Frayed Ends

I do not know how to do these tights justice. I have kept them much longer than I meant to, or should have. They are not mine, and I am but an intermediary in their transportation. But I really do not want to let them go. I feel as if they hold a secret--a small but crucial piece of knowledge that I am dying to know.

They are faded. The black background has turned slightly grey-ish, and the once-brilliant polka-dots are faded to more subdued pastel-like tones. Green-yellows and purple-pinks of varying hues, four shades in total. They splatter the black lycra liberally in an almost-pattern, regularly but not quite in sync. They are made of a lycra-spandex sort of material, which is lined with white inside from the elastic that gives this fabric its supple stretch. They are spandex tights well-worn, with a zig-zag stitching at the waistline and ankles, though one wonders if they reached the ankles or merely the calves. In either case, they would make a fine spectacle that I would describe as sexy-fun. Absurd and luscious.

But I am getting ahead of myself. The tights are quite well-worn. Along the left side of the front crotch area, a line of tiny broken elastic pieces poke out in points and loops. Signs of a fabric stretched from too many wearings. These little white worm-like pieces dance and intertwine around the crotch, and down the legs. A few peek out along the buttocks seam as well. The seat is quite well-worn too, with rips and signs of repair. Most peculiarly, a piece of knit woolen-like material is sewn along two parallel, offset rips. I wonder, was this a patch that did not hold? It now curls in on itself as such material is wont to do. These rips are on the left-hand side. The right upper buttock has another parallel rip. A puckered patch job is on the left side, below and outside of the parallel rips. Looking inside, I see that yes, this was repaired with a felt-like knit cloth, similar to the one that I speculated on earlier. One patch held, the other did not. The patch is sewn along the edges and in the middle, repairing the break in fabric. Higher up, another parallel rip is sewn up, repaired for now and perhaps forever since these tights are unlikely to feel the pull and stretch as they contour their fibers around a well-shaped derriere. I find short diagonal runs on the right lower buttock, surely on their way to becoming full-blown tears. A similar run snakes across the right knee. The diagonal hem has begun to come undone on the bottom left ankle, and a thread hangs loose.

There is a tag ripped in half inside the tights by the back waistline. SIZE MEDIUM (CARE OVER). Below that, CRAZY LEGS. The other side is nearly illegible. I can make out the second word of each of the two lines: WASH and DRY. I can only guess that the first two words are HAND and HANG, though I am only speculating based on the vague shape of letters, length of faded grey, and my own experience with lycra. The material pills in places, more on the right leg than the left.

These tights are well-worn, well-used, well-loved. Rip and repair, rip and repair, rip. Threads give less and more. Microrips and runs. They are mundane and extraordinary, extraordinary in their care and the way they now shamelessly flaunt their fibers. They are made to be unmade, worn into the ground. And even then still remain an object of wonder.

A safety pin attaches a small note to the back of the left leg. The date, Decemer 8. 2010, is scrawled along the side. The note is handwritten in neat, yet individualized, script.

Alice B.

Toeclips

1990-

2010 costume.

Jacquie

Phelan's

unique

sartorial

style

draws on

commedia

dell' arte,

harlequien,

&

coyote trickster ->

(now I flip over the tag.)

stories.

She has

changed

shape

to elude

capture

her

entire life...

--Jacquie

is giving

USBHOF

these tights

Jacquie Phelan gave me these tights to give to the U.S. Bicycling Hall of Fame. They are special and deserve to be there. But they also deserve to be touched, even though this will wear them down faster. They deserve appreciation and close analysis. People should wonder and know about the eclectic inspirations of this style. What is commedia dell'arte, the harlequin, and the coyote trickster? Do people know that the theaters of commedia dell'arte were among the first to employ female actresses to play women's roles? Do people understand their improvisational style, and that this venue set the stage for what would become comedy? Do they know of the harlequin character that frequented this stage, who would perform acrobatic feats in brightly-colored clothing while attempting to win over lust's desire? Or do they know the coyote trickster character of Native American lore? Do they know this figure's shape-changing ways, or the idolization of the coyote trickster by sci-tech feminist, Donna Haraway--my own intellectual hero?

And do people know what all this has to do with bicycles?

This is why I love bodies and objects, particularly in their intimate interactions. They wrap up so much in tight little balls of fabric, metal, and flesh. They fray, break, and bleed. They can be repaired or thrown aside, displayed to disintegrate, or preserved to be forgotten. They are remade, reinvented, repurposed, and refashioned. All this doing of bodies and objects makes them jam-packed with meaning and connections to the wider world. So that bicycling is never just about bicycling. And tights are never just threads and fabric. I'm going to stop short of saying everything I think these tights are about, and what their importance to bicycling is. But I will say that they have everything to do with bicycling precisely because they reach beyond riding into the world of myths, imagining, materials, and histories that constantly remake what and who we are today.

WTF? What's up with Gender and Bikes?

I recently wrote a column for the Davis Enterprise on Women Trans Friends night at the Davis Bike Collective. Those ~600 words took me ALL DAY. Writing about gender and bikes in a fun, approachable tone while attempting to hold onto some nuance and ambiguity is hard for me. In any case, you can see the results of my intellectual and creative labor here:

At the Davis Enterprise website or at the Davis Bike website, home of many Davis bike-related things. The second one has cool pictures, taken by Jordan Thompson.

If you feel inclined, lemme know what you think.

Crafting a QE

Tomorrow I officially begin my qualifying exam, but I have been crafting the exam for some time now. This is a story of how I crafted my exam, up till now. Crafting research for me involves crayolas, scissors, markers, old drafing paper, push-pins, tape, step stools, and nice music sometimes.

We shall begin the story back in May 2009. On this day, I crayola-ed and marker-ed a map of my mind, my passions, my histories, my interests, and my questions onto my bedroom wall.

Thank you, Master Recycler, for saving so much wonderful paper from the UC Davis dumpsters.

These papers helped me for a long time, but eventually I took them down once they had served their purpose. Sleeping under your research can get a bit oppressive eventually.

Also crucial to my research process was the place where I wrote, a collapsible Ikea desk while sitting on a big red exercise ball. I like the mobility sitting on the ball provided, and I didn't have a desk chair. Then, one day, the unimaginable happened.

My ball died. I was just sitting on it, not even bouncing or anything, and suddenly...

POP!!!!

I was sitting on the floor, confused. How did I get here? Did my ball just disapparate? Or get "beamed" back to the mothership? Where did it go? These emotions were quickly followed by an inexplicable sentiment that was a mix of feeling aghast, confused, sad, bemused, amused, shocked, and just generally lost. I felt the need to do something, perform some ritual.

Time passed, and eventually I got rid of it's ripped carcass during the Big Move. In my new residence, I have an office thanks to the space-saving practice of cohabitation.

Isn't it a lovely yellow? But wait!!!!!

It's also ORANGE!!!!

We painted.

I've never thought of myself as an orange or yellow person. Reds and pinks sometimes, more often blues, with an occasional flirtation with greens or purples. Never the more sunny side of the color wheel.

But I finally found the place of citrus in my life.

My mother tells me this is not new. As a wee little girl, she asked me what color I wanted my bedroom painted. I confidently responded, "Orange." And stood by that request. Sometimes we have to relearn things our four-year-old selves just knew.

This is my new work/play station, replete with all the requisite substances and remains of a long day's work.

But where did the craft go? Well, I should mention all those fancy schmancy devices above are part of my craft too. They're more my everyday tools. I like maintaining a large and varied toolbox. I once hoped to add a treadmill into the mix, but that's a sorrowful story for another day.

In the end though, there's something about a sharp pair of scissors that ultimately brings everything together. As my second-to-final step in crafting my QE exam, I made a puzzle.

Unfortunately I did this about a half hour before I needed to go run a 5k race, the physical challenge part of my exam (more on this later). This kinda rushed things, but I work well under pressure.

TA-DA!!!

The first day of my qualifying exam essays! Done!

Sorta.

I'll iron out the rough parts tomorrow. The good news is that I made this with plenty of time to hit the starting line! I mean, I must have had at least two minutes to spare.

I passed the physical challenge, though not with flying colors. In fact, I merely passed on a technicality involving a blue water bottle and a frisbee. We'll see how the next week and a half goes, but I think I've already identified the part of my research regime needed the most work.

Scholar, RUN!

Seduced by Andew Molera

Running from a campsite next to a forest burned out from a major blaze less than nine months ago can prove a bit of a challenge. So I had to trade my usual predilection for mountainous trails for coastal views. I know this will sound horrible to ocean-lovers (who seem to surround me), but I sometimes find the ocean less interesting than the varied terrain of the woods. I mean, it's an amazing amount of water, with more land on the other side. Impressive, but always there, always changing, but relatively this same. This both impresses me to no end, and makes me kinda bored. The theoretical real run I wanted to do was to climb to the top of the rocky mountain peak visible behind the rolling green hills to the East. While I'm not stranger to trespassing, I wasn't sure I was up for that sort of adventure without a good topo map. So to the coast we go.

We began by heading from our campsite at Andew Molera State Park toward the beach. I was immediately excited when Cassandra (my running buddy), Robbie (on his mountain bike) and I came to the river leading to the ocean, which required fording to reach the beach on the opposite side and the trail. There's nothing like a good river fording to start the run off right. While they vacillated over the merits of crossing and the potential depth of the river, I said, "well, there's just one way to find out how deep this river is," and began splashing in. To my knees. To my thighs. Over that crucially cold spot that sends cries up my spine. My shorts are soaked. I take off my shirt. This is a bit deeper than anticipated. Yikes! My sports bra is now soaked. I am in up to my neck. I really hope this doesn't get any deeper. Shit, I am swimming to the opposite shore, finding my feet again, and slogging on to dry land, waving to my dry comrades on the other side of the riverbank. After this little performance, they decide to try their luck further upstream and hope to meet up with me on the trail. I laugh, and take off down the sandy beach. A bit down the coast and past piles of driftwood lies my first choice: Bluff Trail or to the trailhead. With a longing look at Bluff, I skim along the surface of a softly-packed dirt-sand trail, trying my luck at varying intersections until I reach the trailhead. An older couple greets me at the shores of the thigh-deep stream crossing, the woman wearing a look of excited trepidation on her face as she works up the courage to cross the waters which will tug at her ankles as she wades across. I smile and splash through, leaving encouraging words behind. In the parking lot, there is no sign of Cassandra and Robbie. Surely I missed them.

I run the mile back to the beach. No sign. Now I am worried. Me and my stupid stream crossing. I begin running the mile back at top speed. On my way, Robbie greets me zooming past on his bike. Cassandra follows behind. With relief, I turn around with her, to our new lover, Bluff. We make our way up the sandy side of Bluff to reach the top of a steep ridge running along the coast for miles. Waves crash below, the ocean roars, and we giggle. Wending our way through patches of poison oak, we work hard to evade its oily embrace. Four miles in, we look back at the cove where we began and Cassandra turns back, but makes a short detour to dally on the beach with Spring Trail. I continue on to sweat all over Panorama Trail, a winding lonely climb to the highest point in the park. I had hoped to encounter barren land with neglected dirt roads connecting this far South edge of the park with the state park a few miles beyond, but instead see the well-maintained gravel leading to a multi-million dollar dwelling with a living roof. Green and greedy.

Before turning North up Ridge Trail, who will take me on a roller-coaster ride of pounding pleasure, I breathe in the rugged ocean gales, battering my body chilled and brand the land and water in my brain. With a cry of pleasure, I begin what will be a endorphin dream back to the river, to the cold bath of the now chest-deep waters drained by the tide. Back to the campsite, tortillas, avocados and cheese. mmmmm...

Futility

The dawning futility of the argument made me fight against it. I knew it was a battle I would never win, but this fact made me more desperate, more determined to somehow win. It explained everything, but made me fight nonetheless. His shark-like grin as I turned by back, attempting to hide the tears of despair arising in my heart...this moment seems to hold the answer. Passion versus cunning. The cunning will marshall any argument, any rationale, even if devoid of research, meaning, evidence. Passion--at least in my body--demands commitment, demands real, "proof," evidence, the everyday in which we live from which this grows. To hear it dismissed aches in a way dismissal of lives only can. Maybe this is the issue. Game versus survival. The obvious evades.

What also gnaws me is the lack of respect, which the other will condescendingly acknowledge at best. At worst, ignore.
Am I a puppet too? Sigh. Back to the rehearsal room.

Little Adventure

Traveling to new places, what do we seek? Adventure? New experience? Meeting others? Like ourselves or not? Do we want to share the experience with others we know, strangers or hoard it in our heart? How many people travel and then find themselves gravitating to those with whom they share the most? And then what do they learn? The real question is, what is gained by traveling to end up in a cozy, edgy cafe, with local artwork on the colorful walls, drinking green tea, typing on my laptop, surrounded by people engaging in alternative ways of living, just like I do nearly every day at home? Did I really travel at all?

My little adventure began at 10:30 on I-80, a little Jasper Fford on the player, camping gear in the backseat, and a song in my heart (indie grrl rock). I arrive at my final destination, late and homeless without a friend for miles. Just free wifi. Bless the Internet. I seek out locations most familiar to me. Bike collectives and edgy coffee shops with beer on tap. I smile, look friendly and harmless. I rely on the kindness of strangers that remind me of friends at home. Maybe they will be my friends too? Friends for a day or two, at least. A futon to sleep on. I am temporarily housed. I wheel through the streets, find the ocean, chase the sunset madly, watch the surfers eke out the last bit of daylight. What is it to live in a place like this? People live here. I am people. How familiar and strange it all feels. Is this what travel is about? Realizing people like you live here? But is it always like that, or only in places close to what we already know?

I will wear my loneliness with my shoulders square and a swish in my hips. Let it drape and flow around me, mysterious and hinting at what I hide. Such comely accoutrements.

Sniffles

I have perpetual allergies. Sneezing is not a sign of a cold or that something new is in the air. In my world, a sneeze means I'm alive and awake. Every morning, I begin my morning with a clearing of the nose. Much of the rest of my morning rituals are quiet and courteous, but in the blowing of the nose, I let loose. Full force is required to expel the buildup of a night of allergy-induced mucus. Really, where does it all come from? Nasal cavities are not that large.

List of allergies: dust, molds, pollens, weeds, cats, dogs. Seasonal allergies mean nothing to me. My allergies are always in season. Inside, outside, I sneeze. When I finally got a real allergy test, my skin broke out in nasty swells practically everywhere they poked me except in the food grid. I am food allergy free, praise the bumblebees. The doctor joked that I should take to a plastic existence (but I think I'm allergic to latex too).

Worst of all is cats. I'm still stuffed up from my cat encounter tonight. Two sweet kittens, full of love and curiosity, which tortured me mercilessly with their dander. Boo. I try to ignore them and partition thiem from my exixtence to no avail. Their cuteness leaves me cold and runny, reaching for a kleenex.

On the plus side, with such severe allergies, I deal with colds fairly well and often don't even know when I am sick. Strapping lass, sickly to the air.

Achoo.

Note: right side tonight.