cry me a river.

then build me a bridge and get the fuck over it.

sorry for the harsh language, i really do apologize if i've peeled anyone's eyes back and i'm happy to offer eye drops or more soothing language in the rest of this post.

see, for a long time, i didn't know the completion of that phrase. i knew all about the sarcastic tones of "cry me a river" but didn't know the constructive side of that phrase.
i knew all about the world's smallest violin playing the world's saddest song but didn't even realize bridge buildign was part of the expectation. so i sit, with hammer in hand, thinking about blueprints.

two things sat me right back, today. and here they are in no particular order.
first of all, we have hannah. hannah is a normal, healthy and probably bratty and sweet, outgoing and shy, ten year old girl who's been diagnosed with breast cancer. she's probably part of the average american family, penny pinching yet generous, openminded but traditional, grateful and angry, with two parents and two kids. one of whom may very well be the youngest girl in the u.s. to be so awfully diagnosed.

i read this and said to myself, get over yourself. there are worse things in the world than writer's block. there are worse things in the world than a shelf full of unhooked yarn and worse things than empty notebooks. there's worse than this empty headed vacant feeling. but she's better than me too, because she's already over herself. she's moving on past it already. she's dealing with the talk of invaded lymph nodes and being feted at girls' softball closing ceremonies as the recipient of charity. in a world that causes us and helps us to treat each other shitty (oh sorry. i'm a trucker/sailor/mechanic/cook in the mouthparts and let's just leave it at that), she's a rallying point- a reason for little girls not to be mean to one another, but to have someone to help. a cause about which to give a damn. she's a symbol, a statistical unlikelihood and someone's little girl. and even more than that, she's someone's own self. thank you hannah for restoring my sense of perspective.

and in the not quite so dire, but inspiring, i made a trade at an art show at the beginning of the month. after quite some time of frustration, with felted beaded bangle bracelets only slightly appreciated, not valued for their work, materials or worth, a woman was at my table admiring them. her eyes were looking at them the way my eyes do, and when she asked me how the beads got on there, i told her that they went on one by one in an old beadweaving technique. her eyes went wide, and she was the first person i'd told that to whom it seemed to make any impact whatsoever. she then told me she was also there to sell things and that she'd be back after she'd done some business. time passed, and bored (not to mention a tiny bit frustrated), i walked over to her things, where she had a dress, a little orange/coral/clay colored one that was simultaneously really cute and also inordinately sehx-ay. i looked at the tag and was glad to see that she valued her work and time (it was well made and made of a good material) but sad to realize that no way was i going to sell enough at this fair to come even on buying it. plus, although it was good material, it was cotton knit, kind of like a thick jersey, and i'd tried on a dress of the cut a year or two ago, when i was in much more serious shape than i am in now and was disappointed. (it was not made of such good material, and it was a quarter of the price she was asking...in a store, which means that *included* markup and transport costs. which makes me very sad for the people sewing those dresses). i loved it was unsure, but she said "you should try it."
we traded, and my first (and only at this point) front page etsy items went to a home. a happy home, with at least one little girl who looked at her mama's new bracelets with envy. and me? i got a dress that gave me legs, where i've got stumps *and* shows off my waist. without looking trampy. i think it was kismet. anyway, check out karina's etsy shop, and prepare to fall in love with her cute things for behbehs and grownfolks alike. and thank you karina, though you'll probably not read this, for showing me (without telling me) that family and creativity are hardly mutually exclusive, and that putting any of the blame on them for not trucking right across that bridge i built over that river i cried is not fair at all.

the craft-o-matic

i'll start with an extended disclaimer, about the word "craft" then will digress to my original titled point after i've got the definitions ironed out.
i must admit that i dislike the term "craft"- i'm ambivalent about it, really at best. i like craftsman houses, i'm serious about craftsmanship (another term i'm ambivalent about- craft"man"ship? is this another word like handsome, meaning capable and strong and dextrous that is given to the male gender, and generally denied to women, or are we talking as in "manos" "manual" ? i like both and would much prefer to be called handsome anyday, rather than just "pretty". i'm also ambidextrous, which only adds to the confusion. another rant for another time. back to craft.)
i think of it in that light and i think of something serious, focused, meditative and skillful. something that work at its best feels like to me.
but there's a negative connotation to it to me, and this darkside is worth exploring in my mind. i am first reminded of these wooden lawn decorations common in rural/suburb coastal texas. painted shapes to look like plump women bent over, cheerfully painted flower print bloomers on display, tending the garden. i feel a little pity for it, and a little frustration/disgust. add to that, acyrlic yarn. add to that all that is lumped under the label "craft." the light in which the term gets no respect. when my mother says the word craft and means stuff that people have made, she uses a tone of voice similar to the one she uses when she says the word crap, and oftentimes i am an echo of her.
but whither this disdain? i'm going to argue that it's born from a lack of respect for what is generally regarded as "women's work" (silly dolly porch decorations made from nylons, excuse me, pantyhose and decorated with embroidery thread french knot eyes and some rubbishy acrylic hair, perched atop a mini broom and hanging from fishing wire come to mind)- uneducated, unskilled, and previously completely necessary women's work. okay. maybe not all completely necessary- the ornamentation of elaborate embroidery fulfills only the human desire for adornment for ourselves and for things like sacred spaces.
but quilts- a silly dotty old lady activity- were vital in keeping the folks who engendered most of us untaken by cold on cruel winter nights, before comfortor factories farted them out at alarming rates. (the sales i see on bedding confirm that many many of them do exist).
so, to reconcile with the term craft, i have all of these strange considerations themselves to reconcile.
and hold my head up high about the term craft, as in my case it is women's work, it is ornamental-necessary, and i execute it dextrously.
on to the "craft-o-matic"
i suspect this is a reason many etsy folk have two shops. one for supplies, one for work. or two for work. just different kinds of work. once the brain is spinning, really, the artist/crafter interprets the world in different ways that begin to mutate and change the output. i started off writing, took up crocheting and have continued evolving with both and i caught myself earlier designing valentines' cards and thinking about variations on the theme going, well it would be fun to make elaborate, one off art cards...
and then the (probably sensible) part of me says, look, that's not your job. you write and do this fiber stuff, and that's enough. you're not a draw-er, though you enjoy it sometimes, you're no print or paper artist. leave well enough alone, and just make them for love, for family.
then part of me goes, well, but that would be a nicer thing to do when it's hot than working with uh, wool?
then part of me goes, well it's not like that, it's felting experiment time when it gets hot.
part of me goes, you're not going to be able to do that all the time.
part of me goes, we'll see.