So Kris and I were in her car going to the store, and we were driving by this shopping center and I was reading out loud all the different restaraunts and stores, and I said, “Wow, sushi? Noodles, Panera Bread? This place has everything I like! (pass a Sleep Country) Sleep?! (pass a Dick’s sporting goods) Dicks?!” And then we fucking laughed, only I couldn’t stop laughing for like 20 minutes, so I was walking around Winco just laughing to myself.
“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.