Busy, busy, busy.

I have been knitting and doing stuff, I promise, I just haven't been online to tell you about it. Mostly because I'm still not entirely over the whole labyrinthitis thing, partly because I'm up to no good, so to speak. Ok, ok, it's more like I'm doing a bit of authorized fanfiction, and it's taking a lot of time. I want to get it right, and it's so hard to know how to do so! Anyway, there's some other stuff I've been up to.

For firstly, I knitted a hat.

I was surprised to note the red yarn was self-striping--I just thought it was random. Huh. I frogged it twice, actually, and got tired of frogging it and just finished the damn thing already. Bastard yarn.

It's actually an inch shorter than it was supposed to be, but I ran out of the red. Ooops. Whatever. It's still sort of Rasta, as you can see, which was the intent, and I'm sure once I block it, it will fit better.

For secondly, I rescued a kitten.

His name is Pippin. He was going to go to a friend of my aunt's, but the friend weenie'd out, so he's staying with my aunt. He's mostly staying with her because her elderly cat loves him, and she'd do anything to make him happy. So, Pippin stays.

He also looks rather studly in the hat. When we found him, in the alley between the houses I work in (ha! An actual alley cat!) he was gray. All over. As you can see, several baths have helped. The fur is growing back in where he had burrs stuck in and when I say stuck in, I mean imbedded in his fur. We had to shave him down in spots to get them out. He's got some sort of burn on his back foot where he'll never grow fur again, but he really doesn't seem to mind. He talks a lot, and he's a bit of an attention whore, but he's sweet. He doesn't like dogs, though, which broke my dog's heart, as he loves kittens. Oh, well, he recovered from the rejection easily enough.

Rasta Dog says: Eh, mon, I gots de Malibu, you have de pineapple juice?

Ok, so the true effect is lost by the fact that I had to cut portions of this picture out and it was quite....awkward, but you get the point.

Oh, well. Best to be getting back to my research and writing.

Taking a small knitting break

No, really. I do.

This is the cross stitch I just finished for my boss. She's cool like that, and actually, she picked the pattern. It suits her, somehow. She requested I make the little heart black, but I decided to put the gold in there, too, because if she likes you, she's got a heart of gold. Otherwise, she's a vicious, vicious critter. Rather like a chow that way. :-)

Last weekend, I fell ill with labyrinthitis, which makes the sufferer incoherent as my last post attests and grants you incredible vertigo. It sucked. I developed it, according to the Doc In The Box (as my sister in law calls them--the immediate care clinic)* because of that nasty sinus infection I had last month. Happy, happy, joy, joy. I love my sinuses, they are so good to me!

Bollocks.

Anyway, I was doing my cross stitch this weekend because while I was absolutely nauseated and flat on my back (because you really can't stand, or even sit upright efficiently, with your inner ear inflamed,) I tried knitting. It didn't work too well. Well, I could do it, but right now, while I'm still recovering (and brother, let me tell you labyrinthitis is tough to get over--I feel moons and planets and spy satellites better than I did last weekend, but I still feel slightly...off. Better today because I sang at church and all that deep breathing is restorative, but still off) the thought makes me cringe. It doesn't help that the project I'm starting is in the round on double pointed needles and a less pleasant technique I can't imagine. Unless I have to slaughter children and make my needles from their bones. That might not be very fun. Well. Depends on the child, one supposes.**

So I'm working on my cross stitch, feeling rather insecure. I got some oblique criticism on my technique several months ago, and it rather stung. Well, there are other reasons why it bit so hard, but primary among it was the fact that the person who taught me did hers the same way, and her mother worked hers the same way, and I thought I'd been doing it right. One of the few things I thought I could do right, and, frankly, well. So I put my needle away for a goodly while and processed this and went on with my knitting. Today, as I was making the blood red bunnies that flanked the black, black heart, I realized that...I took it completely the wrong way. Ok, ok, I was being oversensitive, too. I should have listened to the criticism and taken a lesson from it instead of getting all defensive. After all, being told we're wrong, or at least that there is another way of doing or looking at something is the way we learn.

I changed my technique slightly on this sampler, and to my surprise, the new way works. And it works better. And I feel stupid. Not stupid, per se, perhaps, but foolish at least. So I feel a little wiser for knowing I was foolish, which is no real consolation, but there it is.

Here are some other cross stitches I've done. All patterns are from Subversive Cross Stitch, which sells some kick-ass patterns, including "of course I care." And her book is priceless, for those who want bunnies and duckies and bears to make do naughty things on the borders of their own patterns. I'm personally in process of creating a new cross stitch pattern, "Perfection is for Pussies", because it really is. There's nothing brave or valiant about being perfect--after all, everyone admires it, seeks it and desires to be it. And gets lauded to the heavens when they are. However, to be flawed, to make mistakes and be human and, more than that, to acknowledge it and show it in front of an audience...that takes nuts. Big hairy ones. If people would acknowledge the bravery that goes into being a mere human in front of others, perhaps people like me could save a ton of money on therapy. As a recovering perfectionist *spits on the ground*, I am considering having this tatooed on my forehead, backwards, so every time I look in a mirror, I remember to always be brave and be myself, with all my flaws and errors.

Anyway, here goes. I'm only including the actual image of one--because it's not vulgar or objectionable. The second is a link, a link I will trust you will not click unless you are an adult, or at least adult enough not to get your panties in a knot over cusswords. It was work therapy--work was killing me (literally; I had one of those bulgy veins in my forehead, it was gross) and I needed to remind myself of something important. Which I then cross stitched to hang inside my desk drawer, but which has yet to be framed, much less hung anywhere.



Yeah, don't, cause I'm crazy, don't ya know. This one may get put on my desk proper. Maybe. As you can tell, I've also figured out the stupid rotation thing. Key is to rotate it first before you post. Sigh. I've got some editing to do.....

Here's the link to my other one. Seriously, if you're easily offended, don't bother. Not that anyone but my friends reads this blog (and there's few enough of them), but if you stumble across here and click on the link, realize please that you have been warned, not once but twice, and don't go crying to Blogger. See cross stitch above for my feelings in the matter. (Update: Give it a moment to load. It'll come up huge and you'll be able to see the color of my couch through the 14 count cloth, but once it finishes loading, it will show up smaller so that all of it fits on the screen.)

I've got to check that it worked and then rotate my other pictures, so if you drop by before I get the link working, come back tomorrow. I'm OCD, so you know I will get it working if it takes me all night to do it!

* I have an actual doctor, but it was Sunday before I got desperate enough to actually get dressed and seek medical aid. Seriously, I thought I was dying. They gave me a shot in my butt--I didn't know they did that anymore--that helped with the vertigo. Well, the room still spun if I tilted my head slightly, but I really didn't care anymore. I think it might have been some kind of illegal to let me drive away so impaired, but I made it home, so it's all good.

**I'm kidding, you nodcock! No matter how poorly socialized and trained a child is, they have the potential to get the shit kicked out of them and straightened out. Sheesh. Now, there are some adults I can name....

Long Week

It's been a long, trying week. Last weekend, naturally, was Harry Potter Weekend. I spent Sunday not reading it by knitting a version of the Animal Crackers hat from the aforementioned Harry Potter Knits book, then found out I did it all wrong. Well, right by the book's pattern, wrong by the actual hat in the movie. Sigh. I must do it all over again. Oh, well. Since I did one in four hours last Sunday, I know I can do another one in short order.

I've also been watching a lot of French films. Now, I know what you will think: How far will she go in her obsessive quest to see Gaspard Ulliel kiss another guy?* The answer is: I'm limited in that quest by the holdings of my online rental agency (the one with stores, too.) Alas, they do not seem to specialize in hot pretty-boy-on-pretty-boy action as far as I can tell, unless you could Y Tu Mama Tambien, which was probably where my particular prediliction began. That scene was hot, and you know I wouldn't argue if told I got to be in a Diego Luna/Gael Garcia Bernal sandwich. That had to have been the best day of Ana Lopez Mercado's life.

Anyway. I watched a set of very disparate films, and my mind is spinning. First I started with Amelie, a cheery little film that was entertaining and uplifting. Then I switched to Strayed (Les Egares, only add a bunch of accent marks over the vowels.) The change in thematic matter was a bit jarring, although I did get to see some interesting sights, heh, heh, heh. The third movie I watched, He Loves Me, He Loves Me Not, was not what the box promised. In my opinion, that is. The box text seemed to promise a dark comedy--or perhaps that was just the picture they used of Samuel Le Bihan. They chose a picture of him that looked...vaguely flustered and befuddled by the gamine, smiling Audrey Tatou. No, no it's not a black comedy, although black is certainly apt. And gamine isn't the word for Audrey Tatou's character--nutjob, psychobitch, your worst nightmare...those are far more apt descriptions of her character. I can't believe no one in the movie knew it, really she's good at doing crazy eyes. Then again, it wasn't much different than the character Amelie, who, herself, is a bit nuts.

I've been taking a break from knitting and reading (after the trauma of Harry Potter--no, no, I really can't speak of it anymore now) and am just...hanging out. Watching, interestingly enough, The Fifth Element, the movie in which I discovered that even Gary Oldman can suffer from a heinously bad haircut. It's the Diva's solo at moment, the lovely song from Lucia DiLammermore.

Sigh, and yet again sigh. I had wine with dinner and it has slightly dazzled my mind. Perhaps I shall go and fetch my root beer and Haagen Dasz and settle in for an evening with the telly. Bubby Dog has settled in for the night. He snores on the rug behind me.

*Don't ask me why I want to see him get some hot nooky from another pretty boy, it probably has to do with the extremely creepy and scary turn he did as the baby Hannibal. Come on, you know you want to see it, too.

Proof of Scarf

While today is the actual anniversary of the day Nieceling was birthed, I caved. Last night, her parents were attending a concert, and so I had possession of the children. Mbwahahahaha. Anyway, they decided they wanted to attend cinema--Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix--and Nieceling, having full knowledge of her gift, wanted to wear the scarf in honor of the event. So I presented it to her and she promptely swaddled herself up like a Dickensian office worker despite the balmy, 80 degree F weather. I grabbed my camera before we left so that I could get pictures of the thing for this blog, before it vanishes into her closet. Hence:

A close-up of the dangly-bobs at the bottom. I'm actually pretty proud of the larger photo (see below, apologies for the rotational difficulties.)

Looks nice wrapped around the bannister, no? They should use it for Halloween decor or something.

Then again, looks nice wrapped around a bashful Nieceling, too.


Evil Debbil Bunny approves. Actually, he's rather nice, for a rabbit. His name is Hassenpfeffer. No, no, I tease. His name is Snickers. He was highly impressed by the knitting on display. Really. This is his look of intense excitement. Which is rather like his look of boredom.

Anyway, I've got HP7 in my possession right now, but I'm loathe to read it. There's something so infinitely sad about the end of this particular era. I know I will have to read it, if only because eventually some idiot will spoiler it for me out of ignorance of the fact that I'm avoiding it, but. It's so impossibly bittersweet. I will finally know if Snape is good or evil or indifferent. I will know who lives and who dies. And I will know Harry's ultimate fate. I rather like the uncertainty. Right now, it's like a literary Schroedinger's Box--Snape is both good and evil, Harry lives and he dies, it ends happily and is a great tragedy--and the end is not yet determined because I haven't opened the cover. Ok, yeah, that was a bit far-fetched, but you know what I mean.

More scarfage.

I've finished up the body of the hated scarf and am working on the feathers now. I'll probably get two of the three that are knitted in today, then tomorrow the last knitted in and the tied on feathers. I'll be so glad to see the back of this darn thing.

Compound that by the fact that I had to move my stitches to a stitch holder so I could knit it in sections and I dropped every single stitch that was supposed to be on the holder. I think I used all the swear words in all combinations I've ever known, and a few that are completely new. Thank the Gods of Knitting that I finished the first feather and went back to pick up the stitches, or I'd have been royally screwed. And that no young, impressionable listeners were nearby. I'm fairly certain I recaptured them all, but it makes me nervous. I can't see the damn things between the fur and feathers, and it's turning into the scarf from hell. Very appropriate color for it, I must say.

And, to highlight how ill with yarn addiction I have become--little yarn whore that I am--I have photographic proof that my addiction is harming those I love most, in particular, my canid son. Witness:






Can you see it? Can you? Wait:





PHOENIX SCARF FUZZ! The worst part is he wasn't even aware of it. I am so ashamed. The first step is to admit you have a problem; I do. The second is to surrender your stash to a higher power, which is not happening. Oh, well. I'll just have to learn how to hide the signs of addiction: bags under the eyes from staying up late to bind off, calluses on the fingertips from the needles, bruises on the upper thigh from where I brace my left hand needle. Maybe it won't interfere with my work life or relationships. Yeah, yeah. I'm totally in control of my need for yarn. Totally.

(I'm so hosed....)

Oh, how I'm loving the scarf.

This is the beginnings of the Nieceling's birthday scarf, aka the Phoenix Tear's scarf from the Harry Potter Knits book. I'm so loving the process of knitting this scarf! The yarn is simply too easy to knit up! Why, I think I'll be done with the remaining two feet of scarf in less than an hour! [/sarcasm]

Seriously, folks, I can see why the crap was on clearance. Not that I'm not proud to have found a fabulous yarn that was hella-cheap (the yarn for the scarf, plus extra, only cost something like $8) but it's driving me up the wall. The furry part is irritating, and the only reason I haven't caved and got her something else is because now I'm doing garter with both fur and feathers held together. *shakes head* I can cope. It's dull, but I can cope. If she doesn't like it for whatever reason, I'll beat the child. Seriously.

And since when is knitting in flame red a good idea? The eye strain is wretched. :-p

Musings on Creativity

Twice this week, I have been confronted by the concept of my creative pursuits and the place they fill in my life. And as Stan might say, I learned something today.

To speak of my creativity as something outside of me, or separate from the greater "me" (or the Ego, if you will) is not accurate. What little creativity I possess--although in my kinder moments, I believe it to be rather sizeable in amount--is what integrates the three parts of my mind. It brings together all of my rather chaotic and noisy voices, gives them all something to do, gives them a group project, so to speak, and in many ways brings me to inner peace. To go all Freudian (because in this case, it's the only framework that fits, really,) my mind is made up of three parts: Super Ego (inner judge, aka Prudence), Ego (the me that sits behind my eyes and drives) and the Id (basic drives, glandular hey-nonny-nonny, aka Nimue.) Nimue starts it out by driving me nuts with daydreams and fantasies, visions that are compelling to me, thoughts that are mostly impure and always amusing. Slightly vulgar and half-formed, these ideas are sent to the fore-mind (aka, me) and I then ask Prudence what she thinks. She will clean up the grammar (she is my Grammar Nazi), spelling, figures out what it will take to bring those inner visions to light (including editing for content) and gives me the 'plan' for developing it in the outer world to show others. Nimue then pouts for a few minutes, revises, sends her edits back, and so on and so forth until I step in and actually put the plan into action.

For a creative, artistic endeavour, there is an awful lot of logic going on, internal bickering and doing by committee. But moreso than anything else in my life--my family, my job, my friends--being creative, creating art, is the only time when I am completely integrated into one Being, and when I hit my 'flow'--that magical state when time suspends and I am absolutely content.

Now, I should point out that while the things I do may never see the light of day, or may not be to your taste, does not make them any less art. Art, in its most basic self, is an external representation of an authentic feeling or experience of the artist/creator. Which is why when I read stuff presented to me as 'literature', nine times out of ten my skin crawls, because a lot of what is considered 'literature' by the talking heads is so...posed. Unnatural. Verbal topiary, if you will. While there is a place for form and shape--I quite realize that some tropes are tropes for a reason; things do not necessarily mean the same thing to me as they do to you, and that's a topic for another day--I get the feeling that many of those books are written by English Majors who feel that that story is what Should Be Written. Bollocks. Very little of what is in them is authentic to the writer. It's just depressing Victoriana, recited back by good little boys and girls obeying the dicatates of their teachers. Which is why I believe the very best writers aren't trained to be writers, they're storytellers who learn how to write well.

To be certain, you must, if you wish to carry your story to the outside world, learn to write well. Skill is something that can be acquired if one is determined enough, and is truly secondary to the belief in the validity and importance of your inner vision. Now, "vision" is a loaded word, and quite often is nothing more deep and meaningful than "parties are nice." But if you truly, with every fiber of your being, believe that parties are nice, parties are necessary, parties are the secret of life as we know it, and you can write it that way--I may believe you, even though in my experience, parties suck. Seriously. I've never attended a fun one. Perhaps it's me. Back to my point....

Art is a complicated thing--it is a debate using skills and equipment that most high school debaters wouldn't dream of using to make their points, and while most people will disagree on the aesthetics, most can recognize art when they see it. Still and all, that's what it is. So perhaps creativity is simply the feeling that your inner vision is important, is valid, is worth making solid and real in the outside world.

Of course, it is worth pointing out that this, then, naturally makes art anything that reflects someone's authentic self. If you are an accountant, an Accountant to the innermost core of your being, a well-balanced set of books can be your art. If you are a builder, the house can be your creative contribution to the greater world. Any time you bring your inner vision to life, you make art. Runners doing the perfect sprint. Mailmen, getting the mail to the correct houses on time or early. Archivists, putting documents in order just so. Anything. Personally, I tend to write or play with textiles. I'm thinking of branching out into clay, because I've got some 'found' objects that are just begging for a three-dimensional display. I don't know that there's an office in the world that can contain my sort of visions, but there are many people out there, doing jobs in offices, who feel they aren't creative because they aren't dabbling with paints, and that is simply not true. The desk worker, if s/he is doing work in touch with his or her inner truth, is creating art. Art of a different level, to be sure, and not considered art by most, but art nonetheless. Because that is their inner vision-a job well done. Well-done filing is a thing of beauty, too. Just ask anyone who has tried to find 6 month old paperwork that they suddenly need.

And since art, being an inner vision brought to life through whatever means are to hand, is an act of creativity, by definition, all humans are creative. Perhaps I'm not the only person whose inner voices are bound by the spirit of creativity. I believe this is the tiny spark of the divine that we all carry, that little voice that tells us to make things, whatever they may be.

With that thought, I must now go walk my dog. He's calling me to become one with the trees and the evening wind. He's a bit of a poet like that.