I hate waiting for books to come in from the other libraries. I wish that there were better resources available in this town, especially for art and knitting books. I have a couple alt-spinning books on the way, and one about country/cottagey style sewing that I can try out. I have a hankering to sew some decoration of sorts.
I’ve recently taken to using Wists to keep track of art online that I’m fond of, and photos that inspire me.. frankly, I’ve done one tiny ATC for Elyse and that’s been it since the nude. I have a few canvases, and can get bare-bones satisfactory ones for a decent price around here, along with some acrylic paints, some pencils I bought and haven’t opened, and a few busted up charcoal sticks that ought to do the trick. Thing is, I’ve been craving a more mixed-media approach that incorporates a bit more decoupage and frankly, I’m lacking in paper bits to manipulate (other than the odd newspaper).
I remember when Alex and I had to go to the gas station laundromat to wash our clothes and we’d buy scratch tickets and candy and I’d get the latest issue of some soul-less lady magazine and that would be my fodder for a while.
I was looking back at previous things that I’ve written, and I’m reminiscing with Elyse about when we’d sing and play guitar for people, and when my hair was big enough to hide in and when we’d be up for days, high on whatever we’d created and lack of food – when we were too busy writing to study, too busy wandering aimlessly to go to school.
I don’t regret one minute of it.
I feel like in those few years I developed a sensitivity to the world that I find a hard time spotting in other people.
It sounds pretentious and haughty, but this perfectly sums up the way I am:
“The truly creative mind in any field is no more than this: a human creature born abnormally, inhumanly sensitive. To him, a touch is a blow, a sound is a noise, a misfortune is a tragedy, a joy is an ecstasy, a friend is a lover, a lover is a god, and failure is death. Add to this cruelly delicate organism the overpowering necessity to create, create, create – so that without the creating of music or poetry or books or buildings or something of meaning, his very breath is cut off from him. He must create, must pour out creation. By some strange, unknown, inward urgency he is not really alive unless he is creating.”
– Pearl S Buck
I wish that there was someone I could relate to out here in this way. I miss the ones who “get” me.
I am making a list of billions of things I’m going to do tomorrow to stay occupied and be productive, because having only spun a bobbin’s worth of wool/silk makes me feel like a lump.
The billions of things will include -drawing and/or painting again, laundry and dishcloth knitting. And maybe baking cookies.