Alas, it is not Friday. It's a Wednesday, farway from a free and full nights sleep but farther from a Monday's woes. The clock never seems to run on time. Too slow and full of static. My thoughts are running over them selves.

For some reason I miss my 17 year old self today. I miss the melancholy girl who thought she was fat, even though she ran 6 miles a day. I miss the girl who could not live without music. Music filled her imagination. Headphones protected her from the derisive sounds and insults of others. I almost wish I was back in Algebra failing, rather than here at work listening to complaints and demands. Every day I wear a headset for the wrong reason. I feel wrung out. I am too tired to be depressed. I can’t stop wondering who I could have been? Who should I have been? Maybe all I need is another pill and 90 minutes with an album that will help me feel something, feel anything other than this ennui.

It's a Yo Yo day. One minute I feel fine, the next I feel like I am wedged in a box that's too small. I need to focus. I want to find focus without pharmaceutical help. It seems it would be like trying to find a gold needle in a haystack. I write in clichés. I am trying to decide how to configure an English paper piecing project I have started. I have completed 137 two inch hexagons. I have approximately 300 to go, depending on the layout I select. I can’t choose between the full flower pattern, wave or straight line. I could applique to a background fabric, (What colour ?) But how much do I want to do by hand? All? Some? Heat N Bond? LoL

Promises Promises

It's a hollow Thursday. I've been watching the clock since 0545 and grateful for any minute that passes and pushes me forward to 1515. I have at least 6 quilting projects started and can't commit to finish them. I am beginning to read a book by Steven Pressfield entitled "The War of Art - Break through the Blocks and Win your inner Creative Battles." Pressman writes, "Creative work is a gift to the world and every being in it. Don't cheat us of your contribution. Give us what you've got." The statement is both wise and inspiring and intimidating. I have a vast array of fabrics, supplies and sewing machines and yet I find myself overthinking every choice. I tangle myself up in the variables and scold myself for not giving a deep and intellectual meaning to every stitch. It reminds me of a story Dr. Clarissa Pinkola Estes to paraphrase she told us that several of her cleints spent all their time acquiring the perfect supplies, the ones that "feel right" and then leave the task less. That bell has never stopped ringing on that for me. I have always searched for the perfect pen to write the perfect play, the extraordinary paper that would draw my ideas out of my hand. I have Italian embroidery scissors, English hand needles and more fat quarters of fabric than I care to count. Committing to yardage seems like taking the training wheels off the bike. :) I found my first quilt top a few days ago. It is about 49" by 60" and grey and black. I named it my PMS quilt. I had planned to sew a deep read border. I can laugh now and say it was my dark period. I do really like it now. The pattern of opposites is bold and from a distance it holds its own. It's very modern even if I so say so myself. Like the Almond farmers of California say “One can a week is all we ask” May be if I commit myself to 30 minutes a day, it will fuel to desire to live, love and create out loud.

A Clear day?

  It’s a clear day.  Most of the mental fogginess has drifted, could be the Vyvance or the tea.  I am grateful for both.  I doubt my grammar.  The Vyvance doesn’t treat that.     The last four months have been brave and productive.  I decided to try to get ahead of the low bipolar cycle with lots of meds and lots of therapy.  It’s working.  I decided to be more social and get out of the apartment more often.  That seems to be working as well.                   So it’s been a year and some days, since I’ve scribble away.  I have missed blogging, haven’t been doing it.  I don’t know why.   I have too many thoughts and get overwhelmed by the weight of them I guess.  But it’s time to move forward.  I adopted a dog, Milo.  I joined a quilt guild.  I want to return to creating and living and projects.  I finished a mug rug binding and all.  The process of designing and sewing and committing to the fabric was both frightening and thrilling. Thanks to Jean a member of Stray Threads who encouraged me to participate.   I have to laugh though; the woman who got my rug in the swap wasn’t impressed.  It doesn’t matter.  I was impressed.  I designed an object, decided on the materials and put it together.  I committed to the mug rug and then released it into the wild.  The butterfly cliché is shamefully acknowledged.  LoL.      Had a great weekend, sewed with the Stray Threads at the Woodinville firehouse.  I stitched some foundation blocks in bright primary batiks and then ruined them while trying to remove the paper.   My Mother’s advise – appliqué over it. J I went to the Quilter’s Anonymous quilt show.  There was a lot to take in, stories spoken and stitched, intricate, warm and generous.  How can you deny the honesty of a quilter who bares their soul in thread?  The quilt is a metaphor for safety and risk.    There weren’t any political quilts at this show, no quilts marking the conquering of cancer commemorating anniversaries or family memories.  There were several bold black and white quilts trimmed with acid green.  Bright semi neon quilts were visual stand outs.  Five members of the guild entered hand quilted quilts.  There were many giant, practical and gorgeous bed quilts on display soft from use.  I admired three vintage quilts made from old kits that were inherited or purchased.  I am still wondering about the women who started and finished them.      Donna Eines was one of the featured artists and her handwork and hand quilting are breathtaking.  I envy her dedication to design and tiny detail.  How wonderful to be so immersed in our technique.  It was remarkable to watch her calmly and confidently place and pull her needle.    I miss losing myself in the creative process that way.  I miss disappearing into a script and moving actors about the stage.  I need to find a way back to the passion of the creative process.  Regan a member of Stray Threads posted on FB on her love of the quilting process.  I am envious.  What stories could I tell with my quilts?  Do they have to tell a story or is the process of manifestation enough?

I finished my first quilt project of 2013 yesterday. Stray Threads quilt guild is having a block lottery this week. Last month they gave use three pieces of fabric and instructions for an 11 inch log cabin block. I fussed over my fabrics and then went to buy too much more. I cut the fabric fairly acurately and my seams were consistant. The big surprise came when all the pieces were pressed out the block is spot on 11 inches. Will wonders never cease?

Red sequins

I haven't been able to decide what I am. Crafter? Needle worker? Crocheter? Project starter? My friend Ann has a brilliant license plate, "DABBLER". I have no real idea how many projects I have started and that now live in zip lock bags. It’s a guilt pang. Why? My paternal Grandmother had various interests. My Mother finishes every project she starts. I can’t concentrate on one project for more than two weeks. I blame the ADD it makes easier. I even buy other people’s unfinished projects. I have come across some un finished embroideries recently. Beautiful designs that are almost finished. I wonder why they were left undone. Did the stitcher get bored? Did she have more pressing projects? Did she hate her stitches? Were her hands arthritic? I want to finish them, should I continue their work or pick out their threads and start over? What would I want someone to do with my unfinished work? I could ask these questions all day. I found an old project today, a calendar from 1981. I think it was a gift from my maternal Grandmother. It the kind that you sew beads and sequins on. When I opened it I remember thinking it would take forever to finish. I sewed the beads and sequins clumsily. I am sure that the slow pace frustrated me. I can look at it now, a little more than half done and visualize completing it. It’s a calendar from 1981. I was 12 years old when I started the calendar. It won’t be accurate again until 2015. Maybe that’s reason enough to buy more sequins. Maybe it’s the reason to finish what’s been started regardless of when it was started or by whom.

Too many things are racing through my brain. They night is too long and morning is too soon. I am trying to remeber to "sit with my breath". I pull a needle through soft cotton fabric, each small stitch the legnth of a grain of rice. Simple lines cross to make intricate patterns. I borrowed the image to show the eleganance of Sashiko. It could be a zen practice its like yoga for my hands and thoughts.

It’ long time since I have written, as usual. I always read about famous authors that hate writing but feel compelled to do so. Am I caught in that cliché’? It would seem my creative thoughts have paralyzed me; I have too many ideas and too much potential, too gifted. What a ridiculous thing to complain about. I have to laugh. My first sewing machine died. It is a 40 year old Bradley with zigzag and 22 decorative stitches. My MoM gave me the Bradley. The weight of it always felt real. I wish I could bottle its scent. When I was small I would lie under the dining table and feel comforted by the sound it would make. I was trying to make doll clothes when it began to give me trouble. Dan at Renton Sewing and Vacuum broke the news carefully. The cams are cracked and replacing them would be difficult and costly. He advised me to invest in a new machine. Joe at Esser’s Garage told me the same thing about my first car 22 years ago. I have a 53 year old 221 Singer featherweight. It is beige and gorgeous. But there is something about your first something that means everything. My brother gave me his machine. It’s a man’s machine, an Alcon. I call it Big AL and it’s incredibly heavy and meant for serious business. My Aunt Joan sent me her 86 year old 221 Singer featherweight; it’s worn, graceful and simply hums. MoM and I went to Sew Expo to shop for a new machine. Women expressed their condolences for the loss of the Bradley and offered suggestions. The models and options were overwhelming, but I had done my research and set my budget. We found a Brother 9500SQ, needle down, walking foot, 100 decorative stitches and most importantly purple trim. Yes, I said purple. Like a big grown up girl and presented my credit card, the saleswoman smiled and took my MoM’s instead. My Mother gave me another Brother. My Mother gave me sewing skills, fabric, tools and encouragement Does it sound like I am expert? I am not. I am puzzled by the sewing process and enamored with machines. Old machines have a history and purpose. I think my fascination with them feeds my search for my history and purpose, one stitch at a time.

The new zoo revue.

I have the urge to put the presser foot down and lay some seams. Both my sewing machines are whining for a tune up but the need to put needle to fabric is too great and really what else do I have to do?

I bought 2 patterns by Valori Wells that are fun and relatively fast. The little wallet and cell wallet sewing cards are well written and concise. They are a great way to use scraps or a fat quarter. I used a medium weight stabilizer for the little wallets; if I make more I’ll switch to a light weight one. I would also invest in a different snap setter. The Dritz plastic snaps I used are a little bulky. I really like clear sew on snaps but I am not sure they will stand up to long term snapping. The only thing I really had trouble with was the 1/8 inch top stitch on the flap. But that’s what I get for trying to sew and watch NCIS.

Valori’s website (valoriwells.com) is well designed and easy to navigate. She integrates quilting, painting and photography. It’s inspiring to see how she incorporates all of her interests into her projects.

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