is seared and charred
Thrust back to the darkness by broadsword and bow
we wield inner light, emitting this glow
Our power is strong and our purpose is true,
sent here to Earth to liberate YOU