Notes for short story.

It smelled like tuna and rotting peaches. She could not see the bottom of the basin. The retching began when she slide her hands into the fetid water. Fingers pushed aside cutlery and felt for the drain. Greasy pasta and orange rinds swam past her wrists. The taste of dumpster filled her mouth.

Unwinding

Unwinding
I am overwhelmed by the amount of yarn I have accumulated. I have dozens of balls of cotton yarn that I bought for no other reason but I liked the color. I have the yarn from projects I planned but never started and projects that were started that I have no desire to finish. The guilt of such excess bores into my skin like a rash.
I wish I could be more like my brother and hold on to those things that can be neatly and thoughtfully packed away. I get tied up in ideas that I don’t carry out. I could knit a hat for everyone I know. I could buy all the yarn, choose colors and then resent the work. I used to think it was funny, now I know that it is pathologically foolish.
I like to knit, but I love to crochet. I love my crochet hooks. I have every size. I have a complete set of Boyles in a zippered case. They are precious. They were a gift from my brother.
My mother taught me how to crochet. I used to watch her crochet with a #7 hook and ecru thread. She worked on intricate doilies and table runners. If she found a mistake she would rip the work out, no matter how far along she was. It used to drive me nuts. I understand now why she pulled all that thread loose and started again. It’s not as much about a perfect motif as it is about a peaceful mastery.
I have finished projects and rushed through them and been unable to let go of a poor result. I forget to enjoy the process. I can’t enjoy the project I am working on knowing I have 50 more unfinished in a large Rubbermaid bin. .So, I have decided to empty the bin. I will save all the yarn that was given to me as a gift. Save yarn for the next two projects and donate the rest. Just the thought of that empty Rubbermaid container is a little weight off my shoulders.

Chronological Upset

I think its Thursday, for the computer tells me so. I lost July and my new Starbucks super sized Sippy cup. I hate losing things. The fleeting thought of losing some object or another can keep me up indefinitely. If I remember that I have a small green hi bounce ball and can’t find it, I’ll search for hours. It seems I have spent the last 40 years looking for something. Is anyone every just content? I have never been able to sit in stillness and endure quiet. It’s too late to learn to meditate. Maintaining a conscious presents is exhausting. Reason ponder fret. There is really nothing else. In high school I used to listen to my walkman as loud as I could. It would almost drown out the constant criticisms that 17 year olds are plagued with. I can’t seem to regain that skill. The music is never loud enough. The sound is never enough to transport me. I suppose it is all as much self engradizement. I can’t seem to find the center of myself to center myself. I the purple polka dot top carelessly stored in one of a dozen of disintegrating shoe boxes scattered about. Most of the time when you pull the whip string the top sputters, turns quickly rather than spins and skips underneath the table. The whip string is the impetus and the catalyst to motion. With the right wrist motion you can get the top to spin fast and upright. What motion am I missing?

Patience is a virtue

I see my patience as sands in an hourglass pouring quickly away. Applying for jobs is an exercise in futility. I can’t stand the look of my resume any longer. I don’t want to be reminded of all the jobs I have had and the stark realization that they have afforded me little more than a long and useless history.

How many phone calls have I answered in the last twenty years? It seems a lot of wasted effort in making other peoples lives easier. I can’t help but think of Oscar Wilde in prison, sentenced to hard labor. He was forced to walk on maniacal treadmills for hours on end, going no where and achieving nothing.

My mother has always said, “Patience is a virtue, keep it if you can, often found in woman seldom found in man.” It has always made me shake with frustration.
It seems more relevant these days because my hands and wrists hurt so much. The pain wakes me up at night. Maybe its carpal tunnel, it could be arthritis. The terror of losing the use of my hands or having to restrict my activities has left me enraged. My needlework has sustained me. Writing with a pen and paper has cleansed me. Turning a steering wheel has given me freedom.

There are too many projects unfinished. Stories that have lain dormant for years should have been scribbled long ago.

Perhaps this missive is nothing more than display of self pity. Inspiration is too hard to find and in scarce supply, maybe I should try to embroider that on a pillow while watching “My Left Foot”. I need to wrench myself from this malaise.

All art is biographical....Fellini

I examine the definition of art like it is a single object. I turn it over, examine the underside, shake it and hold it up to the light. I can't really define what I do now as art. I stitch, I craft, essentially I play with string. I don't create the designs I embrodier or cross stich, I merely follow the diagrams and copy the image on the package. Is that art? Is a painter that copies other painters and artist? I am skilled with a needle, could I become a master at the craft?
Years ago a young neighbor and her friends were drawing with chalk on our cul de sac. The chalk was vivid against the new blacktop. They covered the entire semi circle with words and flowers and a hopscotch grid. I used to park in the curve. The drew all around my car and scribed "Girl Kar". They instructed everyone who passed "not to walk on the art". Remarkable. I never asked myself if the chalk drawings were art. I new it implicitly. I suppose its the game of judging others compassionately and myself stringently.

I think I have let my world become too small. My conception of the artistic needs adjustment. My definition of "art" has become too aloof. I need to pull my imagination down off the shelf and use it. I want to run after inspiration rather that wait for it to casually stop by.

It's a sunny day.

It's a sunny day. It's a title to a Paul Simon song. I have always been drawn to a play by Israel Horovitz called Hopscotch. The lyrics of the Simon song are on the first page of the script. The lyric floats into the play. A woman and man meet on a playground. They have not seen each other for a long while. The woman is playing hopscotch. Why is she there? Why hopscotch? Why is the man there? How are we informed about their past relationship? I love the questions. They go on forever.
I miss the questions. I miss examining a play line by line. I miss directing actors and together discovering the movements and impulses of a charater. Can you tell it's been awhile? Leave it to me to find a difficult profession nearly impossible to find a job in, that's as addictive an an oppiate.
Hopscotch could be a metaphor for it all, questions, actors, blocking and throwing an idea out into the air and hoping that it lands in the right place and then hopping on one foot to get there. Question is am I willing to "play" the game.

The wisdom of red breasted Robins.

In the German language all nouns are capiltized. The rules of english and german are all mushed together. Robin or robin? Doesn't seem to matter I guess. Hopefully nothing will be lost in the translation of my thoughts to the "internets". It's a broadcast of sorts, I always wanted to be a radio DJ. Unfortunately I was born 20 years to late.
I spent my break walking around a little park outside of where I work. The weather is glorious with out exageration. I was distracted by a robin, beak full of twigs and mud. He just stood still, surveying his suroundings. I stood surveying him. What was he carrying? Where was he going to go with a beak full? I wondering if he was deciding. I couldn't help comparing his mission to mine. Create a nest. Build a home. Make use of resources.
I have been writing my will and getting things in order so that my family can easily dispose of things. I seem to be jumping the gun. Perhaps if I lived in my life first, made a home, cooked a few more meals and planted a few more seeds I wouldn't be so worried about organizing my death.
The conclusion that I have built on a sandy and slipping foundation is that, build anyway. It's time to throw away 25 year old shoes in favor of a little breathing room. I am sure the robin hasn't held on to the debris in his nest for 25 years. Is he waiting for the return of 1985? Uh, No. He has kicked out old feathers, mud and leaves. He has made room for a mate. Regardless of whether he has one. He has emptied his nest and opened it to new possibilites. So shall I .

If it's Tuesday.........

If it's Tuesday....

I look at the last four days of the week and try and guess how quickly they will pass.  The time is now 13:25 PST.   I cannot begin to count the number of phone calls I have taken or how many questions I have answered.  The same 15 or 20 questions.  Is Mr X there?  Can you cancel my appointment?  When was I there last?  The repetition grates against my nerves. 
I bring things from home to work on,  compiling insurance information, craft supplies, books I know I will not be able to read because I won't be able to concentrate fully.  The more things are on my  mind the more things wind up in my backpack.  It weights at least 20 pounds today.   The more that's on my mind the more goes into the bag.  I lost a fish this morning.   I am sad, but not overly so.  It's strange to admit.  
Bye Bye pretty Myrna , Godspeed and thanks for stopping by.

How many ducks are in my row?

Organization seems to be something you either belong to or practice.  The old is it a noun or verb?  It's is the bane of my existence.  I buy fabric I love but don't use because once it's home it's lost.  I collect pens, and thread and needles in order to create something.  I guess my lack of clarity is echoed in my living environment.  Clarissa Pinkola Estes outlined it as a common problem among wanna be "artistes".  It boils down to the fear of being responsible to my expression.   I hope the "Artist's Way doesn't have a solution to this problem.  I have two copies that I have never read.  Somehow I find that really honestly funny.  Maybe I'll give all the fabric and yarn away or start only what I plan to finish. Those concepts seem just as absurd.  I always want to prove that I can conquer some needlework skill, embroidery, knitting, crochet, sewing.... all methods to avoid theatre and writing.  Well at least this blog is some form of outward expression.  Quack Quack Quack

Gentle Nudging

Hello One and All,

So, here I am, astounded  at the simple success of following directions.  Technology  has always been  a spector,  floating over my shoulder and laughing in my ear.   I have decided to tell that malevolent ghost to go to hell.  I have too much creativity to waste my time planning.  It's  time to start doing.  

A website of my own.   Dedicated to whatever is racing around in my mind and running down through my fingers and on to the keyboard.   A gift from my Brother.  His way of nudging me to write I guess.I am always needling him to continue drawing and painting.   Writing was my first real  passion.  I scribbled long before I crocheted or sewed or embroideredd anything.  Its writing that led me to theater and to directing.  Thank you again my Brother.
So away we go.........sc