an unnecessary option

compulsively feeding the

short-term parking meter interrupting life

instead of pulling away

living, long-term, no charge

ghosted self, self-affectioned

in this moment

offering an ending thought,

lightning illumination on

an unnecessary option

treading

one foot only

one foot in front of the other

of going nowhere.

comfort chosen sluggish soles,

shuffled rough roads wearing

that path, owning only

serenely scored expensive ruts

worn deep enough for imagination

to safely ignore the danger in

rim-limited views

just a bit longer, til

paid in full with absolutely no allowance

for aiming for horizons

this sort of thing comes faster

short and short of faith.

Quote for the Week:

That’ll Be Easy (the Final Crafter’s Saga 5)

Pondering the next step, well, I decided on the next – step.

Not sure where the idea came from, but I found if I could insert the paper into the upside down punch and hold it firmly enough to flip, I could place it on the floor… and… step on it.

After about 200 of those couch slouch sitting, toe touch bends and leg lift/lowers, my heel got a little sore.

So, I switched. I guess being right-handed’s akin to being right-footed. The left foot was adequate, but the right foot had the rhythm, and later the blues and purple-ish greenies, too..

Tender, bruised heels = my second documented suffering for art. The first suffrage had to do with a v-shaped linoleum cutter across three tips of three fingers leading to the post-healing inability to feel the strings on the electric Yamaha folk guitar I’d won from WINE Radio. Lessons were dropped.

Sure, there’ve been nicks and nail splits, Mod Podge in the eye, hot glue gun burns and other unique displays of self-damage along the way, since then. (Wrong tools/wrong sitting position, mostly.)

I have an absolutely adored hideous collection of paint splattered, glue stuck, ripped clothing. The kind your mother warned you that you wouldn’t want to be wearing if you were ever involved in a car accident. Only outdone by the sage advice that you should always have pristine underwear for the same reason.

Many an undergarment went into the laundry basket on wash day and never returned. I did make every effort to rescue perfectly-worn jeans from the same motherial fate, I succeeded a number of times. I do occasionally dispose of one. Very occasionally. Only if I have a back-up to my back-up.

Anyway, in the middle of semi-concentration required stompage, it occurred to me that I could be pretty specific, if I wanted to. By this point I pretty much assumed I wasn’t going to be making my Sunday afternoon drop.

And, there you go. Add another level of dafter-crafter. Might as well.

So, after stomping enough to cover 34 cards, plus extra because some were bound to be ugly, I spent some time pouring out unnatural leaf shades for known preferences: Purple, Blue, Green, Rainbow. (You know who you are. 😉 ) Drying time required.

Plucking my little punches neatly into smart piles, wasn’t all that easy, either. I mean I made about 275 grouping decisions determining which color dominated the petite pieces of paper. Took a bit of patience and as good bit of time because I got side tracked by, “Oh, I love this one!” and “Oh, I should frame these three,” and “Oh, I saw one just like this a moment ago… wonder which pile I put it in? Orange or Yellow?”

The ‘Easy Horizon’ was in view, at last. All I needed to do was plop 7 or 8 glue-dotted paint chips to each card.

I faltered at the first leaf. Should the one dedicated to the top of the barren tree be hanging down, barely holding on? Should it be lifted up by a strong wind or just standing signifying the season?

For once, I decided not to decide. Sort of. It depended on the randomly selected leaf pattern. Some looked better dangling; others were perkier upped.

As for the other fallen additions, I tried to assembly-line stagger their positions into something resembling a true pile. That’s about as almost-random as this particular run of salutations got.

37 printed, cut, glued and commented seasonal message inserts later, it was time to sticker the backs, stuff & seal, address, lick stamps and apply return addresses to envelopes. Yep, I had enough matter for a solid three more mastered works.

28 dedicated hours later, I can proudly say, I drove off to the mailbox in a daring 5:10 PM dusk, and made it back home before the streetlights even flickered. Easy.

Quote for the Week:

That’ll Be Easy (A Crafter’s Saga 4)

I’m sure you know where this is heading, so I will spare you the shredded details.

I went down to the basement and used my old-fashioned wooden, elementary school in the 70’s, slicing block with lever.

You know, the one where my teacher told us to be very careful when we used it, and then almost immediately nipped her finger. I was terrified of that thing.

I store it in the drawer above the fabric drawer. I don’t take it out there, though. I just pull the drawer out far enough and use it just where it is. Awkward? Of course! Time-saving? Meh. But, the paper scraps are retained, nicely. While I was there, I did some smart thinking and chopped all of the ink layer rectangles, too.

That was actually easy. While it’s fun to be fancy, sometimes the primitive stuff works reliably better.

Next step: stampede stamping the ink layers and the white card stock.

Easy enough after a few, totally expected, crooked and over-lap pressings. (Pssst. Crafter’s secret: that’s why we have extra pieces and supplies and left-over small amounts of pieces and supplies, which we faithfully store. Though, they will likely never be needed.)

Now, onto the super-fun and exciting part! Punching out 240 or so maple leaves from my two-days-prior poured acrylic swirls on ugly neon yellow card stock that I couldn’t imagine any other use for all these post-store years.

Ah, the hand held assistive apparatus owned for at least 19 years. It had to have been used at least once before. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have looked at it and recalled it to be a bit-sticky, like new dies are. I knew it just needed to be used to loosen it up.

It’s probably a bit of a spoiler to let you know I looked up the answer to a question I should have asked before I began this step, but here you go, anyway: Acrylic paint is a fast-drying paint made of pigment suspended in acrylic polymer emulsion and plasticizers, silicon oils, defoamers, stabilizers, metal soaps. Acrylic paints are water-soluble, but become water-resistant when dry.

Word to the wise: they become punch resistant, too. Although, that wasn’t perfectly clear to my creative genius until my hand started cramping. Not to be deterred, I switched hands. Following a few fumbles, I decided I could place the punch on the coffee table, squat-up to apply appropriate pressure and get some glute work in there, too.

A few struggle-shapes in I had a few logical visions.

  1. a scenario where I would end up with a pulverized slate tile, leaving a gaping gap in my living room decor.
  2. it was gonna take a while, but eventually, the pressure needed would be lessened.
  3. if I continued this way, not only was I still flirting with destructive danger, but my hands would hate me.

Interesting illogical resolutions:

  1. placing a thick (slippery, duh) glossy magazine on the coffee table as a pressure cushion.
  2. adding a little olive oil (out of wd40) to ease the resistance away.
  3. continuing until my hands could no longer squash out a squeeze, switch gears to glue-running and assembly, then finish the rest tomorrow.

Re-thunk thoughts:

  1. don’t be a dolt. enough with the coffee table torture. find a different surface.
  2. how do you get oil completely off a creviced die-cut, will it rust if washed and why isn’t repeated action helping?
  3. 20 or so really pretty leaves in, a deadline reminder, and… ouch.

This is typically the time a crafter stops to reassess invested time vs future hours required against the likelihood of completing the project in time to make the necessary Sunday afternoon Post Box drop. Then, forges on to concoct an easier way to accomplish what must be accomplished. I subscribe to this process, because, I’ll be danged if I’m going to call wasted-time and walk away.

Quote for the Week”

because, but, pride.

I’m the kind of person who’s reluctant to switch positions because a cat is on my lap.

Even if my knees are going numb. Or that stabbing shoulder pain starts up.

What makes me think I’m ready to switch anything?

Because, I want to.

Because, I’ve been thinking about it.

Because, thinking about it is half the battle.

The other side of that fight is dedicated to doing what you’re thinking about doing.

So, exercise seems like the best place to begin. Begin, again, that is.

I know I loved it when I did it. It’s an energizing / endorphin / accomplishment trifecta.

Walking the long way around to work grabs me 15 minutes in the morning and 15 in the afternoon. But, that’s only two days a week, and those two are in a row.

On the days I camp out in my home office, my intentions are good.

But, not good enough.

The other day, I optimistically set my alarm for 6:15 am. Plenty of time to treadmill, shower and eat breakfast before wandering into my home work space.

But, I was on Society6 until 11:50 pm uploading art; fooling around with store set-up.

But, the furry fiends woke me up at 4:30 am; yowling like starving banshees.

But, it was chilly; a cup of coffee sounded good.

But, I sat to sip; deciding multitasking email deletion could be accomplished.

But, I clicked an email; clicked a link and clicked another link.

But, when I finally wasn’t interested in the next article; I scrolled to the time screen.

But, it was 7:40 am; and damn.

But, I’m going to do what I used to do; when I wasn’t sure I was going to do something.

Declare.

If I tell you, then I have to. Even if you don’t care if I do.

Because, someday you might think to ask, “Hey, did you…?”

Because, the tiniest threat of someone pulling that loose string on the hem of my sweater dress that could, in fact, leave me bare when it all unravels; exposed as a non-achiever.

So, I psych myself out.

I can proudly do what I say or embarrassedly concoct another confession.

Who says pride is always a bad thing?

Quote for the Week:

What I Said Not What I Didn’t Say.

So, I’ll tell you, again. I have no idea who I was writing to.

I’m at a loss really. I’m not sure who I was addressing, but I have thought a lot about who I wasn’t addressing. The ministers covered so much about family and friends, without some of the more questionable parts, but still with enough give to allow for a watery smile or a grimaced chuckle.

I didn’t really decide to add humor to my thoughts. I wasn’t going for a lighten-up-the-atmosphere effect. I just did what I always do. Wrote in my speaking voice. I just wanted to say aloud to as many people as possible, to explain – the importance of him. And the importance of him + me.

I started out steady enough. Halfway through the second sentence, I strangled – I ran out air. I choked emotionally. I blinked the blurriness (that I refused to let fall) into evaporation, gulped and pushed out the rest in a very short-of-breath fashion.

I’m a little hard to understand on regular days. My natural tendency tends to cause confusion. Speaking softly was never a stylistic choice. I will make an effort to overcompensate when alerted to the need.

Much, like the sex-talk Nannee thought she and I had had, but hadn’t – soft speaker vs hard of hearing.

What I said next was similarly interpreted widely off the mark. Terribly misunderstood.

Yes, I had microphone. But, no. Apparently, that didn’t help.

I never fessed up.  

Some very important people in my life sought me out that afternoon to say that the words they thought I’d said had made an indelible impact on their hearts. Not in those words and not collectively, but there were 4 of them, plus 1. The first four were one right after another. The fifth was present for all of the others, but reserved comment for a bit.

Following the logic of lyric interpretation – in the old days, at least – when “so fine” was the precursor to “a bangin’ #ut#” – I respect creativity and adore the creators who, very sincerely, decline to explain their work.

What it means to you might be a world away from the aim. The important part is that it gave you something, whether intended or not. The gift is that it moved you, made you more determined, opened your eyes, changed your mind – for the better, for you, whatever.

Sometimes, there’s just no need to correct the notion.

Interpretation is a beautiful thing.

Quote for the Week: