Sick Day

I rarely get sick, and yet here I am, under the weather, suffering from fever and sore throat and probably sore muscles, though that might be from Saturday's snowboarding. Whatever the case, my parents returned from dinner last night to find me lying listless on the sofa, perturbed by what would seem like a slight fever. But I have always had a low core temperature--my reptilian superpower--but now that it has been disturbed, my immune system fights to regain the throne and restore order, sidelining my mental and physical capabilites to reboot, meaning on all accounts that I cannot write cohesively and will not go to karate.

In Comparison

My father has recently been looking at Wordpress templates for his old website, and he has asked me to look alongside him and give my opinion. Mother found us both sitting on my bed on our individual computers, looking for all the world like-father-like-daughter. They have some very pretty templates on Wordpress. And there are a great many beautiful blogs out there with individually-designed borders and pages and stuff. And having looked at all these, I can't help but find my own blog a little empty, a little spartan. But I suppose that is what happens when one compares. One or the other will always fall short.

Sewing Lesson

Everyone should know how to sew, boys and girls alike. I sew because I must (it is so hard to find clothes I like), which means irregularly at best, and I have only sewn a few things under the careful guidance of the more experienced. I sewed a blue velvet dress in the seventh grade, a medieval bell-sleeved gown in high school, a paisley blouse for a class, and now a skirt. I do not consider sewing a feminine talent. What if Andrew Luth thought to himself one day, "I'd rather like to wear a Victorian bathing suit to the beach today," and no one would stop him except for his own inabilities. It would be a shame to be left out in the cold, unable to make a statement with your choice of fashion, simply because you eschewed the art of sewing for something less archaic.

Sewing terms should not sway you from the pleasure of creating. They mystify me, as well, but the Oxford American Dictionary should come to my rescue. Surely.

Baste - (v. 1) to moisten with fat during cooking, (2) to thrash.
A little weird, but who am I to question?

And the rest? Nowhere to be found. So I googled.

Ease stitch - When one piece of fabric has more curve and/or volume than the other, requiring you to ease the fabric to fit the smaller piece. Usually seen when fitting sleeves.

Stay stitch - A single line of stitching through the fabric to keep it from stretching when being handled. Usually used on collars, though I used mine between the bottom and top half of my skirt. (It is a very long skirt.)

The lesson I learned is that instructions are much more difficult than the actual execution. Once you have cut out your pieces, they logically fit together, and you needn't worry about slipstitching and grain lines too much. As we say here in Sweden, frisk vågat, hälften vunnit, or directly translated, Andrew Luth, you'll never know how snappy you'd look in stripes if you've never tried them on.

Photoshop courtesy of Matt Higgins.

Off to Sea

 I'm off to sea with my newly purchased nautical blouse.

I found it in a secondhand shop and bought it on the spot.

Next Stop: Surfing

I have now mastered the snowboard. There isn't much to be said about it except that I spent more time on my back or buckling the straps to my feet or falling off the ski lift than on the slope. On the bunny slope, I was joined by a handful of kids and their parents who eventually noticed my efforts and gave me cheerful shouts of "Next time!" and "Keep fighting!" I could never seem to master the get-up after a fall withouth sliding forward, and lying on my back, I would have to roll over and helicopter the board over  my head, at which point int time I could successfully push up and off the ground. At final tally, I have a bruise at the back of my head from hittng the ground too violently in a turn, a sore coccyx, and muscles that are likely to stiffen as I drop off to sleep.

After I had strapped the board to my feet and sprawled across the snow in an unsuccessful attempt to stand, my father hovered around me anxiously, concerned at my many stumbles and insisted I change to the pair of skis in the car, seeing as I am more adept at handling their turns. Though he said no such thing, I gather he thought I was having no fun at all and wished to spare me the pain. His well intentions, however, were unnecessary. It was gnarly, dude, but totally radical. Hang the tumbles! Falling is the lifeblood of success.

My Peace I Leave with You

When I visited last week, Uppsala was not blessed with snow--not a flake to be seen--but it remains a beautiful city with the river that wanders through its heart and the trees stark against pale skies and the bright cafes where you can duck in for a hot chocolate. My father, brother, and I went for a walk along the cobblestones, beginning at the church and ending at the same, after a stop at Cafe Linne, named after Carl von Linne, the famous botanist.

Father and son 

Uppsala Cathedral is massively impressive. Its current form comes after three different constructions and reconstructions. Building on the cathedral began most probably in 1273, under the hand of the french stonemason Etienne de Bonneuil. Masons were called in from England, France, and Germany to create something lavish in the modern gothic style. In 1702, almost all of Uppsala was ravaged by a fire. The church towers burned down and were rebuilt in a shorter, rounded style. Finally in the years 1886-1893, the church was returned to its former glory and the two tall spires were rebuilt.

Joel and I walked the halls and listened to the warm notes of the organ. The church was empty, save for a few other souls that had come to admire the architecture. We sat in the pews and leaned forward against the pews in front, and I felt that in that moment, we joined hands with all those worshippers who had gone before, who had looked on the same walls and had fought the same doubts and felt the same surrender to the same, good God. Perhaps it is most telling that we began our journey only a stone's throw from the church steps and ended it within its walls, as if drawn by some subconcious, inexplicable force.

Look Ahead

Plan for tomorrow: Slide on wooden floors in wool socks.