Changes in Attitude

Well, I think it may have happened. My brother is sleeping on the bed in my living room. I hate to see it, but you know, he's my baby brother, after all. There's worse places for him to be. No further comments. We'll get all that sorted out later.

So....

A lot has changed in the last few weeks. I cannot get my head around the fact that in two months (less than two months, really) I will be leaving the area, hopefully for good. I will miss all these people around here, the hills and secretive hideaways that have been, for so many years, my home, but the time has come for something new. I'm moving in with Cody, starting school, and leaving behind me this job and life that I've been living, in exchange for something new. Bully for me.

On a lighter note, I've been sewing more and more here lately. Examples include:




Now, I know that I'm the world's worst when it comes to procrastination. But I'm going to try to get better about posting blog entries, writing about the twists and turns my life is taking, and, once I get moved in in Little Rock, getting my handsome boyfriend to do a fashion shoot for me. I've been stenciling and making t-shirts like a man possessed, and the only reason I am not currently sewing a creature is that I have run out of the little plastic beads that I use for weighting their feet. Yesterday I did a painting, and it seems like wherever I turn, I'm finding inspiration.

For as long as I can remember, I've been doing this. Ideas, slippery little things that they are, come and go, and I am increasingly eager to catch them. I credit Chris for this, and it's on this point I must digress for a moment.

Last week, I had a dream. I wound my way to a dead woman's house, somewhere way out in the sticks, and found a low-roofed mobile home filled with boxes. I started digging, when all of a sudden, I felt a presence behind me. I whirled around, and found myself face to face with an old lady, dressed in white with a huge grin on her face. She held up her hand, then began rummaging through the boxes. She knew what she was looking for.

Suddenly, she stood up, holding out a white skirt. It was short, about mid-thigh length, with a high waist and crisp pleats. She let me look at it, then snatched it away again, writing on the back of it with long, scrawling strokes. She gave it back, then took me by the shoulders and smiled. Her eyes were radiant, the brightest blue I'd ever seen. She vanished.

The next day (or maybe the day after, I can't remember), my mother came in to see me at work, and she had a little wooden box.

"Miss Nancy's been going through the stuff at her friend's apartment," she said, pushing it across the counter. Nancy is her neighbor. Nancy's friend, Chris, was in assisted living, and died a couple of weeks ago. I didn't know what to expect, only that I was getting a gift from a dead woman. The box had a palette, palette knives, paintbrushes, turpentine, and a little clip-on bowl for putting turpentine on the side of the palette. At this point, I had no inkling of doing any painting. My gesso has sat in my cupboard for well over eight months, and I have never experimented with oils. But, a sign is a sign, and lo, I sat down yesterday and did a project. I have never had so much fun with paint. So Chris, wherever you are, my dear, I say thanks, and more thanks.

~namaste

Alchemy

Call me crazy, but the new boyfriend has got me thinking fashion again. Yeah, yeah, so I'm twitterpated. But he's amazing. And inspirational.

I'm wondering.....see, I know a lot about magic. Not Disney magic, but magic from history. The alchemists, the Druids, the rune-readers of the frigid north: all of these have fascinated me through the years, and I'm thinking that should be where I'm pulling my images for graphics and logos. A kind of pop magic, if you will, urban wizardry. These symbols are so much a part of our culture, a part of human culture, but still foreign to us in our supposedly more enlightened age.

The alchemists, in particular, fascinate me. Here was a group of men dedicated to the impossible, men seeking after a fever dream of immortality and boundless wealth. They laid the foundations, in a way, for our modern understanding of the universe........

On another note, I have been drinking green tea at the rate of four cups every two hours. What's going on here?

Dark have been my dreams of late....

In my dreams, heaven and hell are the same place. Hell is a restaurant, staffed by picky eaters, poor tippers, and rotten, impatient rude customers. Heaven is getting to go and eat at that restaurant.

I think everyone should have to work on the wrong side of a restaurant counter for about two weeks at some point in their lives. No exceptions. It would make us think long and hard about the shit we put our servers through.

"Could you go light on the mustard?"

"I would like that lightly toasted."

"Are you sure you can't do breakfast? It's really easy...."

"Could you make that extra crispy?"

"Leave off the bell peppers...."

"Could you put that on the side for me?"

"Timmy, tell the man what you want..."

"It's how much?!?!"

I'm gonna address that last one specifically:

Listen, you senile old fuck: at some point between 1950 and 2010, inflation happened and prices went up. We are not trying to screw you out of your pension. We are not hiding food or menu items. And, while we're at it, if you want to be waited on hand and fucking foot, learn where the tip jar is and how to use it, you miserable, cheap sack of shit. I didn't just cook dinner for you and your pack of yowling grandchildren just for kicks.

As for the rest:

Fuck you. If there is one thing on this earth that I cannot understand, it's a picky eater. I just don't get it. It's food. Shut up and eat it. Why is it that we feel the need to assert our individuality by making people's lives a living hell? If you have to give a server ten minutes worth of instruction before they can take your food to the kitchen, then do us all a favor and stay the fuck at home. A bell pepper will not kill you. You are not gonna die if you get a teeny bit too much salad dressing.

Learn to cook for yourself.

Here's another pet peeve: if you're gonna call in an order to a restaurant, know what you want before you pick up the phone. Don't keep someone on the phone while you wait for dad to get out of the bathroom so he can tell you what he wants on his burger. I am so sick of hearing people yelling across the house.

"HEY, JOHN! WHAT DO YOU WANT ON YOUR BURGER?"

"WHAT DO THEY HAVE?"

"What do you have?"

"WE HAVE THE SAME STUFF YOU'VE BEEN GETTING ON A BURGER SINCE YOU WERE OLD ENOUGH TO EAT SOLID FOOD!!!! Could we please hurry up with this order? I've got ten customers waiting impatiently at the counter."

When I stand in a line at a restaurant, I spend the time figuring out what I want to eat, so that by the time I get to the counter, I can make my order quickly and get the hell out of everyone else's way. Some people have no grasp of this concept. When they get to the counter, they suddenly realize they're in a restaurant, and their brains completely lock up. What do I do? What do I do? In desperation, they say the one thing that comes to mind, and it's the most irritating question you can hear at that point:

"What's good?"

or:

"Tell me what I want to eat" (usually accompanied by a nervous laugh).

I don't know what you want to eat. I don't have time to make recommendations. Besides, people who ask that question know what they want nine times out of ten. They want their minds read, and that one specific thing pulled out by a stranger who has to guess.

I won't say that I'm innocent of all this. I will not open myself up to accusations of hypocrisy. I will instead just say this:

I have worked the wrong side of the fast food counter. I know what it's like.

I will eat whatever is set in front of me, whether or not I ordered it, as long as it's not burnt beyond recognition or obviously spoiled.

I know what I want when I get to the counter.

I don't ask stupid questions.

And if, by chance, I should get on your nerves, or ask a stupid question, just remember: my minimum tip is usually 25%.

Love,

Paden

Okay!

A lot has happened since the last time I posted, as you may have guessed by the length of time that's passed. (What the hell happened to February?) Well, I had a lot of time to do some thinking, and a whole lot of cooking. Not to mention the knitting. My god, the knitting. I have gone on another sock kick, but we're not here to talk about socks.

I think that it's time to widen the depth and breadth of this blog. It's all well and good talking about my creature creations, but it gets old for me pretty quickly, to be honest with you. So I'm thinking about branching out, perhaps a little farther than I already have.

See, I work in a kitchen in a retirement community. That really opens up a lot of windows. I live in a small town, I read way too much for my own good, and even, occasionally, write a little something here and there. It's not much, but it's my life. I also love taking pictures.


I'm going to play this one by ear.

Oh, and the boyfriend is out of the picture. I can't really say that I'm too sorry to see him go. I learned a lot from him, but the time came for us to move on, and I have tried and tried to make that abundantly clear to him, but he' just not getting it. I wish I could fix that, but god knows we can't control anyone else's life.



Anyway, moving on (and I am trying), I went into Shirley, the town where I went to high school, and took a look around. I haven't spent a lot of time there over the last few years, so I thought I would take my camera down and have a look around. I have to say, the experience was unique. Quite apart from the fact that quite a bit has changed around town, there was also the plain and simple fact that I was seeing the town through fresh eyes for the first time, and my god, it was beautiful. Despite the clouds. And the recent rain. Not to mention the constant string of cars headed for more exciting destinations like....Mountain View? I don't know. All I know is that the pictures turned out great.....



Anyway, I'm rambling...the sleeping pill will kick in any minute, and leave me dozing until my alarm wakes me at a godawful hour. I'm going hiking tomorrow afternoon. I love you all!

~namaste

Some explanation is in order....

Here we go again.

I have not been writing enough. There's a reason. Their names are Schemp, Divvy, Cassie, and Chandler. They're greyhounds, beautiful greyhounds, magnificent dogs, but they took a big chunk out of my week because I was dog-sitting. I don't have a picture of Schemp. (He's a little camera-shy.)

So really, between Thursday, January 7th and Tuesday, January 19, I slept in my own bed a grand total of zero days. I went to see Lolo (more on him later...) and spent a night with Vicki, stayed with my dad for two days while the snow came down (more on THAT next paragraph) and then went to see Lolo again. Then I got called in a day early to sit with the dogs, got off Sunday afternoon, went on my first official date with Lolo, stayed through Monday (had an AMAZING weekend) and came home with a wonderful, sweet, adorable new boyfriend.

Snow. Snow. Snow. What can I say about the snow? Every year, the same thing happens in Fairfield Bay. The first snow falls, more than we expected, and we act like it's the first time it's ever snowed anywhere. Nothing was really ready, and the city had changed the snow route so that it went down a winding hill, a wandering deathtrap that ended with a five-foot drop into icy water at the bottom of a steep, un-snow-plowable hill. What geniuses they are. It was more like a sadistic joke than a safety measure. On top of that, everyone panics and wants to get out on the road to see the scenery and raid the local convenience store (us) for milk and bread. By ten, I was telling people that there was no safe route out of Fairfield Bay, that whoever designed the snow routes should be caned without mercy, and that yes, we were indeed open.

I spent two days with my dad, time well spent. We had a great time. I watched something like sixteen hours of Star Trek: Voyager and knitted two or three hats before crawling off to bed, muttering something about 'needs of the many...'

As for Lolo...

Only time will tell. All I can say right now is that I miss him terribly. He's a beautiful guy, inside and out. I want to say goodnight to him for a long time.

Enough sentimentality. Here's what I look like this morning, with no shower and a new haircut... Don't I just look radiant? A little ray of sunshine.

~namaste

Art!

Downward to the Cave...

This is another piece from my journal...not necessarily crafting-related, but interesting nonetheless...

I have wandered

The woods that I have known

Since I was a child.

When I was young (and the world spun along

a perfect circle),

I had a recurring dream:

Digging into the earth,

I found a treasure,

Long hidden,

Safely kept.

That dream is coming true. The more time I spend in that space, the more I realize that my childhood has been hidden from me, by me--I have buried a great deal of myself somewhere in that secretive valley. There's a mutability to the landscape that I had never noticed before--it was fixed in my mind when I left it behind ten years ago, and there it has stayed ever since. A part of me still goes, 'This was here yesterday!' A part of me is still that wondering, wandering child, asking, 'Why?'

Among the rocks, there is something waiting. I hope it's me.

Hidden away in a valley that is almost vertical, there stands a cave. It's not impressive for anything other than the fact that it exists, and it will not always. In a hundred thousand years, it will not be there. It's not impressively deep. It's not spectacularly beautiful. It's a shallow hollow in the rocks, filled with moss and the excrement of the pigeons that nest up in the roof. But it is a sacred place for me. The valley is a challenge. In the ten lost years, the landscape has radically altered, after a torrential flood and a tornado leveled the trees for miles around, making what was once a pleasantly challenging hike a trial.

I want so badly to bring somebody else to the cave, to show them a new thing, as I was shown it, many, many moons ago. I want them to see it, when the wildflowers are in bloom, when there is green all around.

While I'm wishing,and speaking of changes, I want Biscuit back. I miss hiking with him. He was a Feist (sp?), a little black squirrel dog with soulful brown eyes, short legs, and a beaver tail. He was a free yard sale dog, always eager for love and attention. It's hard, the first time you realize that your pets aren't going to be there forever. I wasn't there when Dixie went. I wasn't there when Biscuit went. I miss them. That house, that place just isn't the same without them. A walk in the woods isn't the same.

I want to see the spring again, and the creek, through the eyes of a child. I want my childhood back. What have I left buried? I have divested myself of so much that I just dismissed as unnecessary--what awaits me among the unassuming trees?