"It's easier to die than to move ... at least for the Other Side you don't need trunks." - Wallace Stegner, Angle of Repose
Well crap. It's time to move again.
The apartment (and cheaper rent) we've been waiting for has, somewhat suddenly, become available, so I find myself thrust back into the always stomach-churning state of Moving. New place is in Berwyn, which is about a 30 minute drive from Chicago. It's sort of a blue collar pseudo-burb. It's also place that used to be home to the (now decommissioned) towering spindle of used cars, as featured in the cinematic classic Wayne's World. We have one month to get this mass of art supplies and animals over to the new place so I can put some color on the walls and set up house. I'll miss many things about Roscoe Village, but in truth I've just about had it with living in this close proximity to this many people, and their babies, and their cranky nannies, and their ubiquitously small white snarling yappy dogs.
My street is Stepford in Chicago. I don't really fit in here. The average female inhabitant of this neighborhood seems very much into fertility treatments and Italian double strollers, with already thin yoga-panted moms power walking fiercely night and day, so many sets of twins brandished in front of them of them all like spikes on the front of a demolition derby wreck. These shots are of Justin and Odile, but I'm always out there too, in pyjamas/sweats with blatantly unpresentable bedhead, not power walking, decidedly non-designer dog in tow on leash, sticking to the shade. Not terribly employed looking, for all my noodlings, and most of the time the mutt tows me. At least the rust and metal junk I find in the alleys here is amazing. I hope they have rusty junk in Berwyn. I'll bet they do.
|"I vant to be alone."|
Have I mentioned that people allergic to cats probably shouldn't buy anything from me? I try hard to keep my nip-addled miscreants away from the goods but every so often I'll be carding batts and reach into a bin for more fiber and find something like this. The lovely yet ferocious Eve does have a fine silvery pelt but I fear she wouldn't blend well in the drum carder.
My "to be listed" bins continue to fill with yarn and knitted things, and though I'm loath to list things on Etsy in a timely manner I have been working on some prototypes for possible new products like long knitted sleeves and shrugs. A person can only pack up house for so long each day, and when I'm done packing I sit and spin or knit.
Currently this happens while watching, or listening mostly, as knitters listen more than they watch, every episode of Sherlock over and over again, or catching up on the Jeremy Brett Sherlock Holmes series from the 80's. What can I say? Victorian-type sociopathic men are my anti-drug (so long as they're strictly fictitious). Needless to say the poster of Johnny Depp in From Hell drinking laudanum-laced absinthe in the bath will be hung solemnly in the next kitchen as well. Because apparently I think I'm still in college and that's it's still okay to put posters of cute actors up even though I'm married and in my 40's.
Here are these sleevey armwarmerey things (armwarmery??) I've started turning out that were actually inspired by an episode of Cadfael.
One of the medieval peasant extras was working in the background of a scene wearing what appeared to be cutoff sweater arms, scrunched way down around her wrists with tons of volume like those huge socks I've seen pictures of Japanese schoolgirls wearing. My version is evolving as an elongated V-shaped tube with some yarnover holes around the top to thread some type of decorative tie through, being at this stage a few long ribbons of nice shreddy sari silk.
Here's Justin's manly arm modeling one of them for us. Those whimsical silken streamers dangling down would go over great at his IT job, wouldn't they.
It hasn't been so long since turning out my most recent batch of the thick crazy wheel-spun art yarns, but as always when confronted with my empty drying rack, I feel guilt and self-reproach. My rack should always overfloweth, thusly.
I am going to miss my cobalt saturated bathroom with morphine blue x-mas lights and the opulence of my Light-Up Lenticular Lord to watch over my wooly endeavors as they dry after a nice dye or wash. His Omnipotent Effulgence will hang in the next bathroom, though, and adorn whichever obnoxious shade we decide to paint this time. Do Lively Fibers glow in black light? Indeed they do.
This shot pretty much sums up where my head is at, creatively. Yarn, lots of yarn, and oh, some beads creeping into frame.
|Beads? What beads? I've been spinning damnit.|
|Baby's first hammered wire in the faux-primitive bead faux-repairs here.|
Odile would like me to remind everyone that she is indeed neglected, mistreated and forlorn. Only half of the couch does she get, and innumerable massages per day. It's not enough, is it? Let us weep for this poor tortured and overburdened dog. She is clearly dogxausted from this long post.