The Inauguration

As posted to my FB page

Thoughts on the morning of: I am somehow reminded of a sunny January day when the Challenger exploded on live TV. Today it is what is in our heads that will have us glued to the TV. May it be uneventful in the nicest ways. May we be a governable people. May the peaceful transfre of power remain the organizing principle of this country. For it is a beautiful thing. I never fully appreciated this before. 

My Morning After review: I didn’t expect to be so moved by THE INAUGURATION. The joys, the firsts, the brilliant colors all chiefly brought onto the stage by women. It was that final scene in a tense suspenseful movie when those in hiding can come out again into the sunshine. But there was no director artfully manipulating this storytelling. It was ritual that held it together. And in the making of this event each person makes their own decision as to what to bring to it. From my personal favorite, Lady Gaga in her inverted Vulva skirt so large and so red (so as to be seen from the eye of a satellite) belting out the anthem on her own personal gold microphone to the poised and petite powerhouse of a young poet in a bright yellow coat rapping the nation into participatory attention to this thing called democracy. Words to march by.

“If only we’re brave enough to see it

If only we’re brave enough to be it.”

My eyes followed Kamala Harris stepping out in her Shirley Chisholm purple, her pearls and her spike heels with her protector husband standing in ritual on the Capital steps to see her predecessor out. Pence giving us that grace just by attending where the Other would not. And so we had our moment of knowing what it looks like when a woman stands at the helm. A preview. 

And I stayed too to watch the new President and his Dr. First Lady leave in the protector vehicle and then get out and walk all the way to the White House. She again in spiked heels. So much more are the details by which women will be judged. But it is now by with style that ritual is enacted.

And then almost a throwaway moment as Kamala walks up to the White House and returns the salute of the military officer with the many gold braids adorning his coat. Salutes not in submission, but as second in command and as a woman. That’s not something we’ve seen before.

President Jo Biden gave a speech I actually listened to, so compelling was the reality he actually addressed. And then we had a much deserved party of high caliber entertainers all across the nation and a fireworks display that pulled out all the stops. I had no idea what a patriot I was to find this all so gratifying.

But I will offer a recent story. Last year in Thailand at a farming conference attended by a handful of nations I was the sole representative of the U.S. which prompted the presence of our flag on the stage with the five other nations. And we were told that on the final day we would be asked to sing a song of our country. I would have to sing it solo in English, the language everyone would understand. When I thought of the song I would sing I was so choked up by it I near burst into tears in a field of cabbages. So when the microphone was passed around on the shuttle home on the last day I belted out in my best high school musical style the song that had welcomed me to these shores in 5th grade in 1968. 

“This land is your land and this land is my land

From California to the New York Islands

From the redwood forests to the Gulf Stream waters

This land was made for you and me.”

Climbing To New Heights

In which I fulfill the role of conference chair for the Institute for Challenging Disorganization, pulling off an event more successful than my wildest expectations.

The conference chair's job is assumed to be over once the speakers are booked and all the arrangements made with the hotel to facilitate the smooth running of the program, but to me arriving in Denver two days before I was to appear at the podium for this annual conference of the Institute For Challenging Disorganization, I felt my job was only just beginning.

At the networking mixer the night before the program was to start, a handful of long time subscribers and board members thanked me for the quality of speakers that I had put together for the conference. They had come to this conclusion based on the write-ups and the bios of the speakers in the program. Our theme Climbing To New Heights inspired by our Denver location, had also helped. Their acknowledgement allowed me a measure of breathing space and I could relax a little. Later I would wonder what combination of luck or skill had helped me put together such a program.  

What for instance had allowed me to pick the speakers for programming with such confidence? "Beginner's luck," I had said to the board president when she first saw the line-up several months ago. 

It helped that I had no reputation to uphold so I did not feel I had something to prove. The board had already placed their confidence in me by asking me to take on this role. I could proceed with some calm based on my experience as program chair for my chapter meetings. I had made so many mistakes in my two year stint, I at least knew what didn't work. My predecessor Marci Katz had taught me how to approach and negotiate with potential speakers during my two years on the ICD conference committee. She left me a few leads and a sample of a letter to write to prospective speakers. Then she retired from the committee leaving me to it. 

It's lucky that I like to read, I thought. In the last decade I had read enough to answer most of my questions about how the world works in the political, sociological, psychological and spiritual arenas as well as in the practical realm of carpentry, plumbing and gardening. I liked ideas prompted by bio-mimicry and ecological systems. I liked how social science could be reframed with new theories and discoveries. I enjoyed new studies about how the brain worked and theories about how it could be retrained. I had also read enough inspirational material and entrepreneurial fluff to distinguish between an original thought and one borrowed and dumbed down to fit a particular marketing approach. 

For the conference I had gone in search of authors who had the educational background or personal experience to develop enough original thinking to fill a a book on a subject that might interest my colleagues. Which meant that I had to know my colleagues in the context of ICD. And having attended every conference since it's inception I felt that I did. It was the brain trust of the organizing profession as one colleague put it. Given all our past conferences and our monthly tele classes, we were well versed in the basics of hoarding research, ADHD, depression, bipolar disorder, brain damage and the practical impact of a slew of other diagnosis on people's ability to function. At our conferences we moved as one hearing all the same speakers and discussing them at the breaks together. We also did not live on theory alone; we wanted practical applications for the knowledge being given.

The Speakers

Speaker suggestions had come in from subscribers and committee members, but many of these speakers were too famous to afford or so popular they were already booked out. Many were also cribbed from other conferences and so had a professional veracity to them rooted in traditional therapy that were certain to be acceptable, but I found them less than fresh. 

From these suggestions, I picked two I thought were different in their focus. One was Lee Shuer who gave his presentation from a recovering hoarder's perspective and introduced the fairly new development of peer responders stepping up to help their fellow hoarders take the first step to recovery. I saw him speak at the Hoarder's conference put on by the San Francisco Mental Health Association. (My colleague Kim, sitting next to me prompted me to go after him.) There was also Dr. Suzanne Chabaud who was a clinical therapist focused on hoarding and lately on the impact of hoarding parents on children. She was eager to connect with organizers. Therapists so rarely acknowledged the role of professional organizers that I was intrigued. She had also appeared on 29 TV hoarding shows although that was not a venue that readily impressed us.

To fulfill CEU credits for our new certificate on aging, the committee agreed that we needed to find a speaker on dementia. It so happened that the San Francisco chapter had had a panel on aging at our own regional conference. I had not seen it so I asked the colleague who had moderated the panel, to recommend someone. Diane Judd and I had worked together on a conference once before. She also happened to be a dedicated ICD subscriber and was eager to bring us Laurie White, an expert on dementia, elevating her from panelist to presenter. Diane even invited her to lunch in her own home along with me and two other colleagues to make sure Laurie got to know our full professional scope. This made me feel lucky indeed and immensely supported by my own chapter members. 

The board also cut me some slack by agreeing with Kate, my board liaison, that it would be a good idea to have an Ask The Organizer panel so we could put our own people up on the podium to provide the increasing number of newcomers with opinions of veteran organizers. They also agreed to us having a gig we tried before at conference several years ago which was to have one of our own people moderate a case studies discussion. This had been the brainchild of my long time friend Denslow Brown so I was happy to facilitate a revived session with additional twists she wanted to add in.

For my own picks, I was inclined to take risks with material I found provocative. And so I had chosen three who pushed the envelope for me. One was Dr. Thomas Armstrong. His refreshing perspective on ADHD from the perspective of neurodiversity rather than the medical model of a disease to be treated captured my attention. I put him as our first presenter. He turned out to be a dynamic and practiced speaker who was quite funny about stepping outside of the mental illness model in a way that completely tickled my anti-authoritarian, anti-psychotherapy view of the world. In addition he also engaged us in exercises that would test for some of the nine intelligences he offered as part of the neurodiversity package. 

"Pick a partner," he said. "Now decide who will be A and who will be B".

 "I'll be B," I said to Kate sitting next to me. "You be A."

"Okay," she said.

"You're done," said Dr. Armstrong and we laughed having expected more to it. Then he pointed out the people skills needed to settle such a negotiation. Kate and I congratulated ourselves on the efficiency of our exchange. 

I easily failed the math intelligence, but there were others I had never seen listed as intelligences before and those included knowing oneself and the desire to find answers to existential questions—the big Meaning of Life questions. I instantly felt a great deal smarter having spent so much time on both. Plus he had mentioned shamans twice and shown a picture of an indigenous shaman as part of his point about how other civilizations worked with the messages of aberrant behavior and non ordinary psychic phenomena.

"One day I will bring shamanism to an ICD conference," I had said to Lenore, my shamanic counselor. 

"You already have," she said and I realized she meant me.

Another speaker choice from California had created a company in Marin County to give workshops on eliminating stress. His approach was just the right mix of science and a slight mystical component. I read his book Mystic Cool just to make sure. His graphics were clear and beautiful and we could all remember his point that you have 90 seconds to extinguish thoughts and judgements that might escalate your brain to full fledged fear. Fear being the heart of a disorganized brain, he said. To distract ourselves from the fear response of the reptile brain, he taught us to press a finger into the palm of the opposite hand, imagine it connecting to our heart, take a breath, then count to 3 and visualize the numbers in colors—red for 1, blue for 2 and green for 3. This he called the clear button.

And finally there was the highly animated and attractive professor of film I had so looked forward to meeting. I had inherited Melinda from my predecessor Marci based on the recommendation of another artist who had done a presentation on art and hoarding at a previous conference. Melinda lived in Boulder which was flooding just as we were coming up to the week of conference thus adding the suspense of natural disaster impeding her arrival. But arrive she did by bus less than two hours before she was to speak elegantly dressed in a shimmering vintage cocktail dress. The conference committee had been split about whether to invite her; the ones opposed felt her topic was too far removed from any practical application or knowledge. We would not however have to pay hotel or transportation costs to have her so I went ahead and booked her. She in turn tailored her talk on women collectors to the specifics that I emphasized would be helpful for us. Mainly how do collectors give up parts of their collection? She added her own. Could squalor be elevated to an art form?

Women she said tend to collect treasures that have stories attached to them. And given that women had not been able to legally own anything until quite recently, her point that women collected objects that reflect back to them their own identity made quite a lot of sense. She also mentioned the concept of having the right to gaze at an object; this right having been chiefly granted to men. Thus collections allowed women the right to gaze. As for the relinquishing of possessions this was akin to experiencing loss or death in some way. Thus death had to become part of collecting perhaps in a symbolic ritualistic way. For to live was to be willing to let go of something, to die over and over again. 

This admittedly was a little precious for some, but it did evoke the heavy emotional burden that many of our hoarding clients carried about their possessions. And her slides had numerous photos of famous hoards, pithy quotations and film references; it gave people a lot of entry points. And I made a friend. Melinda took one look at my white cowboy hat, lime green vest, purple pants and cowboy boots and decided that I too was a sympatico soul seeking to collect an identity that stretched into the realm of artistic expression.

The Outfit

I loved the limelight, but public speaking still terrified me. Given all the hardworking and highly credentialed colleagues who came to these conferences, I did not have a high enough opinion of myself to stand at the podium in "business attire" as it is worded and speak to our organization as a peer. I didn't' really get me in a business context. I had spoken to this group before at a previous conference as part of a panel and they had found me funny. I never knew quite why. I was just being myself. It was the same with my chapter meetings. Some combination of my English accent, my use of language and perhaps a certain racial and gender bending essence had created an unexpected personality. (One that warmed up with the attention of an audience especially an audience that was predominantly women). But it was not professional in the traditional sense. 

For what I was attempting to do as conference chair, I needed a role to play, part emcee, part ringmaster, part wrangler. A character who would hold the group together in celebration as they experienced the most important event of the organization. In short I wanted everyone to have a terrifically good time. And having a good time was one of the last remaining things a live event can offer in this day of online webinars, tele classes and copious free information, not to mention recordings of the conference onto CDs which could be listened to while driving and didn't require the expense of airfare and hotel fees.

We had recently changed the name of the organization and got a new logo so it had become popular to wear the ICD logo colors of purple orange and green. Many evenings I drew with the colors various designs for a vest. Eventually I decided to simplify it to a green vest with orange piping which would be a good way to play down the most difficult color—orange. When I found purple jeans on sale in the Macy's boys' department I knew it was confirmation for my design. To dress up the vest I searched for textured fabric and learned from a book, on decorative vests, that I could create texture with ribbons woven into a fabric. I had found ribbon to match the logo green. It took longer to track down the right width and buy up all that was available—five spools of ribbon—than it took to weave them. The orange covered buttons was the final touch. I also needed a light weight shirt to wear under it since it would likely be warm. I had a pair of cool-to-the-touch, silky, white farmers pants from Thailand wide enough to cut up and sew into a pirate style shirt so I did that.

And since Colorado was the heart of cowboy country I longed to bring my two toned Tony Lama boots. Which naturally meant a hat which I happened to find a week before conference. But I could not fully embrace this iconoclastic Cowboy symbol until I had brought in a Native American piece to it as well (to reclaim the damage done by the Cowboys). That I did with the two braids in my hair that I had been wearing of late and my hair pipe choker I had made as a teenager. These Native American touches also evoked the intuitive shamanic work I had been doing with my spirit guides. I had brought my shamanic rattle for the purpose  of calling them in to help me. (It was given to me by a friend who got it at a climate change event in the Brazilian Amazon.) All this brought up that crazy making topic of cultural appropriation of minority symbols. Was it exploitive? 

While in Denver I visited the Denver Art Museum with my pals and stayed longer so I could see the Native American collection which occupied an entire floor. I took in the "spirit shirts" of painted and beaded fringed buckskin and read the description of how Native Americans used clothing and artistic expression to draw power for ceremony or hunting events. I too was creating a spirit outfit to help me step into my full power. I also saw the military jackets from Victorian era uniforms that had been given as gifts; the recipients had incorporated into these samples of the white man's power clothing, their own decoration. This cross pollination gave me a more fluid definition of cultural exchange. I was borrowing two elements from American cultural symbology to help me make a business event my own even though none of it was part of my own heritage. It was pushing the envelope, but I was willing to risk claiming it. 

I did however get the skin test for explosive residue as I traveled through SFO with my white cowboy hat. An Asian cowgirl carrying a backpacker's soft sided luggage on a vintage luggage cart was just way too suspicious.

From The Podium

I memorized my opening remarks wondering if any of it would be funny. Just before I left my room, I thought of something absurd to say. I went on stage, I introduced myself and showed off my outfit. It was cautiously admired (but simultaneously complements were tweeted). I told them it took me 7 weeks to design it because all the details of conference had been so well worked out that all that was left for me to do was to guild the lily. This was not a common enough phrase to be funny, but the character that I continued to bring out at the podium was indeed something of a ring master. The language of hyperbole fell from my lips. 

"It is my great pleasure to stand before this august body of intellectual and intuitive boldness," I said seeing in their faces the sense that I was trying to woo them. "You inspire me," I declared. Did they believe me? No I was clearly trying to flatter them. "This shirt used to be a pair of pants," I pointed out holding up an arm. The room burst into laughter. Yes that was an unexpected juxtaposition. The fun could begin. The rest of the conference was a matter of getting people on stage to introduce the speakers. I was merely the tour guide. But there was a piece of the action I could still claim. It was left to me to thank each speaker after each presentation and I was able to insert just a few words of summation into that space that took paying attention to what was their overall message. Most were simple enough to sum up, but there was one that defied definition.

"Thank-you Dr. Barlow for that fascinating intersection of stuff, art and death," I said widening my eyes as I tried to think of something more explanatory, but I was stumped and that got a laugh. Then I was free to do schtick. 

"This is your captain speaking. We have now gained a little time in our journey and as a result are ahead of schedule, but please come back in ten minutes anyway."

By the second day, still wearing the same outfit, I had nothing new to show off so I decided I must sing. This was bold of me considering that music was not one of my intelligences. But I had the microphone, hummed a note, looked at my buddies in the front row and sang that rousing little ditty from Singing In The Rain appropriate to the 8:30 am hour as people took their time coming in. 

"Good morning, Good mo-o-or-n-ing. We're so glad to have you back. Good morning, Good morning to you…." "Now you know why I don't do musical comedy," I quipped, but they seemed to appreciate it. 

The first speaker Dr. Chabaud brought with her a guest, a poised younger woman who turned out to be of equal interest being an adult child of hoarding parents, but she wasn't scheduled to speak. Marci came up to me at the break and suggested I try to fit her in any way. This is the sort of in-the-moment challenge that gets thrown into the lap of the designated driver. So I figured out the logistics with the help of Jim who headed our management company and announced that we would have her speak during the lunch hour and answer questions that had come up with her introduction. We were having a box lunch so it worked out perfectly.

Coming into the home stretch we had to make a room change just before closing. These logistics took up so much of my bandwidth I could hardly think in the case studies session, but I was so in the groove by then that nearly everything I said was funny. I did get my closing remarks in and thanked everyone I could think of (remembering late that night that I had forgotten to thank the 40 or so volunteers who were running around taking photographs and handing off microphones). But finally I could hand off the role of program chair to the next year's person along with the hat which looked great on her and would be just as fitting in Nashville, our next conference city. 

"And whatever you do don't say what a hard act to follow," I had told her beforehand (because that's what everyone says when I do schtick with a costume). She nodded saying "We'll just go with the positive, then". "Yes" I said. We were after all members of the same team.

And when it was her turn at the podium she simply said "Didn't she do a great job" as I hopped off the stage. When I looked up again everyone was standing up applauding. They were giving me a standing ovation! I was so dumbstruck my jaw dropped open. (This was one of those finishes that you just want to live over and over until you figure out why it worked.) The new chair turned on a music video she put together to drum up interest for Nashville; Jim came to the front of the stage in his orange polo shirt and did the wave to the music getting everyone to join in. It was indeed a celebratory finish.

When I got home I drove around for a week in silence, laughing at my own jokes and hearing in my head bits and pieces of things speakers had said. I had stepped into my power. Where do I go from here? I wondered.

Dressing the Eco-Feminist, Ethnic, Lesbian

The day I saw the shelves of organic cotton clothing at Country Sun health food store, I said aloud to no one in particular, thus startling another shopper, "So it's come to this, has it?"

Assessing the shapeless designs with their muted earth tone hues, I felt as though we had arrived at the door of George Orwell's 1984. "No way", I thought to myself. I would never be able to embrace these drab colors of a puritanical eco-sensibility. I was, after all, from the land of Thai silk, whose vivid hues had stunned the editor of Vogue magazine, back in the '50s when the silk was presented to her by an American named Jim Thompson.

The world needs more Americans like Jim Thompson, for he was the consummate lover of all that was beautiful and beautifully created, but not yet "discovered". Like the budding naturalist in an unruly gang of boys, he was the one who stopped and said no let's not kill it, look at how beautiful it is. At the time that he found Thai silk, it was only being woven by a few weavers for formal wear in the royal court. But rather than gathering up these weavers and putting them in a factory to produce under his boss man authority, he encouraged the cottage industry and gave the women shares in his Thai Silk Company. He also standardized the wooden looms and introduced the colorfast jewel tone dyes that so characterize modern Thai silk. (And no, I don't know if the dyes are toxic.) Only later would Thai businesswomen set up said factories to meet the production demands of the market he essentially created.

I visited one with my grandmother in the early '80s. Her old school friend owned such a factory not far from our house. The friend greeted us in the air-conditioned showroom, with its floor to ceiling teak shelves, full of the folded cloth arranged like oversize books. Each piece was a slight shade advanced from its neighbor thus creating a chromatic sequence that made a rainbow look institutional.

After I had chosen an aqua marine turquoise double weight silk for a suit I would have made by a local seamstress, the proprietor opened the door to the factory floor. There in a brightly lit white room, vented to the outside with louvered windows near the ceiling, were rows of women seated at traditional wooden looms. They were dressed in cotton sarongs and moved rhythmically, the sounds of wood on wood creating a pleasant accompaniment to the scene.

The high price of Thai silk reflected this handmade care. Thus it was with a certain reverence that my family spoke of the silk. It was associated with the best tailors and the most high holy occasions. And my, were those occasions splendid with entire ballrooms filled with such outfitted ladies, no two alike.

With that kind of upbringing woven deep into my psyche, it was no wonder that I balked at the drab offerings of the environmentally conscience clothing options I found at my local health food store, not to mention the hemp dominated Green Festival.

It was only a matter of time before I would have to reconcile my love of textiles with my eco principles. Environmental, social justice activists are not supposed to care about clothes. We are urged to protest sweatshop labor, denounce the impact of pesticide ridden, nitrate polluting cotton farming, decry fashion as the capitalist engine driving consumerism (which it is) and wear clothes that look like we've owned them for all of our adult lives.

On a day-to-day basis, I do adhere to these principles, filling my closet with khakis and travel shirts (made overseas most likely by cheap labor working long ours). Sweatshop jobs may be an improvement over even longer hours, and no pay, working for a family patriarch on the farm, but there was still the energy and water used in textile and clothing production to factor in, as well as fuel expenditure of the ocean going freighters and the portside air pollution in Los Angeles as trucks idled while loading.

My daily uniform, however, was so generic I discovered I could find the pants and shirts, used at thrift stores, in the preppie parts of town, thus lowering my eco footprint. (Given the 68 pounds of clothes that Americans donate per person per year, there is enough used clothing to bale and ship back overseas to keep most of the African continent, Eastern Europe, the former Soviet Union and parts of South Asia and South America stylishly dressed.)

There were, however, events to attend, parties and such. I first learned to dress for parties from my drag queen friend, Mark, whom I met at college. All the closets in his house had been expanded to hold double rows of vintage women's clothes, size 11 shoes and wigs. His dresser drawers were filled with gloves, purses and other treasured accessories. Throughout the school year he would display his outfits at each event, two at a time, changing midway through the evening.

This being UC Santa Cruz in the late '70s, the rest of us were a motley crew of shaggy hair in boot cut jeans, dykes in overalls and straight girls in long skirts and peasant blouses. To distinguish myself from the peasant blouse contingent, as well as the overalls, I dressed up my jeans with a red thrift store blazer, which I pretended was my prep school uniform in envy of my mother's British girls' school heritage. (I did go to a girls' prep school, but it did not outfit us with natty blazers).

What captured my imagination about my drag queen friend was that he managed to evoke a power and vulnerability that was riveting on his six-foot frame. He transcended overt objections to his gender bending, bisexuality by becoming a performance artist. I wanted this power for myself.

The first vintage dress I bought was a chic black sheath number in moiré satin, with drop shoulders circumscribed by erect geometric petals revealing the breasts encased in pale pink of the same fabric. I bought it for Mark. Before I could give it to him, a party was scheduled and I decided to dress for him instead. With my family's sewing machine (my mother was an avid home sewer and my father made his own pants), I took the dress in about three inches up the back seam and made it fit. Donning a bright red pair of stiletto sandals, the only pair I owned, I made my entrance into the dorm lounge where the party was being given. Mark, in a vintage dress, per usual, got on his knees at my feet and looked up at me admiringly, then wished upon me a nice big cock. Heh! I was accepted in the club. I was a drag queen!

To continue to generate that hands-off (but only when I want it) power that Mark had perfected, I bought a motorcycle, on my return to the Bay Area, and outfitted myself in a classic black leather jacket and black leather pants tailored for me by a German craftsman in San Francisco, Tauber Leathers. Black steel-toe boots completed my armor.

Under the leathers, I was fond of Western wear until I lived with a lover who owned horses. One day we were on a riding trip with friends in Brazil. The only man in the party (American and white) had on his blue jeans, a t-shirt and a straw hat. I think he may have even been chewing on a grass stalk. Watching him from a distance, he so cut the figure of a lone cowboy, that I was overcome with a curious, burning jealousy of both his gender and race. No matter how stylin' my Tony Lama boots, or how perfectly shaped my hat, I would never achieve that level of authenticity. Out went the cowboy shirts.

Inspired by my karate gi/uniform when I took up martial arts, I designed a Tibetan style vest from black gabardine to wear over my white pirate shirts (from Deva, an American company employing local home sewers). I had been investing in Folkwear patterns, a company that reproduced instructions for the making of traditional clothing from around the world as opposed to the ever-changing styles put forth by high fashion designers. Indigenous clothes were simple and adaptable. I had made the African pants repeatedly in printed cottons for summer wear.

To better tailor the African pants pattern to go with the vest, I put in a pleat from my hipbone to my ankle, then buttoned up the pleat down the shin with loops, not buttonholes. The overall effect of this "pantsuit" was more modern than ethnic, business like, but not corporate and masculine without identifiable male detailing.

An acquaintance was so taken by it, she begged me to make the same outfit for her. I considered charging her a lofty fee to cover my time. It would have looked great on her, too, but this "look" was so authentically me, I had to let it be uniquely mine for a while longer, so I turned down her request. The suit still stands me in good stead, today, as an alternative to the business suit.

To let loose my flamboyant Thai silk roots, I later sewed the Tibetan Panel Coat in a vivid green and gold sarong patterned silk that my grandmother had given to me. Worn with a bright yellow Ukraine shirt with trim of the same silk, it was a fabulous outfit that united me with everything I loved about the Thai sense of design. Okay, so I could really only wear it at Christmas parties.

Back to every day fashions. Was it true that lesbians were chic now? I tested the premise by picking a conservative function to wear one of my dad's narrow ties, pulled away from the neck, on a white shirt with black jeans. It was my high school reunion and my classmates were wearing floral print garden party dresses. I couldn't have looked more out of place, but I was not shunned, only welcomed with animated interest. The only person who avoided any contact with me was a teacher, clearly a butch lesbian, probably closeted.

What other looks were butch? What about the Utilikilt? Men who wore these black skirts with the cargo pockets, looked tough, but disarmingly gender bending. Would I look butch in one, or more like a Japanese schoolgirl? I didn't want to spend the $140 to order one to find out. Maybe I could make one. My search for a kilt pattern took me into the land of Renaissance Fairs and pirate costumes. Hmm, yes, my English roots. What if I made men's shirts, both historical and modern, using the highly vivid Asian prints in my collection of textiles?

The first shirt I made was an ordinary short sleeve camp shirt from a bright plaid Indian cotton that a client had given me. It took me a week to make what would probably take a factory fifteen minutes, but I loved it and wore it with great care, pairing it with a black bolero jacket from a vintage dress and my Thai hill tribe pants, to come up with a whole new outfit that still had an ethnic sensibility.

As I matched my box of salvaged fabrics with my collection of patterns, I visualized seven designs — an entire Fall Collection! It included a Chinese hip length vest cut from a red dressing gown with white piping, a Peter Max coat in a pink and yellow '60s print, a sea green vintage Chinese cheongsam dress re-cut into a sleeveless doublet, a ruffled poet's shirt of green cotton and a Renaissance style bicycle jacket made from army surplus snow camo backpack covers—white for better night time visibility. I had my work cut out for me.

The second shirt took even longer as I redesigned the pattern halfway through to include more interesting pleating details that mimicked a slashed doublet with full sleeves, also pleated. Catherine was impressed when I was done, said it looked Renaissance with an Asian twist, given the block printed dark pink fabric I had chosen. Yes, it was presentable and had a stylish look that was not exactly current, but wasn't not current either; it made me think of the '60s. I was enjoying myself.

"You know," I said to Catherine who recently joined the Slow Food movement and had made her first homemade pizza, "I think I've just invented the Slow Clothes movement."

Pithy facts provided by the book "The Travels of a T-Shirt In The Global Economy" by Pietra Rivoli. An intellignet exploration by an economist professor seeking to answer the social jutice issues raised by student activists regarding sweatshop produced clothing. She does not, however, mention environmental impact as a factor of industtry. Thus the need for more activists to raise these issues.