|Listening to History - Bill Woodrow (sculpture)|
Good morning! And welcome to my
***I wrote this last Monday and didn't get it posted on time... if I scratch the whole thing and start over, I anticipate another entry that doesn't make it to the blogosphere - so I'm just going with the flow.***
New Years Day was spent moving, dissembling, tossing and of course the annual renegotiation of space (which is a premium commodity in our abode).
" I'll trade you - your room with the window for my room with more square footage."
"But you have a hole behind the door..."
"...Leave the door open perhaps?"
One thing I hate about moving all "this stuff"... is it becomes glaring apparent to all - that I have alot of stuff. Spinning wheels, looms, sewing machines, knitting yarns, weaving yarns, and all the infinite accessories and tools that go with each endeavor. And of course, the ever expanding library of books. I am a book sucker. I love books. Mine are mostly "how to" or art books of every description. When they're tucked away in bookcases they aren't so obtrusive, but as they creep out of knitting bags, and onto tabletops and counters and bedside floor space they become more obvious. When they need to be moved upstairs, downstairs, from room A to room B... well let's just say statements like "something must be done!" hang heavily in the air like the smell of bacon on a Sunday morning.
Having said that - I love my books. I like looking at them, holding them, adding little stickies to pages to remember anticipated projects perfect for handspun yarn or the orphan skein rescued from a bargain bin on my travels. As I write this I realize I have always been more of a person who is just as excited by the idea of the project (the imagining of it) - than a person who needs to sees it to physical completion to be satisfied. A project or idea can dance in my head for quite awhile and the vast majority need never evolve further than being a theoretical stitch on a needle; or a fibre of thoughts ever spinning.
(One week later: still climbing over books and magazines and buckets of yarns, and boxes of fabrics...)