This is supposed to be a blog, and blogs are supposed to be like diaries, and “bloggers,” (ugly word) are supposed to blog once or twice a day or something ridiculous like that, with the plan of selling an actual book to our “followers” some day.
Whoever invented this definition, did not have children. Though I have not been blogging, I have been writing, finishing a novel for the second time, in spite of the broken legs, dental disasters, and stomach parasites that have been out to get my family in the last eleven months.
And I’ve been sewing very little, just enough to finish something. It’s so nice to think of only the next stitch, instead of thinking about how to make all the words in a novel roar and grumble perfectly to each other. So much of the writing of the past can be accused of being light and merely entertaining because life was pretty dark before the invention of antibiotics and anesthesia. So nice to think of something merely nice.
I’m having difficulty coming up with a better name for this fur and velvet stole. It was the damndest thing to photograph, with the glare off the gold brocade and the furry blacknes
It looks like the kind of dark and elaborate thing that would be getting fusty in great Aunt Maud’s trunk. Its genesis was in the Red Velvet Waterfall or Vagina Scarf, which didn’t keep me warm enough at one particular writers conference. But what could keep you warm enough in a hotel basement that was itself wrapped in a thousand miles of Saskatchewan winter?
Not even Aunt Maud would know.
This stole was made from leftovers. I had to do something with all the black and purple roses that didn’t fit on my Poem Coat (not digitally revealed yet). I had to do something with the scraps from my Ukrainian Baba’s Persian lamb. Excuses, I know, from a compulsive maker of stuff.
And hoarder of stuff, too. I bought the fuchsia brocade East Indian camise and blue-green velvet dress just for the material. When you work in collage, you have to first have material at hand. I save crazy things like the buckles and straps off of sandals I’ve revised, later to rivet them to some other article of clothing.
But what exactly am I going to do with the white mink pillbox hat I got for five dollars?
I’ll wear Aunt Maud to the choir Christmas party after we sing Halleluiah.