Busting Out the Sewer

Once upon a time I made a quilt.

Here's a close up of the moon face. He looks kind of mean. Like he's planning something malicious. I think it's the angle of his eye. And his nose. Meanie face.

Other than Mr. Meanie Face Moon needing an attitude adjustment, I'm pretty proud of this quilt. I made it senior year of high school and it's the first one I did entirely on my own. I did the cutting, sewing, quilting, and binding. I had made quilts of various sizes previous to this but they were done with the help of my grandmother.
 
My parents gave me a sewing machine when I graduated high school. A really nice sewing machine. I haven't used it much since I got it. Mostly I was busy with other things and what free time I had wasn't spent sewing.

I've decided it's high time I get back in to sewing and quilting. I recently took a skirt sewing class with my sistas. It was necessary to become reacquainted with my trusty sewing machine, which was the purpose of the class. It doesn't matter what I told myself; without the class, I probably wouldn't have busted out my sewer for months and months.

Even with my skirt class, it's likely my sewer would have fallen back asleep under a cozy blanket of dust. Luckily, I have an awesome Ma. Ma came home from the grocery store a little bit ago, proudly bearing a quilting magazine that she had picked up just for me. She brings home food magazines a few times a year, but a quilting magazine is completely unprecedented.

It was a sign. Sewing and I were fated to be good friends again. In the spirit of following fate, I dug through the clutter in the sewing room and came up with this:

I did this block fall of my first year of college. It's a paper-pieced quilt block, which isn't my favorite method but I loved the rose it created. I have a whole pile of fabric in an assortment of colors ready to be turned into roses.

It's about time they fulfilled their destiny, don't you think?

PS I found the pattern for my paper-pieced rose quilt in a book at OPL. That place is a mine of crafty information.

When I was a child I walked like a doof.

I have memories of my mother telling me to walk like a princess. The most vivid, specific memory I have of this happened as we were walking into church. I was four or five years old at the time. I don't remember exactly what I was wearing, but I'm sure it was a flouncy dress with ruffled socks and tiny mary janes. I do remember the frustration and annoyance I felt, and also the determination.

I had a habit of flitting about on my toes, only occasionally using my heels, and only after my toes had already hit the ground. Ma took great pains to assure me that princesses didn't walk like that. It was apparently well known that a princessly stride always went from heel to toe and that walking heel to toe was the mark of a true princess. I was determined to be a princess, however silly I considered their walk.

(Had I been smart I could have simply changed my ambitions from princess to fairy. Fairys are supposed to flit about. There would have been no need to change my walk.)

After much berating and bribing and frustration on both our sides, Ma no longer had to chide me with reminders to "walk like a princess." I walked heel to toe without being told.

As I grew older and my feet grew larger, and thus more capable of annoying noises, it became obvious I hadn't developed the the graceful, womanly walk Ma had hoped for. Instead, my walk was more akin to a heel-splat, heel-splat. I suppose it's not that surprising my walk turned out that way since walking heel-toe was a deliberate act for me. There's a lot of foot between the heel and the toe. How else can you walk heel to toe unless you aim for the toe with everything you have in you?

Heel-splat, heel-splat.

I remember various times through my junior high, high school, and college years when my mother encouraged me to walk less with a heel-splat and more with a heel-roll off the foot. I didn't pay much attention. I wasn't bothered by my splatty way of walking. There was also a sense of justice in my mother disliking my walk. It came about due to her persistent meddling, after all.

This past winter, working off the theory that if I develop a better walk I'll have a better run, I spent a few days here and there concentrating on walking with less splattiness. I didn't seem to achieve much more than tired, achy legs. Since I wasn't consistent or frequent about it, I figured these rare days of concentrating on my walk hadn't done anything.

That is until yesterday, when I wore heels instead of boots for the first time in months. I can say without a doubt that I walk differently now than I did several months ago, though I'm sure it's not enough to be noticeable.

However insignificant the change in my walk is, it's apparently significant enough to require learning to walk in heels all over again. I tried to fall out of my heels nearly half a dozen times in the four hours I was wearing them, and most of that time I was sitting.

Co-Dependently Wealthy

I've been planning for years and years and years to be independently wealthy. I've never been quite sure how I was going to get there, but it was going to happen. Me and independent wealth go together like almond butter and bananas. It was just meant to be.

Assuming I live to be quite old, I'm a quarter of the way through my life and nowhere near independent wealth. It's official. I don't know how to get there.

What do you do when you can't do something on your own? You get help, of course.

Luckily I have an awesome friend in Lindsay B. She suggested that instead of fruitlessly pursuing independent wealth, I should focus my efforts on co-dependent wealth. She generously offered to be co-dependently wealthy with me.

Two heads are better than one, they say. Co-dependent wealth will be far more achievable than independent wealth.

I Want to be Guy

I have never had any desire to go to Sante Fe. I've actually never had any desire to go to New Mexico. And then came Guy.

I saw this segment on "Diners, Drive-ins, and Dives." When they were first talking about the food it didn't seem to be anything special. Delicious, yes. Special, not so much. And then they started talking about how they prepare their food. I'm just about dying with want of going there. If I had a bucket list, this would be on it. Near the top. Probably in the no. 1 spot.

It wouldn't be too bad of a drive. According to google maps it would be about ten and a half hours. Not only is it not too long of a drive, the journey would take me through parts of this great land that I haven't seen. It's all about patriotism, I tell you. Getting to know my country.

Doesn't it look like great fun?

Ten and a half hour drive for smoked salmon quesadillas—totally worth it.

PS Really, I want to be Guy. How is it that he managed to snag himself a job where he flies around the country eating amazing food? Best job ever.

PPS Is there anything else worth seeing in Sante Fe? Not likely. It is New Mexico. I suppose that means I would be taking a nice, hearty road trip just for the food. Sounds fantastic, doesn't it?

I have ten weeks left in my school term (of six months). I have eight and a half courses left in my master's degree program. I'm planning on taking care of that pesky half tonight. That means that if I average about a course a week, I can finish my coursework by the end of the my term. Then, if I take two months for my degree capstone project, I will finish my two-year master's degree program in the hoped for eight months.

This is happening.

After all, believing is the first and, for me, most important step to becoming.

PS I need to begin believing in my ability to drink water when I'm working from home. It is not uncommon for me to drink 80oz of water during the work day when I'm in the office. At home I generally don't drink water at all while I'm working. Today was a work from home day. In an attempt to cure a headache that's been lingering since Saturday, I decided to drink some water. I've guzzled about 40oz in the past half hour. Thirsty? Maybe just a little.

PPS According to Wikipedia, a healthy body can process 1 litre (about 34oz) of water in an hour. Whoops.

You Can't Keep a Ma Down

I was supposed to be in Portland this weekend. My cute cousin is taking her own 18-month hiatus in Budapest, Hungary, and I was going to wish her well.

My plans changed when my mother became frighteningly unwell and was admitted for emergency surgery. Thank goodness for emergency surgery. She's fine now. Pa, the Little Sister, and Grandmother went off to Portland as planned. I was charged with making sure Ma didn't put herself back in the hospital, a rather difficult job. Each day is full of negotiations.

Ma, you shouldn't do that. You need to rest.
But I think that I should . . .
No.
But I need to . . .
No.
Okay, I'm just going to . . .
No.
Fine, fine. I won't do this, but I have to do this other thing.

On and on and on.

I do get some small satisfaction each night when Ma, sitting on the couch resting herself and her eyes, mumbles something about having tried to do too much that day.

Oh really, Ma?

She almost got me yesterday. She asked if I would go fabric shopping with her today. Without thinking I said yes, but then remembered and scolded her. I did promise her that if she was a good girl and spent all day today doing nothing but resting (she did negotiate for three coke runs), I would go fabric shopping with her on Tuesday.

So far she's stuck to her word, but only because she hasn't yet ventured beyond her bedroom. The good news is I inherited my mother's indomitable will. Let the negotiations begin.

I have a new study plan. And it works awesome.

It goes like this:

1. Sleep in Saturday morning.
2. Roll out of bed round about 7:30
3. Turn on the Hallmark channel
4. Watch hours worth of cheesy, ridiculous Hallmark channel original movies (those things are so hilarious, I just love them)
5. Do school work as I mostly don't watch the movies

I get through a surprising amount of school work this way. The best part is mostly I don't feel like I'm studying much at all.

Today is Pi Day.

Pretty much one of the most important days of the year. Really, this world runs on math and physics. It's about time more of us celebrated math.

We celebrated Pi Day in my eighth grade math class once. Everybody brought in something round to eat and we measured either the diameter or circumference of everything brought in and calculated what we didn't measure (either the diameter or the circumference) using pi. Probably my favorite day in math class. Ever.

I am sure that most of my eight grade classmates haven't thought of Pi Day since.

I've been celebrating Pi Day with my family since I was twelve or thirteen (long before Miss Eighth Grade Math Teacher came along; okay, not that long before, but I felt wise for knowing what Pi Day was before she explained it to the class). Our Pi Day celebrations seem to get more and more fantastic every year. The last couple years in particular have been Pi Days worth remembering: at least half a dozen different kinds of pie, usually closer to a dozen, with either pizza or chicken pot pie for dinner and oodles or family and friends to help us eat it all.

This year, I'm not even sure we'll be eating pie for Pi Day. I'm certainly not making any pie tonight. I'm booked from the time I get home from work until after 8:00. Ma, the other serious pie maker, is getting over an illness and probably not up to making hordes of pie, or even one pie. The Little Brother occasionally dabbles in pie making (his crusts are fantastic), but he's rather busy with the end of the semester coming up. As far as I know, not a single person has been invited to partake of pie with us.

So I celebrated Pi Day in my own way this year. I purchased a tiny, single serving, round vegetable tray and ate up all the vegetables. I was going for eating 314% of my veggie tray, but I was short about 214%. Maybe I'll be more up to eating 314% next year, eh?

I think a miniature, single serving vegetable tray is a perfect replacement for eating pie. After all, I managed to eat all my vegetables. I have yet to eat an entire pie.

Eugene

Great Uncle Eugene passed away yesterday. He will be sorely missed by everyone that knew him.

As I was thinking over the last several years I discovered that each moment I spent with him was precious. There wasn't any time that being with him didn't mean something.

I could write thousands upon thousands of words but there's nothing I could say that would help you know Eugene in the way I did, so I'll keep it simple.

Eugene was good and kind and generous. He was forever smiling and only saw the potential in people. Time spent with Eugene was time spent learning a little bit more about who I hoped to be one day.

Goodbye, Eugene. I will love you forever and always.

July 2007

On Creativity

I recently read Matched, by Ally Condie. It's been popular since it was first published. It's a dystopian novel that takes place, interestingly, in the not too distant future. The government is called simply the Society, with "officials" in positions of rank.

What I found most interesting about this particular dystopian society (fiction has presented us with many possibilities as to how a dystopian society could take shape) is the notion of the 100 best. In the beginning, when the Society was being formed, it was decided that there was too much in the world. It was impossible to focus on or appreciate anything. The Society, being the fabulous problem solvers that they are, formed committees that were tasked with selecting the 100 best. Everything else was destroyed.

(I can't imagine how devastating being selected to work on that committee would be. To be selected for such a task would require that you have an intimate knowledge of the are and all its best works. To select some over others? My heart would break.)

The Society gave the people full access to  the 100 best songs, the 100 best poems, the 100 best paintings. But there was nothing more beyond that.


Creativity is not a part of the Society. They already have the 100 best. Nothing more that is going to be created could ever be better than what they have. Why create?

Nobody in the Society seems to mind. For most of them, the thought of creating something original has never occurred to them. Perhaps it has something to do with the reasoning they have as the Society for why everything was destroyed but the 100 best. Perhaps it has something to do with the people that chose to be part of the Society (did they choose?). To me, it seems unrealistic.

People, all people, are constantly changing and growing. Nothing in the Society allows for this. It is completely stagnant. I don't believe it could really maintain itself at all. People may be easily led, but there are thousands upon thousands that would give everything, even their life, to maintain the right to create. How could such a Society even be established? After it's establishment, it could not maintain itself. Humanity is innovative. People are natural creators.


I was reading another book recently: The Alchemyst (The Secrets of the Immortal Nicolas Flamel), by Michael Scott. This book has been very popular and I enjoyed reading it. Except that I found it mildly disturbing. It took me a few days of ponderous thought after to discover the source of my disturbance.

In writing his book, Mr. Scott pulled on mythology and legends from all over the world. In doing so, he debased humanity and it's ability to create, imagine, and grow.

The two protagonists, twins Sophie and Josh, begin the novel as two normal teenagers but quickly become immersed in the the world of the mythical and legendary. As part of this immersion they learn that various traditions, pieces of knowledge, or even ways of life were not discovered or created by humans but are humanities imperfect attempts at recreating what they saw a higher being do. Creation and innovation is not a trait of humanity but is attributed to the higher beings that once occupied and ruled the earth, similar to how humans do now.

There is one innovation that Mr. Scott attributes solely to the ingenuity of humanity. That is the creation of iron. Iron, as it turns out, is deadly and destructive to the higher beings. Humanity apparently has some ability to create, but that creative ability leads to destruction so poignant even the nearly indestructible greater beings can't stand against it.

The debasing of humanity was neither the overall theme of the book nor, I believe, Mr. Scott's intention. I admire Mr. Scott for pulling the ideas together and making connections where before they weren't any. However, I do not like that Mr. Scott makes humans the pretenders and the destroyers.

I read another book with interesting ideas about creativity. I did not read this book recently, nor am I entirely sure I finished the entire book. I believe I did because I recall being unsatisfied with the story as a whole and the ending specifically.

The book is called Magician: Apprentice and was written by Raymond E. Feist. This book was first published in 1982 and is considered a classic in fantasy. During the course of the novel, the protagonist, Pug, finds himself in a society in which creativity has completely ceased. There are still masters of the arts, but they become masters because they are able to perfectly replicate what has already been done. This society has peaked.

Through means not quite natural, the well-being of this society becomes an inescapable part of Pug's efforts. Because Pug was raised in another society, he is able to see the lack of creativity somewhat objectively. There comes a point in the novel when Pug participates in a gathering of some sort, a meeting of people important to the governing of this society (I don't quite remember; it's been quite some time since I read it).  Pug points to the death of the society. They have ceased to progress. Without progress there is only digression and destruction. The society, in not too much time, will fall apart.

Creativity, according to Mr. Feist, is the essence of humanity, the source of progress, the viability of a society.

This is a take on creativity I appreciate. Miss Condie's dealings with creativity and humanity seem artificial. Mr. Scott's seems unthought (I hope) and debasing. Mr. Feist's seems far more true to the relationship between humanity and creativity.

I feel like now I should present you with some great moral on creativity. I don't have one. What I do have is months of thought on creativity and my own relationship to it. Most of the thoughts are too unformed to share but there is one that stands out.

I am creative.

And guess what? You are, too.

Priorities

I find this inspiring.

To think of finding something you love so much when you're that young and to spend the rest of forever doing it. That seems perfectly unattainable to me.

I wrote out a list of my priorities a few days ago. I find it almost embarrassing how clarifying this simple exercise was.

Totally doable, right? Focus. That's all I need.

I believe in myself. I believe in my ability use my time wisely so that I can be happy with what I choose to become.

This is happening.

In the spirit of focusing on my priorities and spending time doing what is important to me, I met dear friend M.C. at OPL for the first night of Orem Writes. It was a fiction panel with Stephen Tuttle, Anita Stansfield, and Dean Hughes. (You can read her account of the evening here.) I wasn't sure I wanted to go to this panel because of the participants. My style and subject matter is vastly different than Mrs. Stansfield's, though I admire both her productivity, her ability to find a unique niche that went perfectly with her writing, and her confidence. While I admire Dean Hughes as a writer, his style and approach to writing seemed to be different than my own. Though the name Stephen Tuttle sounded familiar, I wasn't sure who he was or what he wrote (though after seeing him and hearing him, I swear I know him from somewhere).

Though I wasn't sure about the value of such an evening with these participants, it seemed silly to miss this opportunity when just a few days before I had promised myself that writing was going to be a priority. Also, how similar my writing is to theirs does have any bearing on how much I could learn from them. So off I went to the library with my writing notebook and pen in hand.

It was stupendous. Truly. I'm so glad I went. Here are some of the things that I found particularly inspiring or meaningful:

Inspiration for a story can come from anywhere, including other fiction. It begins with a character or a situation or maybe an event. The story comes as you explore what came before and what comes after.

Mrs. Stansfield related writing a story to an iceberg. As an author, it's important that you know the whole story, that you are aware of the entire iceberg, both the stuff above the water and the stuff below. The reader only needs the tip, but you as the writer must know the rest of it. (That whole tip of the iceberg above water with most of it below seems to make it a great metaphor for a lot of things.) Mr. Tuttle said something similar in that when he writes, he often gets rid of the first few paragraphs or pages, and the last few. It's the middle part that is important for the reader.

To make writing a part of your life, you have to make it a priority. As Mr. Tuttle said, there are always reasons not to write. You need to find your reason for writing and stick to it. Mrs. Stansfield said this may mean that your house is not clean and your floors are not vacuumed, but your writing will get done.

Mr. Hughes decided to write to sell books. Part of him wishes he had the opportunity to do more exploratory writing, writing that he would enjoy but that my not be the type of writing he could making a living from. I still haven't answered the question of what kind of writer I would like to be.

You need to choose who you listen to. Mr. Tuttle talked about the More Dragons, No Dragons dilemma. When you ask others for their opinion, some people will tell you to add more dragons; others will tell you to get rid of them all together. You also need to be open to criticism. Study the criticism, study your writing, and find out what is true for you.

Last night there was a poetry panel. I love poetry though I am a terrible poet. I had intended to go (despite opportunities to do other things last night--good thing I have that handy, dandy card of priorities to keep me focused), but I didn't feel well. I took some drugs and climbed into to bed thinking that if the drugs starting working I could maybe catch the last half or so of the panel.

I didn't wake up until 5:00am. It was super disorienting. My blinds were open and the world was dark and I had no idea why I was in bed in my clothes or what I should be getting ready for.

Is it . . . Tuesday . . . ?

Is it . . . Sunday?

Not my best moment.

Expanding My Cute Horizons

There is an art to creating outfits. I don't create outfits, artfully or otherwise.

For me, getting dressed in the morning is a simple matter of problem solving. There are pieces of me that need to be covered; I have pieces of clothing to cover me. Most of my clothes are either tops or bottoms. I tend to think of myself in the same way.


To get dressed, I stand in front of my closet (where both my tops and bottoms reside) and pick different pieces of clothing that fill my need to be clothed. I don't have "outfits." I don't always wear the same piece of clothing with the same other piece of clothing. Instead, I see a need for a particular piece of clothing (e.g., I need something on top) and pick a piece of clothing that fulfills that need (e.g., here's a shirt).
Mostly this works fine. Occasionally I put myself together in the perfect way. Other times, it doesn't work well at all.

Today was one of those days, one of the days when it didn't work out so well. I left the house knowing what I put together probably didn't belong together. You know, one of those days when a peek in the mirror results in you saying to yourself, "Oh, honey, today is just not your day."

It happens. Particularly when you don't plan outfits but problem solve needing clothes in various places. Obviously, I'm not bothered by it enough to learn the art of putting together outfits (an art the Little Sister excels at and which she tries quite often to teach to me).

The feeling of non-cuteness that left the house with me was helped along by my bare legs. Today is the first day in months that I haven't worn boots with my skirt. The lower half of my legs are fully exposed. Full lower leg exposure is always awkward for me the first few times of the new warm season.

Today I was wrong about my non-cuteness. I came into work and people couldn't get over how cute I was. Who knew? I sure didn't. And that's maybe the best part of not putting together outfits. I wear things in previously unknown and unappreciated adorable ways.

Once Upon a Time

I was a pianist. A real pianist. I was serious about it. I was going to play piano to audiences around the globe.

That was a long time ago and I haven't spent much time with my piano in the past decade or so. Funny how our dreams change, huh?

I turned on the radio the other day to spur me on to greater academic progress and my last concerto came on. It was the beginning, the orchestral part before the piano comes in, but I recognized it right away. It was the first movement of Chopin's second piano concerto. I learned it when I was 15. It was the last serious piece I played.

I have included a video of it here, for your viewing and listening pleasure. There's nothing better than watching a pianist's crazy hands!

Warning: The orchestral introduction is a bit long, but just be patient. The piano starts at about minute 3:00.

This is only the first half of the first movement. The second half is just as fantastic and was even more fun to play.

Can I just say that I am seriously jealous of his massive man hands?

It's a well-known fact that winter my favorite season. Okay, it might not be well-known, but if you ever care to have a conversation about winter I will defend it quite vehemently. I think winter gets a bad rap. There's something so cozy and snug about winter. It's easier for me to know where I stand in winter.

Fall and spring are right up there with winter. Definitely not my fave, but I love them bunches. I think it has something to do with the transitory nature of these seasons. I'm addicted to change, to movement, to progress. Spring and fall are promises of something more to come. They move you from one place to another.

Summer is by far my least favorite it season. It just doesn't compare to the others. Even so, I love summer fiercely.

Yesterday was the first really spectacularly sunny day of the year. I slipped out of work in the middle of the day and walked around my building a few times. Not much of a view, but I wasn't looking for one. I was concentrating instead on the feel, the sun and the wind and the slight crispness in the spring air.

Where winter is snug and cozy, summer is fancy-free and adventurous. Summer is a time for becoming; winter is a time for being.

This, of course, is a completely false perception. I become during the winter and I be during the summer just as much as the other way. But that's how it feels to me. That's how I mark my time.

And my life seems to be somewhat consistent with those feelings. There's no question that I have adventures in the snug winter months, but mostly I don't. Come spring and summer time, there's no end to them.

These are the adventures currently on my docket (in no particular order):

• Lightening-fast trip to Portland
• Month of May Skirt Fest
• At least a couple of 5ks (and I hope at least one 10k)
• Trip to Iowa
• Ingrid Michaelson
• Beginning of Summer trip to Vegas with my ma and my little sis
• Trip to VA to visit it my big sis and her fam
• Shakespeare festival in Cedar City
• Aladdin at the Tuacahn
• Catalina Island hiking adventure
• Party week in Park City
• Fun.
• Weekend in beautiful Grace

Yup, all that is happening.

The crazy thing is, this is just the beginning. I consider my summer plans to be rather formless. I haven't much considered this summer. It's been too cold and wintry. But summer is coming, and quickly.

I need to take some serious thought to figure out what exactly it is I want to do with myself this summer. Then, perhaps, I can present a real list of what my summer is going to be.

Though now that I'm taking a second or two to think about it, I rather think my summer is going to match my non-resolution from the beginning of the year. Take time and its adventures as they come. Live this summer for me.

This is my new best friend.

Except without the straw and the lid. But he sits in my cup holder just like that. We go everywhere together. My mother affectionately refers to him as my super big barf. We're basically a match made in heaven.

I'm considering acquiring a double of him so I can keep him on my desk at work. I don't know that a double would be quite as useful though. It's when I get myself, food, and motion all mixed up together that my super big barf has the best chance of fulfilling his purpose. However, there have been some close calls that have had nothing to do with motion, so perhaps a double would be useful after all.

Unfortunately for him, I'm currently working on a plan to make him completely unnecessary in my life. Not because I don't love him, but because I don't love the constant nausea.

My first plan was to just stop eating. I don't know how long I could realistically maintain that. Even if I managed to maintain it effectively, food (which I've come to find out is vicious and vindictive) would win in the end since food would continue being and I would not.

Instead I'm seriously restricting my diet. Yogurt and berries and bananas and white toast and juice. I had some white rice and chicken gravy last night. That seemed to sit okay. The itsy bitsy slice of homemade pizza with piles of delicious vegetables? Not so much.

Also, I'd really, really like to avoid seeing the doctor. I don't have anything against doctors in theory, but I like to keep my life and their practice as separate as possible.

Good news is, I ought to be nice and skinny come Kelly's wedding.

Image found here.