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.

Ooooops. I Did It Again

I loved this one meme, where you google your name and needs and post the top ten things that pop up.

So I did it again, to see what the Internet thinks I need now.

1. Spike needs help coping with his chip.

2. Spike needs a scrub.

3. Spike needs to give "Carpocalypse" to another station.

4. Spike needs a Mommy and/or Daddy.

5. Zach is all the Dad Spike needs.

6. Spike needs you and he can't lose his mother like that.

7. Spike needs an honest good hearted male role model in his life.

8. Spike needs a doggy jumper for the winter.

9. Spike needs a new pair of boots.

10. Spike needs to be protected from disease.

Ah, but don't we all??

Writing About Writing Redux

There are times I think I have nothing left to say. That I've been writing and writing and writing for work and for play and for art and that the well has finally run completely dry.

Microfiction here, shared journal there, quick character sentence for an ATC, and whoof, that's it.

I'm a junkie for journal prompts, or rather, for the promise of journal prompts. I glimpsed a deck once of 52 prompts at a store I frequent (Gareth purchased it right out from under my nose, and I thought he was getting it for me for Adverb, cos he was being sooooo sneaky about it. Then he gave it to a friend of ours--and I haven't seen the d---ed thing since.) and I was really tempted to purchase it because it looked perfect, but I didn't. (And you just read why.)

See, a lot of journal prompts are things like "Write about your favorite pet." Uhm, write about your favorite child, if you have more than one from your very own loins. Most of the parents I've talked to swear that while one kid's moon may be momentarily in the ascendency, they love 'em both bunches, sometimes in different ways. I love the cats I have differently each from the other; I love them both differently from the cats I've had; and I loved those beasts differently than I loved the various rodents large and small that I kept for pets.

So what to do when you have nothing going? Apparently just pulling out a book for a writing exercise is enough to get the juices flowing. I was going to post the results from an exercise from Writing Down the Bones, but I've got a reasonable post right here right now. (Next post. Promise.)

I've found that the old technique of opening Bones and flipping to a page wiht my eyes closed works well for choosing a technique to try. Much of Goldberg's ideas are intriguing on their own, so when the rule is that whatever pops up is what you MUST use, then there's something to start with, other than your favorite flavor of ice cream. A sunset. Woot.

Next to that is Anyone Can Write which I need to re-read, I think. It has some playful bits, though not as cut and dried and in a deck format as Bones.

And then, earlier today I found this one book where the authors gathered many of the games the Surrealists played all together in one book--more than just The Exquisite Corpse. From what I've seen . . . wow. That could keep me out of trouble for a year.

Hup, Hup, Hup!!

Scrabbling back onto the wagon, thinking of how we talk about "keeping" resolutions each year and how most of us end up breaking them moments after we set them, sometimes.

But everything else we keep, we lose sometimes. We keep our cell phone, our car keys, or wallets--but who hasn't mislaid one or more of these? We find our wallet in the car the next morning, tucked under the driver's seat. We pick up the house phone to call our cell phone in order to locate it between the sofa cushions. We find the car keys in the jacket we put on for just a minute to go fetch the mail, or the one we changed our minds about since it didn't go with the pants so well.

So I lost my resolutions temporarily. Maybe I shouldn't leave them where the cats can get at them, eh? There they were, behind the couch with Jesus and the nip mouse, all this time.

I had resolved 2007 would be the year I knit for me, me, me--and I am, but it also gives me pleasure to knit for those I <3, and for those I don't even know. So be it. I have a project on the needles for me, me, me too.

I had resolved I'd write a post each week. Oops. Didn't happen the week before last--I got busy and I was going to take pictures, and well, we all know what the road to Hell is paved with--I took pictures! (Go here if you've forgotten. Feed the naked while you're there.)

So two posts last week. Lucky you.

I wonder about people who keep all their resolutions--in a pretty little box, perhaps?? So they always know right where they are in their Virgoliccitudinousness? Or do they keep them like their keys--finding them, losing them, putting them back where they go most of the time?

Fallin' Off the Wagon

Today tastes like unsweetened black cherry Kool-Aid. I can't decide if it's more bitter or sour.

I took rather a bad tumble off the stash diet wagon. I didn't buy anything, but I wagged home a ton of freebies--that I didn't need. Not even for the project I thought I'd do with them.

See, Project Linus had a blanket bee February 3. Yeah, blame it all on the tough crowd that does charity knitting. They softened me up with brownies and coffee, those infamous gateway drugs.

I was being so good. No, wait a minute, SOOOOOOOOO GOOD. < puts away megaphone>. I was ignoring the hospitality table with all the free yarn. I looked at the booklets (most were crochet, as that's the way the pendulum is swinging now) and didn't take any of them. Hey, I was being SOOOOOOOOOOO GOOD.

And then they announced October's blanket challenge. This is a biannual event--February and October. The challenge varies--usually it's color for the knitters (make something in pink and brown, teal and purple, orange and green) and subject for the quilters (sports, puppies, games). This time, it was just one theme.

*****JUNGLE***** (lemme try that again)



Yeah. Like that.

Now, before you can understand why this drove me to a) start a new project before finishing one already on the needles; and b) snarf up a metric ton of stash yarn from the pushers nice folks at Project Linus, you'll need to know that in my stash as I sat in my folding chair, was a big cone of boucle yarn in camel, gold and rust. I'd been thinking about a Project Linus binkie pattern for that stuff for years, and just had never found anything that made me hungry to take it on.

I was going to use it as a carrying thread to unite a black and white blanket (ehhhh); then I was going to double it and use it as stripes in a blanket (ehhhhhh); then I was going to use it in a slip-stitch honeycomb/big dot pattern (ehhhhh). But now, it had found its calling in a tiger blanket. Hmmmmm . . .

And so I swooped down upon the freebie table and snarfed up every skein of funny green (for the background), black (well, duh, a tiger blanket), and white/cream I could find. Someone had donated a pair of pillow shams and a half-completed crochet coverlet in cream--they went into the bag, too. (Hey, if it was a treasured heirloom that someone in the family was dying to have, then they would have gotten up and found someone to complete it or figured it out themselves. I hope that when I go, my good stash is eBayed and the acrylic is donated--whether the project is finished or no. I'd rather someone get the material and do what they want with it so someone can have and love the finished object until it wears out.)

Not pretty. Not pretty at all. Rather like watching a 300 plus pound person in foodstained clothes gobble down an 18-scoop and all the toppings sundae with their bare hands, solo. (That's probably going to garner some flames.) You can't help thinking, "Honey, have a little self-respect. You don't NEED that."

And then, that very evening, I cast about for how to make this work. Stripes of all sorts and kinds fell off the needles and were ripped out until I decided on entrelac, and then made a chart to keep the borders from being uniformly sized and shaped--I was going for more of an impression of a tiger in grass, with just the black and orange fur and green framing and intruding and . . . well, here's a photo.




Fortunately, I didn't hit my head too hard, but coming home from the bee and digging through all the black and cream and white to get to the cone of the orange boucle was a real killjoy.

< gets a cup of coffee, sits in the wayyyy back> Hi, I'm Spike, and I am powerless over free yarn.

Progress of a Sort

Today tastes like Midori margaritas with too much salt. Just as the lovely melony yum starts to kick in--blammo comes the saline!

Progress is being made on all the projects posted earlier this year. The charcoal thing is longer and greyer, the red stole is . . . longer and redder, and the castle blanket is more colorful in a willy-nilly way.

As mentioned earlier, I plan for no posts of the lace until we block--all the patterns are set, and unblocked lace looks like wet Kleenex. Seriously. It's crumply and rumply and you can't see the places and spaces that make it dandy. I suppose I could photo on the tile floor to give a sense of the thing growing, but I'd almost rather go to blogthings dot com and post a quiz result.

Currently I'm working to reduce the number of projects for other folks in the paper realm. 2007 is all about me after all. I've determined that I'm going to complete my obligations to others and then not volunteer for any more until I get my projects down to a manageable size. Yes, knowing me, this may take the rest of my life. I am very selfishly okay with that.

But it feels good to have reduced the decos down again, and to know that once I eat my obligations for the swaps I'm in, I'm done. I like decos--I like planning them, and finding just the right images for my themes, and finding the right stuff for others' themes and creating the composition. But I'm really not okay with the poor rate of return.

In one group I've sent out six decos over a year. I know where one is, and I have not received ANY home. One in particular (and not the one where I know where it is) is near and dear to me, and as far as I know, it's in a landfill somewhere.

Fortunately I bought more materials to re-create it as soon as I finished it and was having trouble prying it out of my fingers to mail. Unfortunately, I haven't had the time to assemble it.

That's how it goes, ennit? I have an art journal with stuff and things and inspiration wedged in the pages that needs to be glued in--haven't done that yet, either. I have books of techniques to play with that would yield scrumptious backgrounds to place focal images on that could then be journaled in with text winding among the pictures, or that could even have pages printed on the computer and then glued on before the book was finally bound.

Yup. Sounds familiar. So I'm focused on getting the bulge moving, closing the doors behind me (gently, gently, I wasn't raised in a barn after all). I'll probably continue with one deco group whose raisin meal¹ is to finish half-completed decos and get then home to their owners, full of art from various artists in the owner's chosen theme. I like to work in them, I just don't like having to make them on schedule, send them on schedule, and then wait . . . and wait . . . and wait for them to come home at last.


1. Raison d'etre = raisin d'entree = raisin meal. B'dum bum ching. I'm here all week; try the pork roast.

I Don't Normally Take Requests . . .

. . . but sometimes I do. Especially on a day that tastes like peppermint mocha, whipped cream, and tunafish.

But first, some background.

Ya'll know November is NaNoWriMo, yes? Well, at the office I'm in, there are two creative types who participate each year. Where most folks in this arena have all their academic credentials on the wall (down to notary public certificates and grade school spelling awards, it seems)these two have NaNoWriMo completion wallpaper (a tich blurry from where the .jpg was enlarged and printed, but there all the same).

There's no way I'm committing to a long writing project. Been there, done that, lost three of 'em when the computer died and all that was left was frag salad. After being widowed three times over, I'm just out to play the field.

However, I can't leave well enough alone. Any time there's a challenge, it seems I'm in it up to my ears.

So . . . I just had to do something. I'd been writing fifty-five word stories for postcards off and on as the mood struck me.

Sometimes it would just be a humourous thought:

He walked in as I was clipping the pollen-bearing bits off a floral arrangement. “What are you doing?”

“Castrating flowers,” I leered. “It makes the blooms last longer. After they’re pollinated, they wilt.”

“You know everything, don’t you?”

“Well, no.” I showed him the fuzzy bits in my palm. “I just have all the anthers.”

It was a great way to memorialize something funny that happened, because something funny happens most every day.

It was hot in the office, an itchy heat. He loosened his tie, undid the collar button. That helped, but when he took off his jacket, inspiration struck.

Shoes, socks, shirt, pants -- all joined the pile. Hearing footsteps, he hid in the closet.

“Look,” she said. “I’ve never seen a lawyer shed his skin before.”

But with NaNoWriMo going on, I felt like I had to step up to the plate somehow. While I wasn't willing to commit to a novel, surely I could do something else.

I could write a fifty-five word story evey day for a month! That would be thirty of them . . . and if I kept it up for three months, I'd have near-as-dammit 100 stories. I could bind them into little quartos. One on each page would be the kind of wild slim novel propounded by St. Baty. Fun!

“Some people write a novel in thirty days, but I don’t have their powers of concentration.”

“Or the time. Think of the time involved.”

“Besides, I don’t think I have that much to say. A whole novel? So I thought I’d start small.”

“So what are you working on during NaNoWriMo?”

“A fifty-five word story.”

So far, so good. I've stuck with it, and at the end of this month the first quarter in its quarto will be complete. I made a winsome little bookie out of painted magazine pages, and have tipped-in November and December so far. I need to rebind said litle bookie, as the tip-ins have fattened the text block so much that it poofs out and will not lie still. I have a tendency to use string that's a bit small and sew a bit tight when I work Coptic anyway--two threads in tandem work much better--and I'm not entirely happy with the cover. It doesn't go with the text or reflect what's inside, so I'll put the covers to use with another block and do an artist's journal with them.

I let one of the Tonstant Weaders who knows me IRL read the first quarter bookie, and she loved one of the stories so well that she asked me to put it on my blog so she could print it out/return to it/memorize it/whatever she's going to do with it (except steal it and pass it off as her own). So, thank you Mrs. Calabash, wherever you are.

I used to believe words were magic; if I said the right things I could have anything and be anything I wanted. My thank you notes were works of art, my holiday cards always included a line specifically tailored for the recipient. It was my own form of white spellcasting.

Then I met my father-in-law.

Let's Talk Stash . . .

Today tastes like dark roast coffee, with peppermint, chocolate, and whipped cream. With a sidecar of frustration.

Excessmas is over for another year (well, almost. Tha familial units have yet to gather, due to the weather gods frowning upon us and dumping snow every weekend. While it snoweth not upon the Salt Valley, and yeah, neither upon the Duke City, it snoweth like a muthafucker upon the Continental Divide and the plains between us. Yeah, verily, it snoweth as it hath not done in fifty years. While this moveth mine heart to gladness for the break in the drought cycle, it causeth me to rend my garments and gnash mine teeth at not being able to celebrate Adverb. Especially since Adverb actually FELL on Ephiphany this year. Grrrrrr . . .)

Bus as I was saying before that digression, Excessmas is over at last, and we are doing the simultaneous clearing and adding that takes place each year. The things we love, adore, and will use, are being found homes for . . . usually by discarding something worn and no longer useful or pretty. Other things go in the regifting closet with a note regarding where we got it from, or directly to eBay. Because none of our friends or family shop eBay religiously (or know our username).

And once again I am forced to really look at my stash, and realize that unless I am buried in the Egyptian style, I will never be able to truly use and enjoy all of this.

So once again I vow a strict yarn diet--new yarn can only be acquired after three projects using only stash are completed. No, no exemption for sock yarn--have you seen how much sock yarn you have, Spike??? No acquisition for acquisition's sake, this is not a matter of spending money, it is a matter of space. You refuse to stash on top of the master bedroom closet, you refuse to stash in the attic, you will therefore have to make space in order to get more stuff. And it makes no sense to pick up stuff with no clear purpose in mind--that's how the stash got this big!!

Otherwise, the story may go like this--

No kidding, there we were in the castle. We were surrounded by the Aubergine Dandy (yes, most of the villians have really threatening big bad names like "The Black Scrouge," "Eater of Hearts," "Dragon's Kin." Imagine just how badass a fella would have to be to live with a moniker like "The Aubergine Dandy." Yeah, like that. Now triple it.)

Our best and boldest had fallen to this monster. Only we women, the children, and the oldsters remained. We had thrown everything we had at the foe, and had no arrows nor stones left. It looked hopeless.

We, the knitting guild (or as we call ourselves, the Stitchin' BItches) didn't know this at the time. We were holed up in the uppermost tower for Sockapalooza '07. I opened the door to summon the page and have him bring up more cappachino stout, as we were running out. Oh, and some more finger sandwiches.

But instead of the page, our most puissant wizard was standing there on the stoop, hand raised as if to knock. "Were we being too loud?" I asked, waving to Miranda to turn the stereo down.

"Not at all. I have come to inform you that the castle is beseiged, and about to fall."

"That's a bummer," I said. "What should we do?"

"Fall upon your needles. All is lost," and at that, he began to weep and chewed on his beard in frustration. I looked out the window.

Torches ringed the castle round, the gates were cracking before the battering ram, and the hills writhed with bodies beyond count. Over it all flew the Dread Baroque Eggplant of the Aubergine Dandy.

"Oh, is THAT all??" Minerva cranked the stereo down as I explained to the ladies what needed doing. Bless their stout hearts and large tote bags, we made it to the walls in a twinkling, whereupon we launched . . .

THE STASHAPULT.



"YO, knit two!" The Stashpult threw cones and skeins to crash among the enemy!



"Slip, slip, knit!" Merino, cotton, and the ubiquitous acrylic flew thick and fast!



Ah, but it was the Lion Brand Homespun in its bulky glory that won the day for us, crushing the enemy and sending the Dandy fleeing like a cat with its tail tangled in a half-finished Starmore sweater. And nevermore has this peaceable kingdom been threatened.

Except by Goblin Knitting. But that's another story entirely.