Monday, November 25, 2013

The Short, The Simple and the Super Sweet

I have been very busy sewing.

While finishing up this year's wholesale orders, I decided to open my doors to the public for the Holiday season.  It's been over a year since Freckletree merchandise was available from me, by single sale.  What does that mean?  That means you didn't buy a hat from me this year unless you were a fabulous store looking to resale.  

What does that mean? 

THAT MEANS YOU CAN FINALLY BUY THOSE HOOTHATS YOU'VE BEEN DYING FOR!!

We are offering our full FW2013 collection at www.etsy.com/shop/freckletreestudio.  You will also find a variety of ready-to-ship items available for purchase.

All products that are RTS (ready-to-ship) will ship priority within 2 business days of purchase.  Made To Order merchandise will ship within 2 weeks.  

All items bought before December 15th will ship in time for Christmas delivery.

Even sweeter?  Use coupon code "OPENFRECKLETREE" to receive a 20% discount through Wednesday.  

Also, be sure to stay tuned for deets on our Cyber Monday Sale!

YEEEEHAW!






photograph by Pascale Wowak Photography

Tuesday, May 28, 2013

Y'all crazy, Portland.

If you've seen me at a show, you've thought it to yourself.

That girl's a freak.

Or maybe you wondered if I was seizing to the beat.

Thom Yorke didn't steal my moves, but trust me, our boogie genes are identical.





Our 1992 Champion Poster


I used to stick out on the floor like Sissy Hankshaw's thumb.

Brandon tells me that people follow me around at festivals to watch me dance.

But not in Portland, Oregon.

Nobody even sees me here.

I'm just part of the party.

Last Friday I saw Flying Lotus at the Roseland Theater.

Flying Lotus was God and we were his fist-pumping congregation.

The entire show was one big music orgy (try to stay with me here while I explain my meaning of *big music orgy*), where the energy between the crowd and the artist and the music all pulse together and push each other into this heightened dimension that is ultimately organic ecstasy.  Where the music/show experience causes a collective dopamine flood. It's the reason people become addicted to shows.

At one point the crowd started chanting for him to keep playing a song that he'd stopped short.

He said "Yall just keep doing that," then came out from behind the turntables and started free-styling over our chant.  

Another time he shakes his head at us and laughs, "Y'all crazy Portland."

That's what kind of show we are talking about here.

Let me show you.



Here's when he pulled out Busta Rhymes.



This is the finale and yes, that's him on the floor with the fans.  For real.


 
This is the artist that doesn't even break for Thom Yorke (who, by the way, has dubbed Flying Lotus as his favorite DJ).  
There were rumors that FlyLo was going to to remix tracks from Radiohead's The King of Limbs, but he didn’t and he explains why.

"I was into the idea until they got everybody to make remixes,” he said. “When it became 'a thing', I was like, 'Nah, I'm cool'. Let other people do it."  -from prefix

That's the kind of idol I choose for my children.  Remember when he was our 2012 Family Favorite?  No?   

Click here to be impressed by my children's great taste.

And thank Flying Lotus that I am finally where I belong.

Wednesday, May 22, 2013

Give up the ghost.

The truth sounds like a betrayal.

That her death date doesn't stop time anymore.

That I feel healthier to not give May 20th any of my power.

For so many years I thought it was my duty to keep her alive.

She was safe as long as I could hear her laugh.

The dead only transcend to the world of your memories when you don't believe in an afterlife.

And our obsession with keeping up the dead is merely a personal act of grief.

There is so much blind self-absorption that comes with it.

It's hard to realize that you are only visiting a grave for yourself.

It's hard to stop changing the flowers when you think those fresh plastic daffofils are keeping her alive.

I used to keep a towel and spray bottle of Murphies Oil in my trunk.

Wipe away the shitty red mud.

Wipe away all of the ants.

Shake my head in disbelief and laugh at her headstone.

It's not her headstone.

The dull angel, the nickname I'd never heard her called.

It's not her cemetery.

I used to go to that cemetery to be alone with my high school boyfriend.

I used to go there to smoke pot.

It's so fucking laughable.

Spray lots of extra oil on the letters.

Wipe out the crease in the granite trim with a corner of the towel.

Make that bronze angel's boobies shine.

Read aloud from Einstein's Dreams and mispronounce all of the German street names.

Contemplate time and space, play with another dimension where I wait to kiss her warm face.  Her lashes would be wet.

"A man stands at the graveside of his
friend, throws a handful of dirt on the cof-
fin, feels the cold April rain on his face. But
he does not weep. He looks ahead to the
day when his friend's lungs will be strong,
when his friend will be out of his bed and
laughing, when the two of them will drink
ale together, go sailing, talk. He does not
weep. He waits longingly for a particular
day he remembers in the future when he
and his friend will have sandwiches on a low
flat table, when he will describe his fear of
growing old and unloved and his friend will
nod gently, when the rain will slide down
the glass of the window."


It's all part of holding on.

A ritual of preserving her.

A strong back turned to the inevitable letting go.

But I only did it for me.

She's not there.

There's some bones and an old woman's powder lilac suit.

A box that holds it all.

But my best friend with that howling laugh?  

She's not in a cemetery in Gastonia.

She's a short circuit in my brain.

In the long syllables of my southern drawl.

I can hear her "Heeeeey."

I can hear her laugh.

The duty of grave-manager only proved my importance to myself.

Changing flowers or annually mourning the day that she died doesn't preserve her voice in my head.

It's as strong as if I'd heard it yesterday.

I'll celebrate the pathway in my brain that continues to reach her on command.

I'll celebrate the time we were together.

I'll forget that no one is cleaning her headstone.

I'll forget for myself because she will never know the difference.


excerpt from Einstein's Dreams by Alan Lightman