But the Benefits Are Good

Today tastes like cotton candy--right put of the vat. It's still hot and sticky and very much one note here. No matter where you are, there's one season that is less enjoyable than the others.

I don't mind the haboob that sandblasts your car, your glasses, and your skin--the lovely drenching monsoon follows. I don't mind the hazy days--I get really good photos during the magic hours (and I'm even at home for them both!!)

I really HATE the humidity that blends with the heat to make taking a walk like a slog through a swamp of spoiled milk. It gets so bad I can't even remember the titles of my short stories--which REALLY is bad.

Here's the one I threatened you with a few weeks back. I called it "A Thankless Task." Close, but no ceegar. Here goes.¹

His was one of those thankless tasks that is simultaneously vital to good function, utterly invisible, and loathsome to contemplate. Like the guy whose job it is to clean the vats in a sewage treatment plant. Or the cleanup crew after Mardi Gras, cleaning up the spilled booze, blood and vomit from the streets. The job gets done somehow, by someone, and nobody ever thinks about who does it and when.

He'd worked his beat for years, in all kinds of weather. He'd traveled rainy roads, through blowing snowstorms where the flakes fell in curtains, watching funnel clouds touch down from green black summer skies. He'd tapped on canvas tent flaps, knocked on doors of clapboard and brick houses, walked in through the front gates of palaces. Getting the word out.

Some people, old people, lonely people, were glad to see him. Others were angry at being interrupted, and clearly wanted to get back to their lives. A few were resigned, patiently listening to the tidings he brought. He'd been at this job a long, long time.


Right now, the sun was hot on his bald head as he walked the dusty road into Truth or Consequences, New Mexico. October 31, All Hallows' Eve, and tomorrow would be the Day of the Dead. He grinned. Marigolds on the graves, and paper money, and sugar skulls to eat. His parchment skin wrinkled back exposing his gums, and burying his already small and deep set eyes back further in their sockets. Every day, so far as he was concerned, was the day of the dead. All flesh was grass, ashes, and dust.

He carried a battered leather case, wore a straw cowboy hat on his head, stained with sweat, the edges patiently rolled and re-rolled into permanent curls like pork rinds. His shirt was white, and although wrinkled, bone dry. He had small silver pesatas for cufflinks, sparking shards of sunlight. His pants were black, starting to go rusty on the knees and in the seat. The heels on his boots were worn at the backs, so he leaned backward a little when he stood still, but he seldom stopped and stood. Always and forever on the go, world without end, amen.


He stopped in at a burger joint, ordered only a glass of water. When the waitress looked him over slowly, taking in the cufflinks, his bolo tie with a silver mouse skull, and the white linen shirt, then contrasting it with the fact that he had walked in, walked on a road where anyone with a lick of sense would have driven, hitched a ride, or rode the bus; he smiled gently, keeping his teeth covered by his thin lips. He knew he'd see her again, thirty years from now, in the hospital with ovarian cancer. She 'd finally have lost those twenty-five pounds she blamed her loveless days on; those twenty-five pounds and more to keep them company. Oh, she'd be just as thin as the fashion models she pictured her face on in those magazines she read, easily a size 0, maybe even 00. Not that she'd enjoy it. Not that she'd be in a big city, seeing and being seen, dancing all night. So why give her a rough day now?


"Add on a patty melt, hon," he said, in his voice like rustling leaves. "But don't make it up just yet. Give it to . . . what's his name, the man who knocks on the door just about closing. The one you give the lunchmeat and bread that's just expired that day or the day before. Ask him in, let him sit down, and give him a hot fresh meal." Because I'll be seeing him tonight, out on the train tracks, just after the 11:05 from Santa Fe comes rolling by, he thought, but didn't say. Albert, Albert Manolo, that was the man's name. Albert who would find a five dollar bill, no, would be given a five dollar bill by a family of three on the way to Tucson, who would then purchase a bottle of sweet fortified wine, and go to sleep it off in his lean-to just outside town. But he'd fall, and lie there looking at the stars, finishing the last sticky dregs in the bottle, too rubber-limbed and swoony to get back up. And he'd pillow his head on the rail, and close his eyes, lulled by the thrumming heartbeat under his cheek, the faraway song of steel growing slowly closer.

The waitress, Gaye, if her name tag was to be believed, turned pale, paler at his casual mention of the man who'd come begging every few nights for the last two-three months. Acne stood out like paint flecks on her cheeks gone white. She'd feared having to throw this guy out, this bum with the good jewelry, maybe just starting on his way down, ordering only a glass of water, but how did he know about Albert? Albert with his liquid brown eyes, his heartbroken smile, the closest thing she'd had to a long-term relationship. How could he know? Her boss didn't know.


He finished his water, tipped her a dollar for her trouble, put his hat back on his head. He'd removed it when sitting down, placing it on the empty stool next to him. As he stood to leave, the background chatter of the kid in the booth with his parents stopped as he took a big bite of his burger, mumbled something through a mouthful of bun and beef, started to cough--and then stopped.

The kid spit out most of the bite, fumbled at his mouth and throat. His father patted him on the back, gently at first then harder as the kid's face purpled and his tongue thrust out. The woman with them stood up, looking for--what exactly? A god in a flowered chair to drop from the sky? A poster with the Heimlich Maneuver with easy to follow directions? Someone to read her mind?

It seems someone did, because the man with the hat dropped his case on the floor by his seat, and hurried over, sweeping the kid up in his arms in a bear hug, with his fist in the pit of the kid's stomach. Two hard squeezes, and the remains of the too big bite came out. The kid coughed scratchily, then began to bawl as he was handed back over to his relieved parents.


They thanked him effusively, and he shucked and grinned it all off. Just doing what anyone would, ma'am. Paying it forward, you could say. Acts of charity are what make the world go 'round, we're all in it here together until the great and final end. He ruffled the kid's hair, praised him for being a tough little soldier. Told the kid to take care, and turned to pick up his case, thinking that he'd be a little sorry to see this one in ten years, on prom night, behind the wheel with breath you could light on fire from the spiked punch. But he had a job to do.

Through the Rockwellian downtown, then back into the suburbs. The sub-sub-suburbs, he thought, and grinned again. Out to a tiny two room cabin with an outhouse and a clapboard porch to sit on when the summer heat was too great for sleeping.

The little house sat on much too much land, the way it had when the one who lived there had raised cattle on his ranch, driving them to Santa Fe to be loaded onto trains and driven to the slaughterhouses of Chicago to feed the nation on flesh. Slowly, as he'd grown older, the rancher had trimmed back his operations, stopped renting lands for grazing first, then sold the ranch an acre at a time as the city unfolded. "Why let them have it all at once," he'd said, without bitterness. He knew that the world turned, and that his way was ending. "Why let them have it in a great big gulp, when I can sell it to them a bit at a time, and ranch coin from the land?"


No fences from the road, just the end of the road itself, and the nearest neighbor still a quarter-mile off. The travelling man squinted in the setting sun, listened carefully. Smiled as he heard the creak of the boards, and the joints of the rocking chair. Smelled the oil on the rancher's knife and the sap of the cottonwood limb he was whittling on. "I'm an excellent sculptor," the rancher would say in his rusted baritone, cracked from dust and yelling orders over lowing cattle and the perpetual wind on the plains. "I can see a toothpick in any hunk of wood. All that it takes is carving away the excess."

He pulled up even with the house, watched for a moment as the old man's palsied hands picked away at the cottonwood branch, the knife so deft even as he trembled. "Hello, the house," he called. Waited as the man in the rocking chair looked up, turtle-like behind his trifocals that still weren't enough to bring back the unclouded sight that had once been his.

"Well, hello," the rancher replied, using the momentum of the rocking chair to lever himself up, with care for his arthritic back and knees. He folded the pocketknife's blade back deliberately, slipped the knife into his pocket, peered at the stranger in the straw hat. "Take a wrong turn, mister? Don't get much company out this way."

The other smiled. "Not a wrong turn at all, unless you aren't Jean-Paul Verley." He walked slowly forward, hand extended.

The rancher smiled, though his brows drew together in puzzlement. "I'm him," he said, meeting the stranger at the top of the stairs to the porch. He shook hands with the man, then said "But you still took a wrong turn if you're the Fuller Brush man." He indicated the outhouse around the side. They both had a laugh at that.

Verley settled back in his rocking chair, offered his guest the cane-seat chair next to it. Remarks were exchanged about the weather (too damn hot for this time of year), the current state of the world's affairs (going to hell in a handbasket) and the past baseball season (the wrong team won). Verley opined that it was good to talk to a man who saw things the same way he did. It was getting lonely for a lifelong batchelor, whose remaining family was scattered to the four winds. "But here I've gone and jawed your ear off, and kept you from your rightful business. Which is?"


"Well, it isn't Fuller Brushes, nor is it inquiring about your personal relationship with Jesus. I'm not in the business of selling at all, really." Here came the moment, the moment all this had lead up to. "I'm more in the business of taking." He looked at Verley, long and slow in the growing darkness. Verley looked back, measuring the skull beneath the skin, and his eyes dropped first.

"Oh," he said softly, sadly, and sighed.

"I'm sorry," the other said, and for a wonder, he was. It happened occasionally, when he had the time to sit down for a moment with someone who wasn't surprised to see him, with someone who didn't whine and plead for just a few more months, weeks, days. Gotta have one last Christmas, see the kid graduate, see the baby born. Just one more hour to say goodbye to everyone and everything. A pure pleasure to just stop for a minute and have a civilized conversation before rolling on down the road to the next appointment.

"Well. Much obliged." said Verley, as he opened the door to the house and went in for his jacket. The other followed him in.

"Obliged?" he asked Verley. "Obliged to die?"


"Yessir," replied Verley as he wound his watch and tucked it into his pocket. "It's been a good life--though of course, not near long enough." He lay down on the bed. "Bet you hear that all the time, though."

"Not quite like that," replied Death.

"And, well, I'd like to say 'thankee too much' for holding off so I could have the days I did. For not taking me when that bull spooked my horse and he crushed my leg up against the boards of the chute. For waiting out that case of pneumonia when I was sixty-five. For making the rattlesnake that crawled into my boot that night on the last drive rattle before I stuck my foot in, so I could shake him out without getting bit. Thankee, sir, and muchly obliged." He looked around. "Going to miss this, though. Anything particular I need to do?"

Death trembled. "Yes," he whispered. "Yes. You need to take the battered leather case you'll find on the porch, and you'll need to meet a man named Albert Manolo out by the train tracks at 11:08 this evening."

"Beg pardon?"

"Get up. Get up. There's work to be done. It's a hard and thankless task, but the benefits are good." Death took off his hat and placed it on the dresser, lay down on Verley's bed.

Verley smiled, and his eyes sank deeper into his head, the edges of his teeth glittering. "So that's how it goes, is it? A thankless task, yes sir. Thankless indeed."

"Yes," said Death. "But the benefits are good." And he closed his eyes for the first time ever.


1. You can find the other short in the August archives, under "I Stole This From Artella." The two stories link because the above story was written in response to a challenge where you had to include the phrase "obliged to die."

Fleeting Progress Post

Not quite too busy to take a quiz, but still . . . How is it that whenever you get three-four days where you don't have to report to work that LESS gets done than when you squeeze it in around a ten-hour chunk devoted to someone else's agenda?

We are in the big finishing stretch here, completing things that have been trudging along for months. Gareth's Big Gray Binkie is done. Six feet by seven feet of charcoal goodness--which is why there's no photo. It was impossible for me with my limited studio to make the project exciting through sheer volume (c'mon, SIX feet wide by SEVEN feet long, all handknit? Whoof. Put that in your patience pipe and smoke it.)

Adenydd--Wings-- is complete, and one of the things I wanted to do was to post the pithy directions and charts. Of course, that means I need to find out how, read the directions, and perform the operation. I know where the cursed how is, just haven't rolled up the sleeves and gotten to it. But look:



Yum. Again, I'd love to have two lovely assistants to help out here and stretch this shawl out to take an artsy shot of the article and its shadows. It's nearly seven feet square, and I could probably get it to seven and a half if I blocked a little more severely. I didn't intend for it to get this big, but swatches LIE.



The castle blanket for Project Linus is nearly through. Due to the edges being temporarily held on string, there's no way to get a nice photo that doesn't look like a pile of yarn barf. (Ok, some would argue that my color sensibilities and choices make ALL my PL binkies look like piles of yarn barf. Those People of Beige Persuasion know who they are, and where they may go. Posthaste.)

So what's new on the needles??? I've started a Kiri in the Knittery's silk-merino yarn in their passionfruit colorway. Oh my YUM.

The yarn is a sensual delight, so soft and delicious in the hands. It's like really good chocolate, the kind you get from a friend overseas, or at a chocolatier, that you experience once and then can never find quite the same stuff again. And the colors. Mostly plum purple with shots of grey and hints of funny jelly green and some pinky-brown.

The shape of the shawl will show more than the stitches of the shawl, I think, though the proof is in the blocking. That's okay, though--the knitting is dead simple. Simple enough to keep me awake and knitting, unlike garter stitch, but not teeth-gnashingly complicated. It's a good balance.

Socks for me, of course. I think I bought just about every variation of self-striping sock yarn over the last few years. Each time I added to the stash, I castigated myself for investing in one-trick ponies. SSS yarn comes in pretty colors, but the only thing it does well is knit small tubes in the round. And not too small tubes--the stripes get awfully wide in glove fingers. Tubes about the size of your ankle or wrist.

There's no simple way to manipulate the order of the stripes, or change colors at strategic locations--that's why you bought yarn that would do this for you, after all. You didn't want the work involved in stranded color patterns. One trick ponies, just like eyelash yarn.

But they had so many pretty colors . . . And I love socks for brainless knitting. I have two blue box patterns, one for plain yarns, one for self-striping yarns. I have two big bags FULL of SSS yarn, and a shoeholder full of various kinds of sock yarn.

My stashing self has been vindicated--the faux Fair Isle SSS yarn has gone away. You can still find the usual suspects (cough Opal cough Regia cough) but the heyday of every stockist/manufacturer putting out SSS yarn has passed by, and the FFI SSS yarn has slid away almost entirely. Glad I grabbed when I could. I have brainless socks for a long time to come.

It's not that I don't like patterned socks. I'm a huge fan of
Cookie A and have even laid out buckage for some of her designs. I just like to have options--to knit two at once on two circs is a joy, just as following a chart and doing one sock at a time on DPN is pleasing. But hey, they're just socks. We've seen them before, so don't expect photos unless there's something intrinsically cool about the sock--shaping choices, or pattern choices, or handdyed yarn.

I'm doing some knitted felted bowls (yes, Mildred, the technical term for an object that is knitted, crocheted, or woven that is then agitated in water to make the cloth firmer and ravel-proof is "Fulling." They all knew what I meant by felting though, so shoo!) for a friend who wants to sell "stuff and things" at Ren Faire and such. Those are easy and like potato chips. I hope to have the whole series done next week during commute time.

I'm actually in compliance with my "no more than four" rule. Pretty amazing.

Coming Up For Air

Today tastes like a root beer float in the hundred and ten degree weather. You have a fleeting impression of sweetness and cold, and than it's gone and all you have in your hands is a soggy wax cup.

I'm stealing minutes here and there to try and give some balance to my life. I thought I should find a photo of a Chinese juggler with his plates, Photoshop it up with the words, "I don't even have time for a stupid QUIZ!" and post him here.

Imagine that for me, would you??? Thanks.

Masks and the Like

Today tastes like pot roast with onions, carrots, and potatoes. Like pink Zinfandel and cloves. Like french onion soup with three kinds of cheese.

It's funny--we celebrate the longest night of the year in a ginormous way, here in the Judeo-Christian community. We have Hannukka and Christmas (Saturnalia, December 17-22; Larentalia, December 23; and Brumalia, December 25). Lots of fun in the winter, when the days are short and the nights are long, and the holly king bestrides this hemisphere.

However, there's nothing so large and well-known connected with the summer solstice. (Yes, yes, it IS the feast day of John the Baptist. Show me the "Merry John Day" cards, the wrapping paper and traditional gifts, recipies for John the Baptist cookies and candy. Head-shaped cake on a platter, anyone??)

(Oh, come on, it's better than the traditional breakfast of scrambled eggs and brains, isn't it?)

So some friends of ours (Antipathy and Amity) have commenced celebrating the polar opposite of Yule--Lhyr. During Lhyr, one of the traditional activites involves masks. And revlery. And foolishment. (Funny, all of our holidays seem to include foolishment, to some degree.)

Lyhr was planned as a sit-down dinner with a handful of pals, a hidden festival. The highlight of the evening would be a mask contest, at which point the winners would be crowned the Fool of Lyhr and the Queen of Lyhr, to rule until Lyhr 2008.

Heh. Yes, that would be my "Competitive Perfectionist" button, right there in the middle of my forehead. (And you thought that was a bindhi!)

So . . . nothing would do but I win the competition. Hadda hadda hadda. I don't play often, but when I do, it's important to me to win. Yes, yes, I AM three, why do you ask?

So I made a mask out of paper mache.

Like many things, that sentence says nothing about the work that took place unless you know the kind of elbow grease that paper mache entails. There's a reason that the masks from Venice cost between $40 for a simple domino and $100 for something full-face. It's not the paint, it's not the trim, it's the sanding.

The sanding, sanding, sanding, sanding, sanding. You build a base of strips two-three layers deep and let that get good and dry. You add a layer of fine-grained pulp (we found cheap white toilet paper works wonders here) and let THAT get good and dry. You paint a layer of gesso on, and once THAT'S finally dry, you take out the pebbly sandpaper and start smoothing.

Gesso again, dry again, go down in grit, and sand. Lather, rinse, repeat until you get a good smooth finish without the lumpy-bumpy ick that is inherent to paper mache.

Then one last coat of gesso, and you're ready to paint.

And yes, I did indeed win the Lhyr Queen's tiara.

I've been told I do NOT need to relinquish the tiara to the next year's Queen (mumbles "Cold dead hands . . ") nor do I need to provide a tiara next year--just be available to judge. I can do that. I'm very judgemental. (That probably didn't come out right . . .)

Ah, but I want to make a tiara for next year's Queen. I think that would be a cool thing to (1) do, (2) incorporate into the festivities. And well, if once is the thing itself, and twice is the way we've always done it, and three times is tradition--I need to get off the stick and inspire a couple of followers so we can keep Lhyr 2010 the traditional way, with last Lhyr's couple presenting the Fool's Cap and the Queen's Tiara that they themselves created.

Another Finished Object!!!

Today tastes like a really well-balanced mojito (with NOTHING canned about it. Bacardi is making a "mojito" pre-bottled, but I'd rather drink lite beer than this. Bleh.) a blue-rare ribeye with feta, and maybe some dilled green beans.

I have finished one object a month for the past two months, and am thisclose
< holding fingers about six inches apart > to finishing the red shawl. Since I've been hauling it back and forth to work, working on it at lunch, and dumping weekends that SHOULD be devoted to re-reading Harry Potter into this shawl, it better show its appreciation by making progress.

However, the spotlight right now goes to the Scarf of the Apocalypse.




Done, done, done, done, done!!! And with time to spare, yet. It's headed off in the mail to its final destination, and brush with fifteen minutes of fame.

I Stole This From Artella . . .

Artella is a most excellent website/newsletter/purveyor of goodies/provider of classes/subject of inspiration/tool not to be without. Go here then come back.

And I just thieved a prompt from their newsletter. Bad Spike.

"First, you must use the phrase "I never saw it coming" somewhere in the piece.
"Second, you must include something about a meal.
"Third, you must incorporate the following words:
"Automobile, Coupon, Display, Identity, Knee, Jaguar."

Right. Here we go:

If I had known what Monday had in store for me that day, I would have gone back to bed and hidden with my head beneath the pillow. Seriously, I never saw it coming.

I should have known when the alarm went off, and I groped around for the snooze button, only to manage to turn the whole darn thing OFF. And then I slept in, like the proverbial log, until about T minus ten minutes from "Oh shit."

I thought about calling in sick that morning, hopping around the bedroom with one leg in my pants and juggling the tasks of drinking some coffee, combing my hair, and getting lunch put together. Breakfast? Who has time for that?? If I called in, I thought, I'd have time to make bacon and eggs, pancakes and juice. I could read the paper, I thought, clenching my teeth around my coffee cup's rim as I pulled on my socks, tipping my head back for a swig. I could do that, clip coupons for tonight's shopping (no, I didn't get to the store this weekend, why do you ask??) and then go in to work around lunch. I could miss all the rush-hour traffic, have a nice easy morning, and still be a hero! I could skip the makeup to look authentically washed-out, moan a little, run for the bathroom at varying intervals, and weakly clutch my forehead, murmuring no, no, I simply HAD to come in and finish this presentation--my responsibilities wouldn't let me rest.

But no, here I was in the garage, turning the key in the Jaguar (what my ex always referred to as my "identity display." There was some truth in that--I'd wanted a look-at-me car all the way through high school and college, and when I could finally afford an automobile worthy of the full title (as opposed to just "a car." A car is what you drive to a job. An automobile takes you to your career.) then I'd gone ahead and acquired it. What else was I working for?)

He never could make up his mind whether he was yuppie or boho. He wanted a sugar shack to boogie-woogie in--as long as the investment would appreciate; came with a hot tub, golf-course perfect lawn (maintained by someone else, please); living room filled with the latest styles in decor (ditto); sumptuous master bath (ditto); and children who were both perfectly mannered while free and uninhibited. (Oh, and ditto to that last part, too.)

At the same time, I was to be liberated (but not to make more than he did), a full and equal partner (who deferred to his decisions over anything more important than the color of the polish on my nails), and to have a fulfilling career so long as I could be home in time to cook a hot nourishing dinner for all of us just like his mother would. With the kids freshly scrubbed and dressed for dinner. And me, polished, poised, and hanging on his every word.

Do I need to explain what happened next? Sheesh. Thank heaven I got out of that BEFORE we had the progeny running around. I wasn't that hepped on being a mommy with a partner (though how MUCH of a partner I would really have had is debatable); going it alone would have been infinitely worse.

So, here I was, going it alone. It would have been nice to have a partner to carpool with, I thought, sitting and seething in the parking lot that is rush-hour traffic in this corner of the world. Watching mothers zip by in their SUV's, using the carpool lane because they had a baby on board, and a child in the front passenger seat. Wasn't the point of carpooling to take additional cars off the road?? Were they issuing licenses to kids who hadn't mastered sippy cups yet? Would it be ethical to borrow children from the neighbors and deliver them to daycare services by my office, I wondered.

Inch. Stop. Inch. Stop. Into the tunnel where you can't see what lies ahead, can't anticipate what the flow of the traffic will look like and change lanes to avoid the jam until you're in the thick of it all.

And that's when it all stopped dead. That is, deader than usual. I sat there for a whole song and commercial cycle, and we weren't budging. People around me honked for a bit, and then I saw the folks a little further up getting out of their cars. Clearly we weren't going anywhere for a while. Good--now I had a readymade excuse for being late. Too bad I hadn't had any way of knowing--I could have had that Sunday morning breakfast I'd fantasized about.

I shut off the engine, started walking up the lane. Suddenly, the ground shivered, and the light at the end winked out. I heard screams, and a wave of people began running from the dark end back towards the light. I kicked off my shoes, and spun to keep ahead of the wave of panic.

I was able to slip over to the side and avoid the crush in the middle. I saw people trapped by cars, unable to get back into the stream, scrabbling over hoods to avoid falling and being trampled by the stampede.

Once I was out of the tunnel, I turned to look back, like Lot's wife. A very human flaw, curiousity. I could see over and behind the tunnel, to the blocked side.

A foot. A foot the size of a Volkwagen bus tipped up on its end; toes, arch and heel. Callus on the heel. An ankle, presumably leading to a calf. The knee was hidden by the mouth of the tunnel, but the thigh dwarfed the puny skyscrapers that make up the Phoenix skyline, such as it is.

The first of the giants had fallen.


Okay, not fantastic--you know what I mean, plenty fantastic, but not Litrachure For the Ages. Not every forced fiction (i.e., fiction with a mandatory set of words included) is gonna be great.

Hmmm. Now I'll have to post "A Thankless Task" next week so y'all can compare and contrast.

Salt River Summertime

Today tastes like hot wet flannel.

99 degrees Farenheit. The dew point is 69 degrees Farenheit.

55 percent humidity.

I'm going to run the tub full of lukewarm water (about as cold as it gets in summer) and curl up with lemonade and Harry Potter. All of them. By the time I turn the last page on Deathly Hallows, I should be cool enough to sleep for a few minutes before the heat and light wake me up again.

Still, it's better than shoveling.

The Canonization of St. Ishida

Today tastes like . . . chicken. Chicken chicken chicken, chicken chicken. Chicken? Chicken, chicken chicken, chicken chicken. With black truffle salt. And black truffles. And portobello mushrooms. With Pinot Noir. (All right, a 1996 Domaine de la Romanee Conti La Tache, if you must be specific.)

Li'l Bra, who blogs under his real name at Noir Chicken Studios occasionally anoints saints to his personal canon. Until recently, I didn't have anyone I'd want to spend eternity with . . . until now. (Hence the foregoing tribute. Now commences the real post.)

Tatsuya Ishida is the author, artist, and driving force behind
Sinfest, a webcomic that swings between male/female communication issues, cute animals being cute, and philosphical study. With a side of frat-boy humor. I've read and loved his work for years. The Hand of God, Slick and 'Nique, Squigly, the Devil, Zen Dragon, and Bhudda. And Percy and Pooch. Good times.

But it wasn't until I read this, his essay about the nature of temptation, desire, detachment, and compassion, that I realized I needed him in my personal pantheon.

Namaste.

Stochastic Generator Pr0n

And while we wait for inspiration to drop out of the sky and hit me on the head, we present the latest quiz results:





No use trying to fight it, you're an eight-sided die, a d8. A fine example of simple elegance, the d8 is one of the least appreciated types of dice, and is often neglected. You are known to be quiet and shy, outward traits that conceal viscous sarcasm and mean wit. You are very smart, yet wise enough to hide your intelligence --the quicker they find out how smart you are, the sooner they'll put you to work-- which is something you can do without. People call you dark and pessimistic, or moody and cynical. You find little point in arguing.

Take the quiz at dicepool.com

Who knew??

Filching From the Masters Series: The Next Installment

Today tastes like diet peach-flavored green tea. Flat. Chemical. Harsh.

Although I have been hard at work on the red shawl (my fingers may be permanently tattooed with dye on the index and middle finger of my right hand, like a nineteenth century clerk's mark) completion continues to be elusive. I knit on the thing going to work. I knit on it on the way home from work. I knit on it at lunch. I get about six rows per day, which is half a repeat (more or less) and at this rate it will take . . . twenty days to get to the edging. ( whacks head on the keyboard in hkj.fcdahdhewkhd; DESPAIR.)

And, of course, the Project Fairies have not taken pity on me and worked on some of the objects which have been quasi-abandoned in my quests to complete the projects that fill me with passion right now. Gareth's binkie is a forlorn charcoal heap. The Castle binkie languishes in a clashing swoon. The bowls remain unfelted and un-knit. (I refuse to discuss the books that await covers, pages that need polishing, and the unbound signatures stacked in the garage. Nope. Not gonna talk about the ATC's and decos that just need glue and postage. NOPE. NOT GONNA.)

Thus, everything is pretty much the same as it was when I posted pics last week. I'm not sure why I feel like there ought to be a whole lot more. Perhaps that will change--I have the Fourth off, so plan to be up burning the midnight oil on the red shawl and the Scarf of the Apocalypse. And then burning daylight in front of the DVD player clicking away on both projects. If the internal alarm clock (or the cats) get me up at the usual time, I may just give up and haul my carcass onto the couch to play podcasts and knit and knit and knit until Gareth gets up and we can work on the Netflix backlog.

Meanwhile, I'm going to follow my rule regarding what to do when you have nothing new to show--steal a dead poet's work and filk it into knitting. Y'all know this one:

Choosing the Next Project From the Growing Stash

Whose list is this? It’s mine, I know–
Scribbles and arrows to and fro
Footprints of a rambling mind
Potentialities all aglow.

To knit for charity would be kind,
Each stitch with a prayer entwined.
Or to wrap a friend with loving arms
Of lace. Or socks. But they wouldn’t mind

If I yielded to the charms
Of a shawl for me. Ah, but the harm
Is that it’s very late. I should keep
To the schedule set by the tyrannical alarm.

My bed looks warm, my pillow deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And yards to knit before I sleep,
And yards to knit before I sleep.

Indeed.

Progress At Last!!!

Today tastes like blue rare steak, cut into a shell and filled with blue cheese, roasted garlic, and carmelized onions, topped with mushrooms cooked in butter. Rapini on the side for more garlic. Yum.

When last we saw the red shawl, it looked like this. Three lonely little balls, a totem of abandonment.

Now it looks like this.
Woooohoooolabooola! The center square is lined out nicely with faux faggoting, the wings all fly long, and it's looking good so far. I may make this the Knitting Tour de France project, where I will commit to FINISH this thing by July 29. I'll need to line up my paper projects and get'r done by July 1, but that may be the kick in the pants I need.

Or I may do Kiri, a simple lace shawl, in this yummy yummy yarn from the Knittery. I don't normally do yarn porn, but I'm breaking my rule for this.

The problem with variegated yarns is that often the colors pool. This is a feature, and can be used to enhance the object. However, sometimes the colors are so distinct and separate that they do this. I don't think this will happen with the Knittery's yarn. I mean, look at the wonderful blendiness of the colors they used < wipes drool off the keyboard>. And the yarn's texture is blissful, too. Silk merino . . . ahhhhhhhhhhhhhh. (Did I mention that they will custom dye any of their yarns in any of their colorways? And that the US dollar is still strong against the Australian dollar? Do I need to list MY favorite colorways here??? HINT HINT HINT)

Tyger is done, I just need to finish in the ends. That will probably take almost as long as knitting the thing to begin with. IT'S DONE!!! IT'S DONE!!! OMGBBQ!!1!!

As soon as I get the HTML sussed out, I'll have a link to the graph and the basic working instructions up.

And the Scarf of the Apocalypse has grown from this

to this

to this.


I think it knits itself when I'm not looking. This has been a hoot to play with. I'm really looking forward to the rabbit yarn . . .

The Monster in the Mirror

Thinking about personality tests and quizzes and monsters and wondering if the type of monsters that resonate with a person reveal some piece of their core identity, like a shaman’s totems. Only these would be shadow totems, emblems and enablers of our dark side.

Yeah, yeah, we all know about the Goths and Vampire–pardon me–Vampyre Chic. And really, what more could you ask from your late teens/early twenties life? Sleep all day, play all night, gorgeous threads and never having to pay your way? Parasites in predator’s clothing, totally dependant upon the blood supply even as they eschew the boring little limited humans. Sound like juvenile disdain for the parents who provide food, shelter, clothing, tuition?? “I’m never going to be like them! Never going to let myself be tied down to a limiting little box for money . . . oh yeah, I need to write home and ask for some cash."

Nameless, my dear pal who reads this blog (and now I am so gonna get a thousand calls asking “Am I Nameless???") is all about communication, and ghost stories. And what is a ghost, except someone who desperately has something to say–but can’t get it across? Ghosts moan and rattle, appearing and vanishing around a fixed point, and the only way to get rid of them is to figure out what the problem is and FIX IT.

Lumpkin is into zombies. When I think of zombies, the first thing that comes to mind is drive. Zombies are the ultimate in drive. Their whole focus is getting from point A (hunger) to point B (satiety–usually on living flesh). That’s it. No quandries about what should be done, no distractions about what could be done right now (“While I’m devouring Bush, I might as well eat Souter, Cheney’s already one of us. Oooohhh–Ginsberg’s looking toothsome!”) Nope. Point A to point B in as few shambling steps as possible. Water, fire, walls--not a problem. Just stuff to pass through.

Me? I'm into devils and demons. Take what you want, do as you please, and pay for it. Ultimately powerful beings that are bound by rules of their own devising. The ultimate in OCD monsters, always checking the details, details, details. Why do you think I post once a week??? It's in the rules, just like the pentagram on the office floor that keeps me here at my desk.

And don't get me started on the angel-lovers out there. We're talking manifestations of the Divine Will. Notice that when God needs a heavy, S/He sends out an angel? The angel with the flaming sword guarding the Tree of Knowledge, the angel driving Adam and Eve out of the garden, the angel of death visiting the firstborn of Egypt? See a pattern here? Devils can be tricked; there's a whole genre of deal with the devil stories where the summoner wiggles out of the contract and avoids damnation. How many "Deal With an Angel" stories have you seen, where someone summons an angel, makes a deal, and then avoids the consequences? The negative consequences, of course--the ones where the protagonist gets gobsmacked for hijacking a henchman of the divine.

And no, I haven't touched shapeshifters--the werebeasts, the changelings. No one so far has admitted their love for the id buried within. (I can relate, I have a psyche like an M & M. Big chocolaty id, covered with a crunchy ego shell and sprayed with a glossy bright superego. Probably where I get the obsession tihe rules and such--the superego is very very thin, and washes away easily. If it gets scratched, that's it--here comes the chocolate.)

Next time, pictures. Promise. No more psychology for a while, it's too hot outside.

Artist's Statement???

I will admit to a certain fascination with elevator pitches. How do you define what you do, your vision, what makes you get out of bed and do your creative act in a handful of words?

It's easy to write a thumbnail bio. You know what will resonate with your audience--cum laude graduate from Yale; Pulitzer Prize winner; mother of five, one with autism. But when you ask yourself the hard questions--why DO I knit enormous swaths of lace? What am I trying to communicate from the non-verbal side of my head? Now say it out loud.

I don't intend at this moment to make my living knitting. I don't enjoy the sacrifices one makes for speed and novelty. When it's common to have a design accepted at last, then get three weeks to resize the design for XS to XXL and knit two samples in the yarn the manufacturer is huckstering (because what you knit has been discontinued, or is in LAST season's colors)well, I'd rather not play. That game is not worth my candle.

And I don't intend to go on the craft show circuit and sell retail or even wholesale.But the discipline of honing what I believe, the cutting away of the unnecessary to get to the heart of the matter, that moves me.

First whack:

We remember, deep in our bones, what it was to fly. Angels have swans’ wings, demons have bats’ wings, superheroes wear capes. Wrapped in fine threads of a single strand entwined, we pick up our wings once more.

This I Believe

The stars have come right at last. All worlds come to an end.

Remember the Y2K scare? How our civilization was going to come to a crashing end when all computers were caught in recursive loops? And how it didn’t, how I am sitting at the keyboard typing this, and you are reading it off a screen, and all is well, and all manner of all things are well?

The Mayans had science and mathematics far beyond the capabilities of their contemporaries. The calculated out a calendar that extended into the modern century, hundreds of years into the future from their perspective. But then it ended, in 2002.

And then there’s the “dark sci-fi” that has so captured the modern imagination, a bleak dystopia reducing us to food for the unmentionable Powers That Be. The Matrix, for example, where man feeds machine and never knows until he takes the red pill.

But none of that’s real.

But you are so wrong.

Can you not see? Can you not understand? First, there was the population explosion. Then, global warming. We started harvesting the ocean bottoms to feed all the people. The “lemming phenomenon” reported in the news, about people swimming out to sea and not coming back. Now, the hot new Japanese fast-food chain, Zulen Akai. With Zeph, their cute chubby octopus character toddling along in overalls, hawking compressed seaweed and soybean patties.

They’re bigger than McDonalds. You can’t not hear their jingle–I’ll bet it’s playing where you are now, in a pop-up window, or a radio, or a televison set . . . or in your head, just from me mentioning it.

That’s the most insidious part. Who needs telepathic control when you have mass media?

I’m telling you, it started with Grimace at McDonalds. Then the Starbucks twin-tailed mermaid. They taught us to associate food with monsters. Now we can’t recognize danger when it’s staring us in the face.

Here, I’ll spell it out for you. We have more people on the planet than ever before. We have warmed the oceans. Who knows what beings, slumbering since the great ice age, have stirred to life as the ice around them melted and drifts of warmer waters played like soft breezes?

Could you sleep through spring? Didn’t think so. And wouldn’t you be hungry when you woke up? And what would you do if you had to convince the food to wait for you . . . to come to you and be eaten? You can’t do anything scary; you need to present yourself as one of the herd. You need to be an enticing member of the herd, in fact.

And isn’t Zeph just the cutest? Couldn’t you just . . . eat him up?

I tried to warn you. I’m just one person, without the resources of the Great Old Ones. So I’ve sent this essay in to the one place one voice might have of making a difference, here on NPR. Five hundred words, and one person’s statement of personal belief.

I just hope it’s enough.

Learning Experience

Today tastes like vanilla butter cupcakes with a chocolate ganache filling slathered with coconut buttercream frosting. So innocent to look at, all snowy white goodness. So decadent in the mouth, three-four bites of fleeting richness.

I have reached an interesting point in two projects. Tyger is all but finished, it needed some borders to be complete. Entrelac is that way, I find. The edges look raw somehow, with stitches just far enough out of alignment to trigger my inner Virgoliscitudinousness.

As you may recall, "Tyger" was started for a Project Linus contest. I decided I wanted to reflect an abstraction rather than try for picture knitting. (With few and notable exceptions, picture knitting does not work. See Mary Maxim for great views of What NOT to Do.)

I started with a tigery colored boucle and black smooth worsted in diagonal stripes, surrounded by a field of varied greens. The tiger's pelt, as seen against the foliage in passing. So I opted to continue the abstraction in the borders--a dark purple along one short edge and one long edge for "Night" and a periwinkle along the other two edges for "Day." Night will have cream-colored prairie points for the moon and stars' Day will have lemon yellow prairie points for the sun.

I am enthralled with this design. The purples look wonderful against all the green and orange. Night is dark enough to read as dark without looking weird, like part of the tiger escaped the border. Pictures and pattern to follow.

Before I tried writing an entrelac pattern, I thought they were far too wordy. It's easy to get lost in all the ink. Surely I could do it faster.

Uhm, yeah. Right. Pride goeth before prejudice, right? It's so easy to explain entrelac, holding up your fingers and drawing squares to illustrate how it goes and how you just knit one square at a time. Explain it in words, and suddenly you have an inky morass of verbiage. Sigh.

The red shawl is moving along despite a small setback. I wanted a modern Shetland lace look, withe a center square surrounded by a thick border and an edging. However, Wings of the Swan, the main feature of this shawl, looks best run lengthwise--so making an inner square and then bordering it log-cabin style was Right Out.

No problemo, thought I, I'll fake a center square by changing stitch pattern and setting it off with a border of YO, K2tog. That'll be easy to work across the top and bottom of the square. Then I'll just work YO, K2tog before and after the pattern, and Bob's my uncle.

Well, except he isn't.

See, last weekend, I got to this point in my knitting, and gleefully began working what I had charted. I write before I knit--that way, I can edit my writing as I go. Plan A doesn't work, so re-think, re-write, and rip. If Plan B works as written, you don't have to try to remember how you were speaking in tongues when you attached the border at 3:00 a.m. Wednesday night and write it down again. (Or reconstruct from fevered notes. In some ways, that's worse than reading your knitting and writing it down.)

One little tiny problem. I'd miscalculated the stitches available to play with by a bunch. And I'd written the directions poorly--I got lost trying to follow them!! Rip, rip, rip. And re-write.

Second try last night. Rocking along, having big fun as this poured off my needles. Hmmm . . . the side YO's look too big. Whazzup wit' dat??

Crapamous! Knitting stitches are WIDER than they are TALL. So the YO's on the sides every other row don't have the same thickness between holes as the YO's on the bottom between stitches. I KNEW that. I just didn't think through the effect. And I didn't swatch this idea before trying it.

You guessed it. Rip, rip, rip and re-write.

And someplace I'm gonna make a note of this; that when you want a square in the middle via changing stitch patterns, you'll want to solve it by either working two rows of faggot all around--straight across the bottom and top, and vertically up the sides OR working YO k2tog across the bottom and working YO K2tog every OTHER right side row up the sides.

Oh yeah, and you might wanna swatch, too. Do a big swatch in worsted and have another little Project Linus binkie

Not What, But Who

Today tastes like spaghetti sauce, the kind someone's grandmother spent the weekend simmering on her stove with tomatoes she grew in her own little garden, spicy sausage, and plenty of garlic. Maybe with just a little red wine to give it some earth.

I come from a long line of practically creative people. That is, people who think/thought outside the box as a matter of survival, rather than as a means of ego satisfaction.¹

So it should come as no surprise that I write (and have been published and paid for it, thenkyew veddy much) and that I design (and have been paid for it, thenkyew veddy much) and that I only regret that there are not enough hours in the day for me to pursue ALL of the things that I love.²

And it should come as no surprise, that my li'l brah, Lumpkin, should be interested in film. For, after all, what is film but another way to tell a story? A story in pictures and spoken words.

So Noir Chicken Studios is putting together a feature-length release film, In the Wind. And it turns out that they need a specific and particular prop--a scarf.

But not just a regular blue-light special scarf. As Lumpkin described it, "This is the Scarf of the Apocalypse. It needs to be kind of Mad Max meets Debbie Stoller."

And I thought it was hard getting suggestions for Adverb . . .

Fotunately, I own a little stash. (I can quit any time I want!!) Plastic bags are easy to come by . . . and rabbit skins aren't expensive. I have some nylon twine in the garage. And it's possible to make holes in knitting without adversely affecting the structural integrity (lace is stronger than it looks).

I've fired up the needles, and here's the first of the randomly-timed updates I've promised:



Not bad for a beginning.

1. The apocryphal story here concerns a great-aunt and her daughters left alone on the prairie while the men drove the cattle to Santa Fe. This was back in the day when we had open prairie, and just enough water and grazing for the livestock that provided livelihood.

Anyhoo, we had one grown woman and several girl children keeping house with the nearest neighbor many miles away. No phones. No police department. Nada.

A handful of sheepherders rode up to the barbed wire fence, and made to cut the fence so as to water and feed the flock off this woman's land. Not such a bad thing--except that the grass wouldn't grow back in time to feed the cattle. No cows, no money, no supplies--no family.

And as you've inferred, no menfolk, and no guns.

So great-aunt outfitted the girl children with every stick and pole she could find, and held up her broomstick to her shoulder, and they poked out the slit windows and cracked door, aiming them at the men and the sheep by the fence a couple dozen yards away.

And great-aunt called out as loudly as she could, "Now, don't fire 'till I give the word! You wait for me now!"

And the men and their flock left the barbed wire be, and turned around and rode off. History being written by the victors, we do not know if they were more afraid of getting shot . . . or of the crazy woman triying to kill them with a broomstick.

2. I love my money job. A lot. And it pays the bills without my having to chase it around and beat it over the head. I go to the office, and for about eight hours a day, I pursue someone else's agenda. I don't have to create a job every morning, once a week, several times a year. I don't have to market myself every day, write press releases every time I do something, or jury into shows or pack my studio to travel and teach.

Would I love to live by my art? Be a big name in a small pond? Yeeeeesssss, but. I've had a taste of that, and the answer is, "Not right now." I'm happy at the level I'm on--working a money job most of the day, and plying my trade a little at a time.

Dis Connect, Dat Connect

Today tastes like the cough drops I favor--the Smith Bros. lemon. They're like lemon drops that wandered through a mint field, lightly kissed with menthol, light and breezy. Almost more breath freshener than cough drop. (Menthol burns my mouth and sinuses--I'd rather eat wasabi! Especially mixed with some soy, on nice thin slices of ahi tuna . . . is it lunchtime yet?)

The Jungiverse¹ has seen fit to drop a bunch of references to connectedness and e-mail and the internet (and how all this "connectedness" is taking us away from each other) in my in-box today. I know that this won't go away until I sit down and process it.

So, the quandry of the day is that cell phones, e-mail, and the Internet itself all foster communication. And yet, and yet, with all our e-friends whose blogs we read, all the email groups that we yatter on endlessly with, all these opportunities for connection leave us disconnected from those who are all around us. We seem to communicate more with glass screens between us, and less face-to-face and voice to voice.

And I got to thinking about that. That and the monkey trap that IS the Internet--I can spend hours with my fist trapped in this jug, clutching at grains of inspiration (Oook, I could do this!! Accckkk, I could do THAT! Yipe yipe yipe, this looks like FUN!) And all the while, I'm reading email, looking at sites, taking notes on another blog, and hours later, when I finally stand back up and let my gaze drop to the middle distance, I have . . . a handful of notes and a head full of ideas. BUT I HAVE NOT PRODUCED ONE DAMNED THING. And it's midnight or thereabouts, and I'm too tired to go and do anything with everything I have gleaned.

So I set it all aside for later. But we all know about the mythical later. Later never comes. Because tomorrow arrives, and I go back to the web, and I find a whole bunch more to ooook and ackk and yipe at.

Ironically, though, the internet is what got me into the art things I do. The 'net has given me names and places and people who do what I do (and some who do it better) that I would never have found on my own because of the circles I travel in. I have a caravan of practically arty creatives to hang with--that's NEVER been lacking in my life. But the web brought me to diverse groups of folken with balkanized interests (there's probably an email list somewhere for gay, lefthanded, vegan bookbinders who crochet) and that's where the real learning takes place. Not in the hourlong seminars where you can get a taste of what the doing of a thing is like, but the real in-depth stuff, where conversations can spin out for months regarding the terpsichore of pin-dancing.

So on the one hand, I have more stimulation than monkey mind can realistically handle. I have real people in my life, and virtual people in my life that I hold "real" conversations with, and with whom I trade "real" projects.

The problem, as I see it, is in navigating the fine line between happily stimulated and totally overwhelmed.




1. That Great Big Subconscious in the Sky. One the one hand, why would an omniscient and omnipotent eternal being take a personal interest in a moniscient monipotent limited being such as yours truly? But on the other, from where I stand, the Universe does INDEED revolve around moi.

Can Do/Must Do Quandry

Today tastes like red velvet cake with white chocolate mint frosting and a liver filling. Something is just not working here!

I intended to spend the weekend cleaning both studios and doing a batch of paper projects that really need to get moving. As in "deadlines whizzing past" moving. I had it all right'chere on my "to do" list.

Yup, I'm a list-maker. It helps me keep all these plates twirling. Except when it doesn't.

See Friday started out really really well. I rolled up my sleeves, and went into the fiber studio, and cleaned. Put away all the books (I can sit on the couch now). I put away all the projects I was "thinking about" (I can use my ironing board now). I repackaged the projects that had vomited everywhere (I can see the FLOOR now)! Good job, Spike!

So I knitted a bit till bedtime. Reward the behavior, right?

The next morning, I got up and got to it. I made ATC's that needed to go right now, I signed decos that had been stalled for weeks, I cleaned up and went for lunch. I was at a good stopping point, with the most pressing stuff off the list.

Then . . . well, then I sucked myself into doing something else after lunch, and then a friend was coming over for dinner, and then I was too busy socializing, and I don't drag my paper art along with me unless it's something very clean like binding books. ATC's, decos, any collage stuff stays in the studio for the most part. So there went Saturday. Roll all of the rest of Saturday's tasks onto the to do list. Sternly advise self that This Will Not Do, and resolve to get up and get going on Sunday.

Sunday--up bright and early, dressed in painty clothes, decide to hang out for just a minute. The paper studio door is noisy, don't want to wake guest napping on the couch.

Decide to read.

Half an hour later, guest is up and about, getting ready to take off and start her day. Continue reading on couch. Glance at to-do list, feel motivation shrivel up. Uh-oh.

Take nap. Read. Take nap. Read. Lather, rinse, repeat until 3:00 p.m. Sunday.

Uh-oh.

Out to the paper studio, sign three decos, package and post everything on the table.

Well.

Not what I wanted to get done, but clearly, I did not want to achieve what I thought I wanted to achieve when I made that list.

And then I read a post about writing craft instructions in Japanese.

See, in English we would say, "Warp the loom." In Japanese, this becomes, "In order for weaving to occur, the loom must be warped." (Yes, this does explain the Engrish we find when we read VCR instructions, but ignore that for a moment.)

Note that the desired result is placed first. Do you want weaving to occur? Then this is the step you must take. A last chance to re-think what you want to have happen, and what needs to be put in to make the mighty craft engine roar.

Do I want the studio to be clean? Do I want to make paper art stuff? Do I dare to eat a peach? What if I began phrasing my to do list more like this--with the result of the work right up front, so I can think about why I'm proposing this project. Not commands--"Clean the paper studio" but "In order for decos to be signed, space must be cleared." And if it is a desirable thing for decos to be signed, well, you know what your next step is.

In order for a blog to exist, posts must be written.

Indeed.

. . . And They All Stink (1)

Today tastes like butter, garlic, chocolate, and Brussels Sprouts. Did they close the state home for the Incurably Moronic and I didn't get the memo??

But that's another rant, and will pass as soon as I finish my coffee and forget about the idjits who receive driver's licenses in Cracker Jack boxes. There. There, it's leaving already.

I wanted to clamber up on my soapbox to talk about excuses. I'm as guilty as the next person as far as making excuses why I'm not doing what I will with my one true and precious life, and so far as I'm concerned, that's gotta stop. I figure if I notice this with other folks, it might make me more sensitive to when I start up with that--and thus, allow me to perceive the mote in my eye and DO something about it.

And what triggered this one? A member of a list posted about a number of things, including her desire to dye her hair pink and purple, but then closed with "But I'm too old and fat to do that."

Excuse me? Yes, pretty much every woman would like to be slimmer, and many women of a certain age would like to be younger, but what in the hell does either have to do with your choices in hairstyle/color?

Would it make you happy to do something outrageous with your appearance? Something that says you aren't dead yet? Then do it--ESPECIALLY if it's something as ephemeral as hair. Hair grows back, for pity grief. The worst that will happen is you will dye it pink and purple, and then hate it.

So what? Have it recolored, have it shaved off. It's not like a tattoo on your forehead. You've made no permanent commitment to it. It's HAIR. I'm hoping Manic Panic doesn't close its doors before I'm a white-haired little old lady, because I plan to color my white hair with the most vivid colors that are flattering to my skin. If I can wear cobalt/amethyst/acid green without looking washed out, then my HAIR will be cobalt. Or amethyst. Or acid green. And if I match my purse and shoes to my hair, I just hope that you understand it's a campy and ironic statement, rather than a "matchy-matchy" compulsion. Not that it matters to me whether you get it or not.

And that's just one place where people let their buts get in the way of realizing thier small dreams. If it's not going to hurt anyone, including yourself, then why aren't you doing it? Why are you sitting on your 'but' and wishing while the days of your one life pass by?




1. This must be a first--a footnoted title. See, I have a pal who has an even harder stance than mine when it comes to the pity pot (as in shit or get off the . . .) Whenever someone says, "I would, but . . " her response is always, "Everyone has a but, and they all stink."

I <3 Ouchy the Clown (1)

I had just joined a dollmaker's list, because a virtual bud who makes ATC's had recommended it as a place to hang. I've been on that kind of list before, and had some good times--I'll have to see if any of the pictures of the dolls I made are on this computer.

So anyway, there I am, with all these sweet and lovely artists talking dollies. And then someone started getting down on herself.

"My art doesn't look ANYTHING like anyone else's," she sniffed. "I suck!!!!" Or words to that effect.

Ya'll know me here. Ya'll know I don't DO pity parties. The last time I threw one, it was for someone else who needed a pat on the head and a kick in the butt. We had tubas playing "Flight of the Bumblebee," 12 year old single malt scotch aged in sherry casks, and devils' food cake with licorice frosting. We did it, and we were done, by gum.

So I dropped a line to that girl, saying there were plenty of folks willing to rag on her and tell her she was awful. There was no need to do this to herself. I wound up by saying "Don't make me get out the Altered Spanking Paddle and come over there!" and then I hit send.

Ooooops, thought I. Well, it WAS fun being a part of that group. However, if the moderators dumped me over that, then this wasn't really a good fit after all. I was bound to do or say SOMETHING that would offend someone.

So the next day, I put my hand on my monitor and verrrrrrry carefully lifted the lid off my email, in case the flames lept out and burned me to a sad little crisp right there.

Nope--there were three-four emails asking about an Altered Spanking Paddle swap!!! I knew I'd found a home on the net.

So I offered to do the administrative stuff--keep track of who signed up, post a partner list, and then nudge any laggards into fulfilling their bit. Mirable dictu, everyone has mailed their paddle out! (Well, except for one person--who posted to let us know she was done, but due to personal issues, had not been able to make it to the P.O. In the world of mail art, that's batting .1001).

So here's mine:



The part I wish the camera picked up better is the sparkly stuff on the body of the paddle. That's not glitter, that's knitted copper wire. And that shows how serious I was about this swap--I don't knit with wire for just anyone.

I'm really looking forward to seeing what comes of this . . .

1 Do you really want to know??

I Don't Know Why They Call Me Ruthless . . .

Today tastes like lamb with a nice blueberry/green peppercorn curry. And tiramisu. With some powerful coffee with licorice, chocolate, and cream.

I am the boss of my knitting.

Ok, back up for some background. At the beginning of the year, I had started a lace stole for me. I seldom WEAR lace stoles. There's a reason stoles are often photographed around the shoulders of taut young decorative women and aging pissy divas.

Stoles are pretty, but useless. They don't keep anything warm. They aren't wide enough to heat your whole torso unless you can wrap them around and around your skinny little self.

Stoles are pretty, but tempermental. At the worst possible moment (one hand filled with red wine in a glass, the other holding a plate of tomato-sauced pasta) your white angora stole is going to decide you aren't paying enough attention to it, and will promptly unwrap itself and make a dive for the floor, clinging to your ankles. Do you (a) gracefully fold in half, balancing the food and drink until you can set it on the floor to re-dress yourself; (b) drop the wine or the food on the hostess's new cream Berber rug; (c) spill the wine or food onto the stole, praying that they dyepot will save it well enough to continue to wear; or (d) all of the above?

So I got to this point, about two and a half feet in.




And then I stopped for a while, tempted by a number of other projects. This is usually a warning sign. If I'm knitting for me, and decide I'd rather do something else, well, it's usually a sign. Generally, that decision is preceded by four equestrian gentlemen, one of whom rides a palomino. This bodes not well for the red stole.

And well, last night I pulled this out to work on. Two stitches in, I was planning something else, and I realized the Time Had Come.



Fifteen minutes later, we were back to the beginning.

I like the stitch patterns the original designer had chosen. I like the way they work together, I liked working them. It was just the shape of things to come that was getting in the way.

I love this about knitting. I love that if I accidentally knit two left fronts, I can just zizz the yarn out to where the shaping begins, and re-work it. I love that if something stops inspiring me, I can tear it out and try again. If only sewing worked the same way--if you could just rip and re-cut when you had two left sleeves in the $99.00 per yard challis that you bought the last 3 yards of for That Jacket. The one that takes two and a half-yards to lay out. So you bought an extra half-yard so you'd have some room to match motifs at the seams . . .

I've re-assembled the pattern in a way that pleases me. I'll link up what I did under the freebie section once I have a final shawl to show.

Woo-hooo! I may be going backwards right now (and until I've knit back to the same point in yarn use) but after this little siderail, we'll be going forward to a destination I think I'll like better.

Weblogs and Diaries and YouTube, oh my!

Was just directed via a blog to this amazing link. The author discusses diaries of old, blogs of last year, and YouTube viddies of today. What intrigues him is the shift in the meme of memory recording.

I tried keeping a diary several times when I was young--it seemed that every couple of years a well-intentioned relative would gift me wiht a li'l bitty diary with a li'l bitty padlock on the cover (and a picture of cute kitties, or a girl in a sunbonnet) so I could write down all me girlish secrets.

Well, even with a padlock I couldn't keep it going. It seemed the pinnacle of silliness to gush over how cute the boys were, and write my name blended with that week's favorite--Mrs. Spike Weisenheimmer, Mrs. Spike Jones, Mrs. Spike Schmooladoo. Especially because I was rather androgynous in my pursuits--it appeared that if I were ever to marry, the wedding party would consist of eight groom's men . . . and eight BRIDE'S men!!

And even with a padlock, I distrusted that anything I wrote would not come back to bit me someday.

And er, well, now I blog. And share my thoughts with however many readers pop by. The fact that I know not how many hits this spot on the web generates probably tells you how much I'm writing for external consumption. (If that don't do it, the paucity of comments might. I prefer to think it's quality over quantity. That's why I moderate--to keep out the spam, and the "Dittos, Rush" junk. If your say is important enough to you, you'll sign in to get past the gatekeeper, and I'll post what you have to say. Spammers generally don't have the patience; it's a numbers game.)

But now, as you have probably observed, and have certainly read if you followed the link above, it seems that the point of having secrets is to share them with as large an audience as is humanly possible. The more scandelous and gossipy, the better, it appears. Breaking the rules and wild behavior which used to be clutched to one's heart and relived over drinks with fellow instigators a safe distance in time later (statute of limitations, and all that) are now recorded via cell phone with video, edited for content (get the dull bits out), and posted on the web to share with one's chums, the school, and whoever else pops by.

It reminds me of nothing more than children playing by the pool--if Mama doesn't look and see you turn the backflip, did it really happen? Looka me, Ma! Looka me!!

ATC's Again

I recently joined yet another Yahoo Group, the Embellished Circus. (I know, just what I need, another groups. Spike, are there ANY mixed-media ATC/knitting groups you don't belong to???)

Well, since Paper Trail Arts folded up and moseyed off into the sunset < sniff> I've been looking for a group where I felt challenged to produce, where I could feel like my habits of rummaging through everything (construction materials, catalogues, freebie CDs and misburns, envelopes and cheap paint) to make art with was acceptable, because the whole Somerset vibe of "buy stuff! Buy Stuff! BUY OUR STUFF!" is ringing in my ears to the point where I can hardly hear my muse any more.¹

But this looks like a good fit. At least, the moderators seem to think so--I sent photos of what I've done (and I'm very, very bad at keeping shots of my work. I like to think if I had a scanner, I'd be better because then I would be able to slap it on the screen and shoot it as soon as the glaze dried, but I think I'm just kidding myself there. I think I need to take myself seriously enough to take the shot once it's assembled) and they let me in.

But here's the rub--one of the requirements is a weekly post about what you're up to. Gulp. And as you all have seen--I don't take piccies but once in a blue moon.

So I guess the moon is blue. I took shots of these ATC's I made --



--and actually posted them to my li'l space in the group. Then, when I threw this long ol' dicursion up on the web, I sent a note to my circus freaks to let them know they could get more here. < waves>

So the EC looks like it'll be good for me in terms of (a) keeping me creating each week and never just settling down to do nothing; and (b) keeping some sort of record about what I did with my summer vacation.

Just as if I took what I did seriously. Imagine that.

1. I have lists and lists of projects I want to do, and piles of raw material collecting dust. The last thing I need is to go out and buy a ton of gew-gaws and diamond dust so I can make canned art. But if that's all that comes your way (except for shots from people whose day job is to make art) then how can you reconcile where you are, between the mud and the stars?

Meatcake, or Beware of Geeks Bearing Gifts

Today tastes like roasted garlic mashed potatoes, beets, and carrots. Not surprising, if you read the rest of this post.

See, every year the gang throws several parties in designated months. This allows us to set our social calendar, knowing when we will all gather together. Winter's End, the April Party, the August Party, Dead Man's, Grimm's Christmas. Medieval garb is always welcome, and the themes vary, tho' usually with a heavy fantasy component. This year, the theme was a dwarves' celebration.




One of the parties corresponds with dear husband Gareth's month o' birth. Traditionally, birthday cakes are disbursed to members of the group celebrating. However, Gareth does not care for sweets.

For a couple of years, a good pal and I had bandied about the idea of making a double-decker meatloaf, then frosting it with mashed potatoes. Just like a layer cake. However, we usually remembered we were going to do this right after the party. Like the next day, as we nursed our hangovers with dim sum.

Ah, but this year we got our acts more or less together the month before. We planned to get together the day of the party so we could devote some time to making the meatcake. Six pounds of meatloaf, a boatload of mashed potatoes and riced carrots. Beet juice to color some of the potatoes with, and a crash course in how to make frosting roses.

Et voila!



There wasn't enough room to write "Happy Birthday, Gareth" in barbeque sauce, so we opted to draw his sigil instead--the triangle within a triangle. Good enough to eat, no??

Thinking About Thinking About Thinking

Today tastes like a Third World Market--vibrant flowers, lush fruit, and flesh that has not been wrapped in cellophane and doused with sanitizers and deodorants.

We're back to the whole "think positive" meme again at the Lunchbox. I begin to wonder if that will be this decade's leitmotif, starting with the 2000 election, the events of September 2001, and the War. I'm visualizing not hearing about this again for a couple of months . . .

I just had an Anthony Robbins quote tossed in my teeth: "Thinking positively is like staring out the window at a garden full of weeds and saying, 'There are no weeds. There are no weeds.' "

Clever enough as far as it goes--the weeds are there and denying their existance will not make them magically *poof* away. However, the flip side is staring out at your garden--which has some weeds--and saying "There are no flowers. There are no flowers."

Denying the flowers won't make them go away, but it will make you less responsive to doing what it takes to nurture them ('coz there ARE no flowers, so far as you're concerned, right?) And soon, you will be right, there WILL BE NO FLOWERS.

Lucky you. You get to be right. Joyless, flowerless, but right.

Once again, you have to get up off your ass and go interact with the garden. If there are weeds that you cannot live with, go and pull them. If you want more flowers, go and plant them.

If you want a happier life, go and create it. Decide what it is you want, what the next step to getting there is, and go do it. Lather, rinse, repeat.

But what if you don't want to let go of what you have? What if that next step takes you away from everything that is same and familiar--if weed-raddled?

Then you've MADE your choice, dumpling. You'd rather have weeds and moan about the weeds than get out the dandilion fork/hire a gardener/buy weedkiller. THAT'S YOUR CHOICE.

Visualizing a world where common sense IS BOTH. Oooooooohhhhhhhhhmmmmmmmm . . .

The "Secret" Is Out

Today tastes like Starbucks' coffee with nondairy creamer. Burnt and unsatisfying, yet undeniably popular.

The big movement in metaphysics is positive visualization, backed up with quantum physics for a blend of soft science (QP can be brought in and discussed without recourse to mathematics, unlike solids and liquids or chemistry) and feel good fantasy¹. Cf What the Bleep Do We Know and Down the Rabbit Hole.

The latest installation is The Secret. Basically, it's another flick about the law of attraction, with a heavy materialistic spin. Want more money? Believe you already have it, and it will come to you! Want fame? Believe and it will be there! Want a really good parking space? See it in your mind's eye, and have it!

And if you don't, then clearly there's some negative energy that you need to get cleared out before you will be basted in butter and wrapped in warm blankies.

Ahem. So, since I am a believer in synchronicity, and the universe has thrown this theme at me three-four times in the last couple of weeks (I HEAR YOU ALREADY) I'm gonna blog this and see what comes².

See, the straw that sent the camel to the chiropractor came when two people whom I admire very much on the web (One has more creativity in her little finger than I do in my whole brain, it seems) ('Tother writes and advises well enuff that I spent some of my very own buckage on her books. I didn't even look for them remaindered on Overstock, or used on eBay, that's how willing I was to actually support the writer and not the stockist) took up the issue of positive visualization. It seems One sat down with The Secret and thought her little hiney off and visualized herself into third eyestrain, and surprise! Nothing happened. The Perfect Life (TM) did not fall from the ceiling into her very lap.

'Tother was a little confused by the things people were spending their energy wishing for--I lifted the parking space from 'Tother's report of the movie. < hangs head shamefully> 'Tother wondered about the extreme hype of "If you want it, you can have it--but you can't doubt it for a minute." Uhm, how can you avoid doubt? Even for a minute? We are complex beings, after all.

And yeah, technically I should link their blogs here, since I'm having the temerity to disagree with them in public. But I don't disagree with them so much as I'm thinking that they're throwing out the bathwater before doing a nose count to make sure the babies are all out.

So spank me in the comments. I'm a big girl. I can take it.

See, you gotta remember with all the positive visualization/magical thinking processes that the addendum is "Wish in the one hand and spit in the other." In other words, wishing will only open up your hand to possibilities. Doing is the thing that will actually get your hand full.

Dear One, I'm going to address you directly, because you spelled out your story so clearly. (Besides, 'Tother hasn't disabled comments on her blog, so I could reply to HER directly. (And I did.)) You visualized yourself in an office job. But you hate office jobs, remember?? You suffered for a couple of years doing a temp job. You wrote in your blog that you felt strong resistance just VISUALIZING this outcome. So I can imagine just how many steps you took to start making it come true.

Did you even get out of zazen long enought to check the want ads?

Yeah, like that.

You didn't "create right" in the sense that you stood at the canvas and imagined having a completed painting. Subject matter? Oh, something. Composition? Yeah, it'd have colors, and spaces, and stuff. Line? There'd be lines, I guess.

And then you walked away from the canvas, disgusted by the LACK OF PAINTING, angry that the painting WAS NOT THERE IN FRONT OF YOU--before even putting charcoal to canvas to start a sketch, or paint to pallete, never mind brush to canvas. You refused to do any of the WORK that needs to come after the visualization; you created in the passive sense. You imagined, just as you thought "they" were telling you to do. However, you forgot that "they" also say you have to get up and DO in order to make this work.

Positive thinking is a TOOL--it will no more get you the result you want than laying the can opener next to the can on top of the stove will get you a hot lunch. You have to USE the tools to get the results.

And yes, the hard part of positive thinking (positive action) tends to get glossed over in the mainstream media, tends to get blown by in the sound bites, and is NEVER used to sell the literature--no more than McDonald's is going to flog actual calorie content of the latest Big Fat McBurger and recommended calorie intakes for the average human being in its advertising. No one wants to hear that you can eat ONE meal and get all your kCals for the day (and your fat for the week!!) out of that.

No one wants to hear "eat right and exercise and you can be healthy and as fit as you're gonna git." No, we wanna hear about the magic pill that will make you six inches taller, 25-50 pounds slimmer and 10 years younger while you sleep and eat anything you want in unlimited portions. So that becomes the sales line--you need to do the research and find out what the caveats are.

Heinlein was right -- TANSTAAFL³.

I'm not sure where your sense of surprise and indignation comes from.

Love, Spike



1. What's wrong with feeling good? Nothing, so far as I'm concerned. What have you lost but an opportunity to feel bad? If belief in an Imaginary Friend gets you through the long dark teatime of the soul that man is heir to, then feel free--but don't expect me to set a plate for Ralphie, or to shake his hand.

Unless, of course, I can see Ralphie too.

2. Gareth has said, on more than on occasion, that I am the sort of person things happen to. And yeah, that's true to a certain extent, because I am the sort of person who has connections like a spider in her web. I am on many many mail lists with people who share one or more of my esoteric interests, and have many equally esoteric interests of their own. So I ask someone if she knows X, and suddenly the list erupts with sources for X.

Or, in the course of being interested in a particular producer of yarn, I'll get an e-mail where that producer is looking for folks who design, and like her product. Stuff happens all around you IF you keep your eyes open for it.

3. For you non-fans: There Ain't No Such Thing As A Free Lunch. See The Moon is a Harsh Mistress. Or better yet, read it.

Syntax With Playing

In Writing Down the Bones, Natalie Goldberg suggests taking a few lines fron a less than stellar bit of work and playing with the syntax, scrambling the words and adding punctuation to make new sentences out of them.

What the hell--we've all seen most of the quiz results we're interested in on blogthings dot com, anyway, right??

For starters:

You forget to write down the echoey hollowness of the house. You forget how being alone feels strange like a shirt with one sleeve, turned inside out. You forget you have to set limits. You forget the amazing perfume of orange blossoms when spring shakes her hair down.

And here we go:

Forget echoey perfume hollowness, forget orange blossoms alone. You, when a shirt shakes, set limits! House, you forget being inside alone. Write down, write down! Amazing limits of you; strange like orange. Limits down, forget when you write. Write inside out like the shirt, one sleeve alone when spring blossoms. Feel you down, set hair limits, strange shakes turned orange.

Hmmm. That has some possibilities, it do.

Anyone remember Rachter?? That second set feels a lot like that program. I wonder what would happen if I assigned a numeric value to each word, dropped it through random.org for five-ten word sentences, then tweaked the results a tad for found poetry for ATC's??

Must play soon. Must play soon. All work and no play makes Spike forget limits.

What Does the "TP" Stand For Again?

Today tastes like chocolate covered sugar pickled garlic. It's been one of those days where the eyes and the hands do not wish to work as a team. I'm about at the point where I'd lop both hands off at the wrists because they'd be almost as useful to me as they are right now.

I wish I was knitting, but I'm under deadline to get these done. And at last, much later than is reasonable, they are.



Artists' Trading Pins for a swap in Artechniques, a Yahoo group. The part that has been giving me fits is the jumprings and the wire-wrapped beads. Dead soft fine gauge copper wire, and I can't get it to conform to my thoughts.

I like how they came out. The swapmeistress is sending one pin from each participant to Belle Armoire for an upcoming jewelry edition. I'm hopeful; these are very much in the sort of vintagy grungy crunchy style that is de riguer and fashionable.

I may actually suck it up and make another one, just for me me me. Once the bad taste of scattering beads all over the floor and having rings pop loose/refuse to go through holes leaves my mouth.