Still in need of therapy

Drawing 586

Drawing 587

Drawing 588

Drawing 589

Drawing 590

I am still knitting like a madwoman. My mind is quiet while I make stitches, but the moment I stop it goes into overdrive, like letting the Tasmanian Devil loose to whirl about ricocheting off the inside of my skull. I can't settle to anything else, except making my drawing a day. There are a number of abandoned and half-finished projects littered about the dining table.

On the other hand, not settling has seen me wander outside at intervals to haul a few weeds out and shift pot plants. The small bursts of gardening are beginning to make a difference to the wilderness.

Upcycling

This is what I made from the op shopped circular tablecloth from a few posts ago: a circular skirt with a drawstring waist, now for sale in my Etsy shop (link on top right of page).

Today I...

...wrote a poem.

For the first time in a very long while. I used to write poetry often, enraptured with the sounds words make against each other in verse (be it blank, or rhyming), and then I just...didn't.

My love of words didn't go away, I remain the pedantic perfectionist when it comes to words and meaning, spelling and grammar. I still wrote/write prose, short stories, a novel, began two other novels ('began' is misleading, perhaps. Each is thousands of words, loosely organised, but nowhere near finished). I'm re-editing the novel, for what seems the forty-lebbenth time.

But the urge for creating poetry went into abeyance. Not sure why. I don't even remember exactly when. Five years ago? Probably closer to ten.

This morning a phrase popped into my head. Followed by another. As I wrote them down, my hand remembered the joy of that, the sheer pleasure of word after word, not telling a story, but capturing (or attempting to capture) a fleeting moment or thought. A flavour, if you will.

I have twelve lines of joy.

Perhaps there will be more.

Cheaper than therapy

Drawing 581

Drawing 582

Drawing 583

Drawing 584

Drawing 585

Knitting is cheaper than therapy. That is all.

Eek! Actually using paint!

Yeah, yeah, I always say I don't paint. I colour in. I like colouring. This is from one of my drawings, transferred to a re-purposed book cover (The Northumbrian Gentleman), 30cm x 21.5cm (11.5in x 8.5in). Next time I use a book cover I'll try using ink, perhaps white ink on a dark cover. The dark background makes a good contrast.

I'm still not fond of paint, but our relationship is improving.

Brains

Drawing 576

Drawing 577

Drawing 578

Drawing 579

Drawing 580

The brain is an amazing organ.

Just occasionally though, mine could do with a pause button.

A couple of days ago, I was searching for - actually, I'm not sure of the name of the thing. It's like an embroidery hoop, but has a solid insert. It came with a kit when I was into Hobbytex about a million years ago, and is useful when fabric painting. Let's call it the hoopish whatchamacallit (huh! spellcheck doesn't like "hoopish", but is just fine with "whatchamacallit"!). So, the whatchamacallit wasn't in the craft half of the wardrobe, or in the project pile. Hmmm, don't think I tossed it out. Scratched my head, got distracted by something else, wandered off.

Cut to 3 a.m. the following morning. I jolted wide awake with this thought in the front of my mind: "The whatchamacallit is in the white chest of drawers in the spare room, third drawer down on the left hand side, with the fabric paint."

The search mode had evidently been ticking away in my subconscious for more than half a day, had located the requisite memory, and dropkicked it into my conscious mind, waking me from a lovely sleep in the process.

Thank you, brain, that was useful information (and yes, it was right, the whatchamacallit was exactly where it said), but I could have waited till morning for that little bulletin.

Who needs a title?

Drawing 571

Drawing 572

Drawing 573

Drawing 574

Drawing 575