The past week has been a blur, from the mid-blizzard arrival of my family from CA to figuring out how to remove glued-on play dough from the carpet. We made cookies from scratch, a phrase I had to explain to my 8-year old niece who thinks making cookies means opening a package and slicing. We made all sorts of crafts, including one bikini-clad felt snowman (courtesy of my 6-year old niece). There was one birthday party at a roller rink, which caused me to have my own middle-school flashbacks as I watched my nephew goof off with his friends, while he kept one eye on the pretty girl with long black hair and big brown eyes that he secretly admires. And there was a long visit with S., which I enjoyed immensely - not the least of which because I finally got to hear some of his new music (which, by the way, is fantastic).
There was no writing to speak of, but much thinking and conversation about art and all of its various forms. Some of this has been spurred by my friend K.’s recent gallery show, and her “tagging” me to do the same with my own little art quilts. Tempting. I mean, really tempting, and S.’s encouragement (insistence, really) that this is something I should at least try…well, it’s hard to say no. And it’s not like it requires investment, beyond the time and possible framing of the pieces; I have enough fabric to last YEARS and a sewing machine (although most of what I do is by hand). Driving home, I convinced myself that this was in fact something worth doing, and even if I fail I’ll at least have a stack of Christmas gifts to give people for the next few years.
And so, giddy with thoughts of becoming an Artist, I curled up with my stack of Quilting Arts magazines last night…and promptly got discouraged. An all too familiar feeling, my friends, and my giddiness quickly evaporated into thoughts of “who do I think I am, anyway?!”. *sigh* I think the antidote to this is another few glue-and-scissors sessions with my 6-year old niece, who attacks her art projects with a fascinating combination of determination, planning, and utter gleeful abandon (“look what I made!”). There are mishaps (like the aforementioned play dough and glue fiasco), but she’s never really troubled by them - scotch tape can work miracles, and if all else fails there’s always something else to be made.
Regardless, I worry this is yet another distraction from writing. As my knitting continues unabated, and my dad’s offer of borrowing his guitar entices me, the last thing I need is another distraction, another sucker-of-time away from sticking my butt in the chair and writing. Which, by the way, is exactly what I must sign off to do!