Al Sobrante, where have you gone?
I am thankful every day for the power of the associative brain, but the images called to mind by the stitching of a collar to a kimono are truly baffling.
Watching the needle weave methodically in and out of the dense cotton, I am wondering how many miles of thread I have slipstitched in the 23 years since I first picked up the overstuffed tomato pincushion (with emery-filled strawberry needle sharpener) that is now my talisman. How many strangely wonderful and uniquely horrible sacrifices have I lain piously at the feet of the Altar of Singer? The avocado-green velvet bolero that absolutely had to be finished before the show at Gilman. The empire-waisted sky-blue satin princess gown, lingering still in the costume closet of FAO Schwarz and desperately in need of dry-cleaning. Christine's ivory silk wedding gown, an inch too short but otherwise a perfect replica of the fuschia and purple confection that was its mentor. A four-breasted witch body draped in filthy grey rags, doubling doubling toiling and troubling the outdoor ampitheatre during a hot summer in Santa Cruz.
And now you're asking yourself impatiently, "What the hell does this have to do with Green Day?" Well, here's the thing: among my many other domestic talents, I have been known to *occasionally* sew an oversized joint out of an old t-shirt and a used army jacket. And I have been known to take said stuffed joint to a show in Sebastopol as a gift for aforementioned band, because I may or may not have been a groupie. And perhaps that joint was tossed around between the band and the audience for the duration of the show. Where it's gone (assuming it existed to begin with), to this day I haven't a clue.
And now I'm thinking about Lucky, may he rest in peace. And Washbucket. And Evan. I could smother myself in memories of the West Delta. Am I homesick? Nostalgic? Or just trying to re-live the stories over and over again so I won't forget them, my self-definition twisting and re-shaping, moving forward through time on a sliding scale as the aging images fall away year by year. Maybe it's just so I don't lose them deep within the murky catacombs of my memory bank. Isn't it strange, how our memories file themselves in such remote and illogical categorization schemes that somehow the keyword for John Kiffmeyer is "kimono".
Al, if you're out there...my best to you and the family. Drop me a line sometime.
I am thankful every day for the power of the associative brain, but the images called to mind by the stitching of a collar to a kimono are truly baffling.
Watching the needle weave methodically in and out of the dense cotton, I am wondering how many miles of thread I have slipstitched in the 23 years since I first picked up the overstuffed tomato pincushion (with emery-filled strawberry needle sharpener) that is now my talisman. How many strangely wonderful and uniquely horrible sacrifices have I lain piously at the feet of the Altar of Singer? The avocado-green velvet bolero that absolutely had to be finished before the show at Gilman. The empire-waisted sky-blue satin princess gown, lingering still in the costume closet of FAO Schwarz and desperately in need of dry-cleaning. Christine's ivory silk wedding gown, an inch too short but otherwise a perfect replica of the fuschia and purple confection that was its mentor. A four-breasted witch body draped in filthy grey rags, doubling doubling toiling and troubling the outdoor ampitheatre during a hot summer in Santa Cruz.
And now you're asking yourself impatiently, "What the hell does this have to do with Green Day?" Well, here's the thing: among my many other domestic talents, I have been known to *occasionally* sew an oversized joint out of an old t-shirt and a used army jacket. And I have been known to take said stuffed joint to a show in Sebastopol as a gift for aforementioned band, because I may or may not have been a groupie. And perhaps that joint was tossed around between the band and the audience for the duration of the show. Where it's gone (assuming it existed to begin with), to this day I haven't a clue.
And now I'm thinking about Lucky, may he rest in peace. And Washbucket. And Evan. I could smother myself in memories of the West Delta. Am I homesick? Nostalgic? Or just trying to re-live the stories over and over again so I won't forget them, my self-definition twisting and re-shaping, moving forward through time on a sliding scale as the aging images fall away year by year. Maybe it's just so I don't lose them deep within the murky catacombs of my memory bank. Isn't it strange, how our memories file themselves in such remote and illogical categorization schemes that somehow the keyword for John Kiffmeyer is "kimono".
Al, if you're out there...my best to you and the family. Drop me a line sometime.
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