Literary excursions

The best thing I ever did for myself of late was give a box of fabric scraps to my friend. I kept my lovely silk, some fleece, some flannel, and all my little boy fabric...for a day when I have the time to sew again. I lent my sewing machine to a friend for a couple days a few months ago and when she returned it, Paul joked about resisting the urge to chuck it in the dumpster. I'm not sure what percentage of that joke was funny because of its absurdity and what percentage because of its truth. At any rate, it captures the sentiment: he has lost a great portion of his wife's attentions to the the sewing bug, and the children have clung to her ankles and whined out of hunger and boredom as she slaved away, sewing deep into the night. It served its purpose: theoretically we saved money by my making most of the Christmas presents, and it certainly occupied me during the cooped up winter months. But when I knew it was time to pass along the scraps and box up the machine was when I couldn't muster the enthusiasm to finish a rug I had started and my harp calluses were falling off and my intellect was withering into a mush of Mom-speak and craft-talk. Too many hours were devoured by surfing craft and sewing blogs, scavenging for DIY sewing projects to "use up" my scraps. In reality, the sewing monster was taking over all my other talents...talents that deserve more time and effort than I have been willing to dedicate. Why? Because sewing is so easily brainless. The only appeal, often, was the challenge of solving a problem. The rest of the project was busywork. The conclusion: I will never be a professional seamstress. Not a surprise. It was never an aspiration.
MEANWHILE...so instead of sewing, I have spent more time painting, reading, and cooking. I have tried not to replace time-devouring sewing with culinary challenges. Both sewing and cooking are absolutely worthy pursuits and I applaud anyone occupied therewith. But unfortunately they seem to be the manifestations of my BAD habit of finding something easier to do than developing my god-given talents and expanding my brain. So now I know how to sew at a mediocre level. And I know how to cook a scruptious meal out of the scraps left in my cupboard (or the sewage veggies in the bottom of the refrigerator drawer). How to make bread, and muffins, and all sorts of carbolicious delights. But...
Lately, I have applied myself to reading some of the books that I brought to Ohio. I decided to only bring the books that I haven't ever read or finished reading. My miniature library on the staircase shelf includes many of the books I am terribly embarrassed to admit that I have never read. Proudly, in the last month, I have read "1984"and "Of Mice and Men," both of which served as very inspiring books to limber me up for more mentally demanding literature, such as "Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man" by James Joyce. I think I will forever have a love affair with Joyce's books. I discovered "Ulysses" at 19 and have been in rapture ever since. Anyways, so I am currently geeking out about the ingenuity of his epic prose poetry, the vivid images, the lyricism. I have also been excited, of late, about how I seem to pick up on more of the images and understand more of the mood since A) I have matured since I last read his work, and B) I have been to England and Scotland and am more attune to some of the cultural references and intimate landscapes (either that or I just feel smug about having gone to the Motherland). So that's what's up in my current life.

James Joyce looking like a wonderfully insane fruitcake 

author type...artists, you gotta love 'em.

Oh, and the kids are good...Paul is surviving grad school, and we are preparing for China :)