A Snail's Pace

Holy mother of pearl, what the what.

Oh, I've been neglecting the blog dreadfully. I've been composing a photo-dump post, in my head, and I even found the cable thingy and attached the camera, and installed Picasa, and, well, that's as far as I got. 

I have about a million zillion projects that I've been trying to finish up--only recently did I manage to finish hemming a pair of pants for the Nick, a pair of pants that he asked me to hem (and got stashed on my sewing desk) before Halloween. This past weekend, I had whatever bug was going around, and was knocked flat on my kiester. For one day, when Grandma was able to hang out with the Monster, I even got to rest for a bit. (After dropping the lovely Monster off at Grandma's house, I stopped by the drugstore to pick up some necessities, and holy mackerel, don't try to go shopping when you are sick. That is one of the worst times for decision-making, and staring at a shelf full of granola bars while a dial tone goes off in your head, well, that's just a terrible idea.) I did rest. I frogged a baby sweater that wasn't ever going to get finished, and frankly, is too small for the recipient, and in between episodes of my favorite British murder and sci-fi shows that I dozed off to, I thought about my creative self. (The sewing desk was right in my eyeline, so that might have helped a bit.) This is what I came up with:

I can be crafty, but I must not expect anything faster than a snail's pace.

WHAT? I'll never get anything done at that pace!

Yes you will; you aren't the knitting Xeno.

You mean the Greek philosopher who stated that one cannot get from point A to point B because first, one must cross half the distance between the two points, and first half that distance, and the first half that distance and so on?

Yes, shut up, we all knew that because we are all educated here.

What do you mean, expect no more than a snail's pace?

I mean that I don't have time to screw off with, and also expect to accomplish anything. My time is now finite, and little. You know that.

Yes, that's true. There's not so much now.

And rather than be disappointed when I don't accomplish the impossible, I should expect the possible.

That's crazy talk!

Shut your face! You're the crazy one, talking to yourself all the time.

Yep, I'm the crazy one. I would roll my eyes at you, but there isn't a mirror handy.

Anyhow, snail's pace. I can accomplish a lot, but only a bit at a time.

So, you're giving yourself permission to pace yourself?

Essentially, yes, that's what I'm doing.

You picked an odd way to deliver that revelation. Seriously, this is pretty anti-climatic.

No it's not, and critiquing a work in the middle of a work isn't meta. It's annoying, and hackneyed, really.

Your face is hackneyed.

~~~

So. I can travel at a snail's pace, and it's okay. I'll get to where I need to go, and in the time that I have. I will work on my ADOS (Attention Deficit--ooh, shiny! as my sister jokes) and document my ideas when I get them. The thing is, I get excited about a thing, and want to do the thing OMG right then and drop everything else. So, I'll endeavor to document my ideas as I get them, and hopefully be able to organize them, and be able to come back to them when both the idea and myself are ready,

Foul, non sequitur*

So, I guess I wasn't quite back on the horse. This post will be a bit disjointed.

So sorry, Gentle Readers, to leave you hanging with no new writings. I've had some things to process, and then a holiday happened, and then another holiday happened, and well, I am a master procrastinator. But I'll tell you about that later.

 ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

There's an amazing amount of depressive procrastination that can set in when a project ends. It is rather amazing. It's almost like a post-partum of sorts (I have lady bits and manufactured a human with them, so I can say that). I devote so much of my time, energy, sanity and whole self to one thing for a certain amount of time, that when that thing is done or over, I almost don't know what to do with myself after that. I guess that it's a good thing that I can immerse myself into a project, and do it to the very best of my ability, but it gets exhausting. And then I need to work a full day, and care for the aforementioned small human. Who is bright and completely awesome, but still exhausting all on her own. Maybe I should start getting weekly lottery tickets.

 ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

One of the things that I am paying the piper for now is that I never really had a career path, not a 'practical' career path. I went to a vocational theater school, and then took accounting adult ed classes after getting laid off from a retail job, and cobbled together a bookkeeping background by working for my husband's family in their various ventures. Now I have all these ideas for things to do that I am passionate about, but I don't have any time at all to do them in, so I just have to hope that I want to work on them when the time is available. Inspiration doesn't have a long shelf life. I don't know that this creative frustration is a product of not having a piece of paper, or just a product of being a functioning adult who is contributing to society. Either way, creatively frustrated, and blaming it on lack of time to devote to all the ideas that are cropping up.

 ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Gah. Am writing this in a coffee shop--typical, I know, shut up--and my table is facing a table where there are couple of young kids studying. I've been staring over the top of my laptop screen while thinking, but it looks like I'm staring at them, and now I'm pretty sure that they think I'm a creeper. And I can't approach them and say 'hey, I totally wasn't staring at you, I'm just staring into space, and you happen to be right above my laptop screen, and I'm really not a creeper. Am I concerned because there is someone in this room who might not like me? Does it matter if a complete stranger, who I may never cross paths with again, has a less than stellar opinion of me, a complete stranger? This sounds like normal human stuff. I'll chalk it up to normal human stuff.

Also, IT'S FREEZING IN HERE. FREEZING. So, with that, until next time, Gentle Readers.

*If you didn't get this reference, please find Rosencrantz & Guildenstern Are Dead, the play by Tom Stoppard in either written or film form. As of this post publishing, the 1990 film is on Netflix. Seriously, go watch it.

Haven't given up the ghost completely...

...yet.

Hello again, gently readers.

I've been composing this post in my head for the past few days, and have been thinking about my poor, abandoned blog for even longer. I'll admit it, I was slightly embarrassed that after all my bluster that I had to let go of not one, but two projects. Boo hoo. Only not really.

So, a bit of a recap: there was a trash-fashion show that I competed in--I've been participating every year since it started, but this was the first one where I modeled.

bad cell phone photo

another bad photo of sleeves!

bustle!

And here's the finished outfit!

The first photos are poor quality, yes, but you get the gist, and this was the only photo I got of my complete outfit! I did not plan for documentation. Bad one on my part. Anyhow, the top is a bra with bottle caps (from across the country!), the corsety-bustier thing is out of heat-treated potato bags, and the skirt, bustle, veil,  and sleeves are made from onion bags.

I had been working away on this project despite my body deciding to not play fair: the week before I had some close contact with dogs that I don't know, I'm quite allergic to dogs and paid the price for that; and the week leading up to the show a cold decided that it was the perfect time to wage war. Side note: though zinc-heavy remedies can be super awesome, they make you feel fun-kay. Blech. That's why I hadn't been posting in the blog as much--I have super limited time after the monster goes to bed, and between allergic reations, colds, trashion shows, and, well, cats on the internet, I hadn't had a lot of time for blogging. Boo.

Now that the trashion show is over, I have been re-thinking my projects. I have a few irons in the fire, just in regular life, and I have been having doubts as far as adding another one to the pile. Of iron. So, I'm not. Adding one. To the fire. I've decided to not participate in NaNoWriMo.

What? you ask.  But you've been talking about that in your blog for a long time!

That's true. I have.

Are you the type of gal to string a reader on?

Maybe, but I don't try to be.

Why drop this one, and not one of the other 'irons' in your 'fire?' Hmm?

Well, a) I don't appreciate the tone you're taking with the quotes there, buddy. Watch it , or I might not let you ask any more questions.

Noted.

And b) it's more of a last in, first out kind of order. NaNoWriMo is the youngest project, so it can chill. I didn't register as a participant, so I'm not dragging down the success rate of the project. There are plenty of other people who will start and not finish.

You mentioned that you had let go of two projects, but you have more. Do you want to elaborate?

Not yet--some I can't expand on yet (SQUEE), and some I will, but in future posts. I can't blow my wad all at once--gotta keep it going for a little while, eh?

What does abandoning projects that you speak about publicly do to your reputation on your blog?

Nuthin. Key phrase is 'your blog.' (How do you like them quotes now?) My blog, my rules. This interview is OVER.

Don't worry, gentle reader: since this exchange happened in my head, I totally flipped over the imaginary table. That's the only way to end an interview like that.

And that's the end of my post. Only time will tell if I'm actually back on the horse.

A list of things

1. The Russians are over taking the stats! Not that there is anything wrong with Russia, or the fine people that make up that country, I merely find it highly suspect that my relatively new blog could be so enticing to more people in Russia than in the US, where this blog is authored. Are a Russian reader, or a reader from somewhere outside the US? Leave a comment. You'll get a prize. For real-real, not for play-play.

2. I wrote a thing that seemed to take a lot out of me last time. It was good to write, but I let it be an excuse to not come back to the blog. So sorry. Done with that excuse for now.

3. National Novel Writing Month is coming up, and quickly too. I should really spend some time thinking about what I want to write 50,000 words about. Maybe catfish. Or wingnuts. Or maybe I spend some time.

4. I have been putting off chopping kindling and making fire starters. I really should get on that and get a good stock pile going while we still have our late summer. October will be chilly, and will be here before we know it.

5. Fall is coming! The pears will be ripe soon, then the apples, then the pumpkins! I have a lot of canning in my future. Hopefully.

Alright, that will do for now. I'm now back up on the horse.

Beaux reves.

I may have found a soap box...

Blag. Blarg. Blughugablugablug.

I am absolutely blocked. 

Wait, no, that's hyperbole. I have all of these ideas of what to write about, but they all require research. By the time that I have a couple of moments, after the darling monster has gone to bed, and I've pretended to clean up after dinner and maybe thought about starting a load of laundry or even the dishwasher, I am wiped out. I have so many ideas about what I want to do, for this space, and elsewhere, but no time at all. 

Growing up, we heard from so many sources that we needed to follow our hearts or dream big or that you are all unique (no I'm not--for the Python fans) or some other Disney-esque bullshit that's fed to children now. We learned through TV and magazines and any other form of media that we could get our sticky little paws on that we were all special shining stars and that all we had to do was be special and special things would happen to our special selves, if only we would believe. Can you tell that I think that's bunk?

What did that do for me? I can't tell you, but I can tell you that, though I might have believed at one point, that I was a special snowflake of a shining star, I don't believe anymore. I'll leave behind my unrealistic expectations of actual adult life behind and take a good dose of reality. You don't always get to follow your special star to your special place. Not when there's rent and a car payment and shoes and food and, and, and. Someone has to do the dirty jobs, and I can tell you that cleaning up funky toilets in hotel rooms isn't anyone's big dream.

I guess what I am getting to, in quite a round-about, unintended soap-boxy fashion, is that I need to learn to make this, right now, my special-snowflake-shining-star place. Not having any time, running around, chasing a darling monster needs to be my special place. And I will come to terms with that.

~~~~
Holy zombie jesus, that got a bit maudlin.
I will say, for context's sake, I have my Pandora set to Dengue Fever, and a very sad-sounding song was on, Amorino by Isobel Campbell. I think that had something to do with the direction of this post. Ack. I'm going to bed now.

Faites de beaux rêves, mes petits choux.

this one is the quick post

This will be a quick post. I said that to myself last night, and that dug a little bit deeper than I had anticipated.

I got to meet and spend time with a new person, not connected with work, or something that I was obligated to do, and had a great time. I had forgotten what that was like. My life has gotten so full of necessary obligations that when I had a chance to slow down and spend time with friends and meet new people, I jumped at that.

I forgot how invigorating it can be to spend time with folks you click with, on personal and creative levels.

In other words, I had a nice evening. And now, I am ready for bed.

Faire de beaux rêves, mes chéris.

changing things up a bit

I've let my blogs go fallow for too long, so here I come with the roto-tiller.

I've wanted a lot of different things in my life and I haven't been able to successfully achieve them for some reason or another, but mostly because I haven't done anything about it. Here I am doing something. What I want this time (or really, have wanted for a long time, but haven't done much toward) is to be a writer. How do you get to be a writer? You write.

That's the thing about writing. You don't need a whole lot to become a writer, but there is one thing that you must do, and that is actually write. Put pen to paper, or fingers to keyboard, and write. Not think about it, or talk about it, but actually do.

The doing is the hardest part for me.

I am a terrible (or wonderful) procrastinator. I could list my excuses and give them more validation, but I won't do that. I am going to make this pledge here, on my public but not viewed space, to endeavor to write. To endeavor to write every day. To do something productive, instead of getting lost in cat pictures and 'liking' facebook posts.

Here's my talk. We'll see what the walk entails tomorrow.

Until then, bon nuit, mes petits choux.