Hatching

Okay.  I’m wanting to write things.  I haven’t written a dang essay for months.  And I’m not good enough at any of the things I’ve been doing to offer some amazing how-I-do-it piece.  I’ve traded in opining for knitting and needling people for needling felt.  Dick will just give up on me.  But then, if I don’t start turning out some shots worth a look, I’ll lose Gordon.

A little polar bear I just needle felted.  And – shock – he’s cute.

I can tell you that I spent too much money on a dress that would look fab on Chaz (it hasn’t come yet, so I’m not depressed over it yet), and that I’ve got three projects in the hands of the literary gate-keepers.  No, wait.  Only two.  The third one is still hatching, and I have a writing partner for that – a young whipper-snapper who’s a lot of fun.  If only I’d stop boxing up Christmas and put some flesh on the story.  I really, really hope the two others emerge triumphantly and soon – well, yeah.  Of course I hope that.  But then, in one of those cases, it would mean finishing a series.  Which will be great fun, if I get past the “Holy Cats – me?” part.

Poor Toby.  Whenever I try shooting these guys together, we lose his little black face.  But every time I see them all piled up together, I have to try.  It’s seeing things like this that make me remember that there is charm in our natural lives – beyond what we keep trying to buy or build or design.  And somehow, that’s a relief.

I’ve been furious for five days, and I’m not sure you want to know why.  But I may get up tomorrow and write it out anyway, assuming that nobody will actually take the time to read it.  If only I were pithy (she said again, only half meaning it) like Gin and Megan.  But they both cheat, having young kids who can curl a story like a pretzel and come up with charming one liners at the end.

I have decided that the Christmas lights on the side of the house are staying up till Gin’s birthday.  They’re not coming down.  Nobody can make me.  And somebody explain to me please why the masses of raw materials I gather exceed the mass of the one project I end up making with bits of them by about 657 times?  If there’s ever a world catastrophe, you can come to my house; I’ll have enough fabric, felt, soap molds, glass scraps and batting to last the entire world for an entire year.

More little bear

I wish I had a basement.

Against the snow (bad ISO batch)