meow.

reflect, refract

scented words

violets

constellations dim

when the writing prompts get out of hand

{I've been playing around with randomized prompts, and bits of short fiction.  So when I pulled "violin" and "person covered in tattoos" this was definitely not what I meant or wanted to write.}

Ink & Strings

I am not who I thought I would be. Neither violinist nor person covered in tattoos. Do I want to be either? Yes and no. Had I had the money to spare in my late teens, early twenties, late twenties, early thirties, etc etc etc I might have gotten a lot of tattoos that I thought I needed--hard emphasis on “thought”--instead of the one acquired at 42. I have a list now. Of need versus want...and still no funds to accomplish it.  So, I could have been covered in tattoos, though they’d have been the wrong ones.

As for the violinist...as I write this, I sit under an antique violin case hung on the wall. An odd sort of family heirloom gifted to my father by the doctor who delivered him. It is not strung. It has not been played within my lifetime. It hangs on the wall, where it has been for as long as I’ve known it; not even a decoration, just a thing we had. A prop for a story. Valued...but in an arbitrary sort of way.

I would have loved to have taken lessons in my youth. But it was another thing we couldn’t afford, and the violin itself another low priority “should”. As in, “We should get someone to check it out.” “We should see if it’s still playable.” “We should see about getting it restrung.”

When I was a child I thought all of these should statements were things we were going to do. That’s what “should” means in that context, right? Something that you should do is important...?

As an adult, I think should is a curse word. Not like saying fuck or bullshit. A true curse.

I’ve been beaten down by so many years of “it should work” or “we should be able to do it”, “we should be okay on the bills”, “the life insurance should pay out”, “we should be able to get the car fixed this time”, and my all time favorite: “meh, it should be fine”. I flinch every time someone says it anymore. And I cringe and chastise myself on the rare occasion that it comes out of my mouth.

Maybe somewhere in an alternate universe there is a woman who looks like me. Maybe she is healthy and less angsty, and not crippled by depression and anxiety. Maybe she isn’t scarred by cursed words. Maybe she isn’t alone. Maybe she is calloused from years of the pressure of strings, and inked with artwork, only a few of which she feels the barest twinges of regret for. Maybe she has a safe stable house that she loves. Maybe she has a dog, or a cat, or a ferret. Maybe she has a husband or wife or both. And maybe they all have family dinners every month with both blood and bound.

Maybe she has occasional nightmares of another woman, one with her face, but none of her charm. Nights where she wakes in tears, and becomes angry with her bedmate for not understanding why the idea of “everything staying the same” is so heart wrenching. Nights where she wants more than anything to go back into the dream, to hug that other woman and tell her everything will be alright. But she’s also glad that she’s awake, that they are just dreams. Because she doesn’t really believe that it can be okay.

Every year, for at least the last several, by this date I'm done.  I'm just so fucking over the last 364 days that I cannot wait for this shit to be finished.  It's so easy to look back at the year, through the recent magnified lens of holiday angst and see all of the things left fucked up, unfinished, undone, or just not gone right.

The past week social media has been flooded with "fun" posts of the "list one thing you're proud to have accomplished this year" or "what's your happiest memory of 2018" variety.  And every time I scroll across one I sit and think.  And ponder.  And strain.  This year has been so awful, on so many levels, and for so many reasons that I have to truly struggle to think of ANY good things.

So, given my general end of year attitude, right now would normally be the time I am beyond ready to tack a new number onto the date.  The hell with 2018.  Burn it with fire, bury it in a shallow grave, whatever, just get it the fuck away from me.

Only...

Firsts are hard.  So are lasts.  I hate this year.  So much.  There are not words for how much.  But it's the last one I had with my mom.  And that makes me want to cling to this thing that I loathe, like it's a life raft that could, that might, keep my head above water.  Sitting trapped in this too quiet house, feeling the minutes ticking away, I know time does not operate on my whims.  I wish it did.  That it could.  If there was deity who could be swayed, I would beg for a do-over of this year.  Even if the outcome had to be the same.  I'm not ready for it to be 2019.  It's not a first that I want.  But I know, like with so many other painful things, that there is no choice to be made.

Birthdays, Traditions, and Gifts

When I was little my grandmother had this tradition that I always loved.  Whenever any of us kids had a birthday there would always be a stack of presents wrapped in newspaper comics...that were not for the birthday child.  Long before the idea of goodie bags, she kept drawer stocked with coloring books, crayons, and trinkets specifically so that everyone would have something to unwrap.  So that every child had a reason to feel excited and special.

Today is my birthday.  For various reasons it is generally not ever a day I'm super thrilled with.  And this close to the end of the year, I could easily get bogged down in how hard the last twelve months have been.  But I have to acknowledge the good.  That just in my life, all of this pain, angst, and worry has been tempered with weird quirks of fate, random luck, and the generosity of strangers.  I feel a need to continue the tradition of my grandmothers and give back in whatever little ways I can.

So, today I'd like to give you something.  From now until noon eastern time tomorrow you can get any one of my patterns for free with code "birthdayblahs".  And I hope that in some way, this will brighten your day a bit.

This is not the traditional sort of New Year’s Eve post.

It also serves as a sad sort of finish to a more stressful than average year, and I am sorry for that.  But I can’t deny that in some ways it seems fitting.

As I’ve touched on before, my maternal grandmother was a huge influence in my life.  Be it gardening, crafting, cooking, or anything creative, she had a hand in.  Her aesthetic has shaped many of my interests and much of my life as a whole.

And I miss that.  I miss her.  Whether it’s a new project idea, or just when the first flowers bloom in spring, I want to talk to her about it.  Always.

Grief is a strange thing, and her absence is like a weird ache that I’ve sort of gotten used to, a hole that I carefully skirt around.  I keep wondering, aren’t these the things that are supposed to get better with time?  It’s been bothering me more…I want to say lately, but I think it’s been this whole year and I’m just now realizing it.

I was musing over my birthday the other day, and yeah, I know “age is just a number” blah blah blah.  But for a multitude of reasons this number is not one I am happy with.  Maybe without further explanation that seems shallow.  Maybe explanation wouldn’t help either.  I don’t know, it’s just how I feel.

The point is, I couldn’t figure out why the two things seemed connected.  They’ll always have a bit of a link—with my birthday being yesterday and the anniversary of her death today—but it’s been that way for years now and it was never that significant.  Then it finally dawned on me.  My number?  It isn’t a “special” one this year.  But it is significant when you do the right math.

Because this year?

Today.

She’s been gone more than half my life.

And I can’t even fathom that.  I don’t understand it.  It seems really impossible, and more painful than ever, and I just don’t know what to do with this realization.

 

Gift Confusion and Belated Yuletide Wishes

My mother’s gift giving habits are a little…odd.  Not necessarily in a bad way, but still.  She tends to be completely stumped on what to get for everyone and comes up with some interesting solutions.  Case in point:  Last year for Yule I received nothing from her but Hello Kitty stuff.  And I couldn’t help but laugh about that because beyond the fact that she still occasionally refers to me as “the baby” of the family, it seems that she apparently also thinks I am five.

This year she gave me a Hello Kitty dog toy.  I don't have a dog.  Now I don't know what to think.

 

Anyway, here’s hoping you all had a wonderful Yule, a happy Hibernal Solstice, and/or a very merry winter holiday of your choosing.

All is Fleeting

Have you ever had a project turn out exactly as you’d envisioned? 
I had no idea how that felt until now.

Introducing, Fleeting!

Inspired by all the things I love most about the spring season, Fleeting came about from a bit of autumnal reminiscing about fallen spring flower blossoms.

I knew from the very beginning the exact yarn I wanted for this shawl.  Which is an odd occurrence for me, as deciding on a color is often one of my biggest challenges to starting a project.  Usually by the time I’m halfway through with whatever I am creating, I’ve already decided on half a dozen colors that I want to make another one in.

But not with this project.

I was absolutely set on it being a pale cream, with tones of almost grey to create the necessary shadows.  And I still cannot picture it in anything else.

So, tell me, dear reader, what color/shade/fiber would you use for this shawl?


a Rafflecopter giveaway
This giveaway is open until Saturday, May 31st at 11:59pm EST.  Use the Rafflecopter form above to enter.  As the prize is a pdf, please be sure to leave your email address, Ravelry ID, or some way for me to contact you in your comment!

When "Ends Justifies The Means" Gets Craftily Literal

I am a knitter from way back.  No, really.  My grandmother taught me to knit when I was eight and that was....well, it was a while ago, okay? 

I was always fairly quick with regards to the actual stitching, but I was also a kid with an insanely short attention span. The cool thing about that was, by the time I'd finally finished being (repeatedly) sidetracked, I'd have forgotten how to finish the project in question. Again. Which sounds bad (it wasn't), and also like I might've been doing it on purpose (I really didn't). So, I'd take my knitted whatever to my grandma's, ask her for help, and she'd use my project to show me how to bind off. And also sew in my ends for me. Which, looking back, might very well have been why I never paid much attention to the finishing thing in the first place. Because even then, and despite the fact that I already loved sewing, I loathed the working in of ends.

Which leads me to now. And my current project. And the utter insanity that has caused me to design something that has a hundred and fifty bajillion billion* ends to sew in. The project in question, I can't actually tell you about, at least not yet. I can let you look at the pretty yarn though!

 

Pictured, Pretty Yarn (lol)

Anyway, I always think about my grandma a bit when I am doing any crafting, knitting or gardening especially.  With this though, I've thought of her every time I've even looked at my project bag.  And the thing is, the thoughts and feelings that arise are usually nostalgic; sometimes happy, sometimes sad, often bittersweet...but that's okay.

What is less okay, is how much this project is making me really wonder about the difficulty of necromancy (or perhaps ghost raising).  Would it be worth the zombification of grandma to have someone else to sew in all these hated ends for me?
I'm beginning to think so.

*possibly exaggerated, slightly