Today I am playing a game I like to call Pretend To Be Productive.
It involves me posting my projects on Ravelry (which is exciting; I love Ravelry!) in the hope that some bored soul on the knitterwebs will see it and think I'm doing things with my life other than delaying this whole studying business, thus somehow translating into me actually having accomplished something... (?)
In the spirit of such things it seemed only right to include it in my personal journal, in the hope that Future Me will see it and think I'm doing something with my life et cetera et cetera.
Hey Future Me! I am knitting an alpaca scarf
in the summertime.
I started this pattern as something to occupy my hands during movies and then had to figure out what to do with it and it eventually just turned into a pouch. Credit to the five-year-old next to me during a long plane flight for her excellent advice and some help stitching too. We agreed that we could make it look like a hungry critter with a big mouth using button eyes. (Hence the paper arms I gave him for the purposes of his fashion shoot.) His name is Ziggy.
Another late night, complete with some caffeine induced decisions that turned out better than I'd thought they would! This is definitely an AP and a bit smudgy, but it did turn out better than most of the final prints. Probably I should be kinder to it than scotch taping it to my wall.
( Flickr link )
Our assignment was to just draw anything, really, just to get the hang of etching on our zinc plates. I'm pretty enamored with Angela Carter's short stories and thought I'd do a take on The Bloody Chamber. My professor pretty much thought it was flat-out castle fairytale ridiculous, and my attempts to save my first day of class reputation by pointing out that the hands were supposed to represent dead wives were... not really helpful.
Of course the next instruction was to scrape off two thirds of the surface we'd just etched and revise it... The waves were nearly impossible to scrape. The waves at the bottom were preposterous! It's so much easier to remove straight, parallel lines because the tool doesn't catch as much in the process. This is just a newsprint process scan for the heck of it.
And then it was midnight and I was too exhausted from all of the scraping to come up with any revelations about the plate's true direction, so I just added more hands.
That last one is the print I consider the closest to "final" for this set. Later on I was learning how to aquatint and needed a plate to experiment on so that if I messed things up I'd not have to worry about scraping yet another plate and starting over before my next deadline, so I tried things out on my older plate. This is just the newsprint, but I thought I'd archive for comparison's sake it just in case someday I got access to a studio and took it in an entirely different direction. You never know.
( Flickr source )
I completely and utterly fell in love with Design Sponge's sneak peek at the Emersonmade folks' home.
Visible pantry hallway with shelves full of mason jars!
A lovely kitchen:
Perfect, elegant but quirky simplicity.
(I think this room would be really delightful to write in with a warm cup of coffee!)
(These are total embeds from the Designsponge link above.)
I'm only worried that the plants' roots won't have enough space to spread out... I suppose I could always transplant them, though.
I'm also thinking of terrariuming it up.
From narrow provinces of fish and bread and tea, home of the long tides where the bay leaves the sea twice a day and takes the herrings long rides, where if the river enters or retreats in a wall of brown foam depends on if it meets the bay coming in, the bay not at home; where, silted red, sometimes the sun sets facing a red sea, and others, veins the flats' lavender, rich mud in burning rivulets; on red, gravelly roads, down rows of sugar maples, past clapboard farmhouses and neat, clapboard churches, bleached, ridged as clamshells, past twin silver birches, through late afternoon a bus journeys west, the windshield flashing pink, pink glancing off of metal, brushing the dented flank of blue, beat-up enamel; down hollows, up rises, and waits, patient, while a lone traveller gives kisses and embraces to seven relatives and a collie supervises. Goodbye to the elms, to the farm, to the dog. The bus starts. The light grows richer; the fog, shifting, salty, thin, comes closing in. Its cold, round crystals form and slide and settle in the white hens' feathers, in gray glazed cabbages, on the cabbage roses and lupins like apostles; the sweet peas cling to their wet white string on the whitewashed fences; bumblebees creep inside the foxgloves, and evening commences. One stop at Bass River. Then the Economies Lower, Middle, Upper; Five Islands, Five Houses, where a woman shakes a tablecloth out after supper. A pale flickering. Gone. The Tantramar marshes and the smell of salt hay. An iron bridge trembles and a loose plank rattles but doesn't give way. On the left, a red light
swims through the dark:
a ship's port lantern.
Two rubber boots show,
A dog gives one bark. A woman climbs in
with two market bags,
brisk, freckled, elderly.
"A grand night. Yes, sir,
all the way to Boston."
She regards us amicably. Moonlight as we enter the New Brunswick woods, hairy, scratchy, splintery; moonlight and mist caught in them like lamb's wool on bushes in a pasture. The passengers lie back. Snores. Some long sighs. A dreamy divagation begins in the night, a gentle, auditory, slow hallucination. . . . In the creakings and noises, an old conversation --not concerning us, but recognizable, somewhere, back in the bus: Grandparents' voices uninterruptedly talking, in Eternity: names being mentioned, things cleared up finally; what he said, what she said, who got pensioned; deaths, deaths and sicknesses; the year he remarried; the year (something) happened. She died in childbirth. That was the son lost when the schooner foundered. He took to drink. Yes. She went to the bad. When Amos began to pray even in the store and finally the family had to put him away. "Yes . . ." that peculiar affirmative. "Yes . . ." A sharp, indrawn breath, half groan, half acceptance, that means "Life's like that. We know it (also death)." Talking the way they talked
in the old featherbed,
peacefully, on and on,
dim lamplight in the hall,
down in the kitchen, the dog
tucked in her shawl. Now, it's all right now even to fall asleep just as on all those nights. --Suddenly the bus driver stops with a jolt, turns off his lights. A moose has come out of the impenetrable wood and stands there, looms, rather, in the middle of the road. It approaches; it sniffs at the bus's hot hood. Towering, antlerless, high as a church, homely as a house (or, safe as houses). A man's voice assures us "Perfectly harmless. . . ." Some of the passengers exclaim in whispers, childishly, softly, "Sure are big creatures." "It's awful plain." "Look! It's a she!" Taking her time, she looks the bus over, grand, otherworldly. Why, why do we feel
(we all feel) this sweet
sensation of joy? "Curious creatures," says our quiet driver, rolling his r's. "Look at that, would you." Then he shifts gears. For a moment longer, by craning backward, the moose can be seen on the moonlit macadam; then there's a dim smell of moose, an acrid smell of gasoline.
From the novel Boy Detective Fails:
"Wait a moment, what's happening here?" Melinda asks.
"Billy solved a mystery. A great one."
"Wait a minute, what mystery?"
"The one about where you go when you die - ha ha. Go on and tell her what the answer is, Billy."
"Where do you go when you die? Ha ha. Go on, go on and tell her, Billy."
Billy smiles. "You become a little voice in someone's ear telling them that things will be all right."
(I love the literary tattoos community. I may have just written that in the last post, but it can't be said enough. Two of my favorite things.)