Marching orders.

It's Moving Day!

Seems like as good a day as any...
please visit me in my new neighborhood:

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susanmhinckley.blogspot.com

(It won't feel like home until you get there.)

It's about time.

So.  I guess I should begin with hello.

And perhaps even introduce myself...it has been, after all, SOOO long!  Much longer than I expected it to be when I said "so long".  And for that, Dear Reader, I apologize.  I have missed you so!  Truly.  It has been a bit like losing a best friend.

There are choices to be made today, as a result of the lapse...do I fill you in on every detail?  Do I pick up where we left off?  Do I begin now as if nothing has happened in the 4 months since we last met?

Since art is, in its essence, about editing and choice-making, I shall endeavor to make a few.  

Here's the story in a nutshell...







We moved to Phoenix, which included among other things, saying good-bye to my daughters, putting all my possessions in the dubious care of United Van Lines, leaving Cooper at camp in MN, a never-ending trek across the country in a loaded van, and a 6 week stay in a corporate apartment.  There was not much to complain about there...hot tub and frozen yogurt every night, maid service, nothing in the world to do but twiddle my thumbs.  (So why wasn't I here?  I will try to answer that.)

After re-doing every inch of our 4000 sq. ft. home in order to sell it, I had no intention of buying a fixer-upper.  I intended to choose CAREFULLY.  I intended to stay in that corporate apartment for as long as it took to get it right...therefore, I went out and bought the very first house I saw.

It has the kind of charm that should be illegal in a fixer-upper! And the price was so right!  It left us with almost enough money to fix (half of) what we needed to fix!  Irresistible.  Insane, but irresistible.  And I stand by my decision, most days.  We did live without any kitchen for 3 weeks...and re-paint every single paintable surface in the house, including insides of cabinets...and do it all with the stuff from our 4000 sq. ft. home crammed into less than 2000 sq. ft. (of charm!)...We accomplished all the work while living in a rat maze.  And there are battle scars -- some days, we both limp. Now we are trying to unpack -- and sort -- the maze.  (So why wasn't I playing hooky and hanging out here?  I will still try to answer that.)

Big life changes are hard.  No news there, I know...but I say it to remind myself.  I put down my needle after the Baltimore show early last year to work full time on re-doing, then selling, my house.  So I was already feeling a little displaced.  Now I find myself in a new home that requires endless work...my studio is still floor-to-ceiling boxes. Someday I will find my desk, hopefully be able to reassemble it, unpack my computer, wish Chelsea were here to plug it in for me, and possibly even thread a needle again.  But not yet.

If you've hung out at Small Works for awhile, you may know that I love the sunshine.  I am happy as can be to have landed in my beloved desert, where I can expect more sun than I'll ever be able to absorb.  But you might also know that I am susceptible to depression/anxiety problems.  I've always been pretty up-front about that.  I wouldn't have minded if United Van Lines had lost those problems for me, but unfortunately it seems that wherever I go, here I am. And big life changes are hard.  So there's been some couch-sitting.  Hand-wringing. Floor-pacing.  Swedish Fish eating.  Copious amounts of all those things, in fact.  So much so that I've been unable to hang out here.  Because it reminds me of what I'm NOT doing...and of what I'm doing instead. And it's terrifying.

There's been plenty of time for reflection.  Time to decide what I want to do next.  I do, after all, have the opportunity to completely re-invent myself if I so choose.  No one here knows a thing about me.  They don't expect me to make art, or anything else...the only expectations are probably from the lady who sells me my large diet coke every morning.  (But I could change stores and she'd never give me another thought.)

So to make a long story short...much too late, I know...I have come to a decision of sorts.  Writing this blog has been my favorite thing I have ever done in all my 50 years.  I have loved every second.  It has fed my soul.  I have loved the connections I have made, loved exploring art in many forms, loved having a place to gossip and spout off and poke fun at 1950's magazine illustrations.  But did you notice what I just said?

Writing this blog... has been my favorite thing.  Writing about the art. I love that more than making it.

So I think it's time to stop putting off the dream.  I've never been very comfortable in my artist-skin.  I am completely comfortable in my writer-skin.  Also scared to death of it.  But since everything else in my life seems to have taken a leap, I figure it must be time for me to follow.  Try to grab the dream, or at least be able to say I tried.  That's the important part, I guess.

I have signed on for the San Francisco ACC Show in August.  I don't really have any intention of stopping my stitching, but it will take a back seat for now -- perhaps fewer pieces, bigger pieces -- who knows?  I'll keep you posted.

And since Small Works was invented as a vehicle to acquaint the world with my stitched work, I don't really feel my writing belongs here now.  Perhaps there will be things that are appropriate in the future, so I will be leaving the blog intact.  Feel free to visit old post friends, if you have them.  And check back from time to time.  When I do find my needles and thread, I may pick up here again.

But now it's time for me to talk -- write -- about other things for awhile.  Maybe about what it means to be approaching 50.  Or to be chasing a dream.  Or to be staring into the gulf of re-inventing myself.  Or to be a mother whose children live in other time zones.  Or perhaps a novel about another woman altogether...although I would not be surprised if she finds herself in a similar situation. And if that voice finds another blog home, I'll let you know.

And thank you, thank you for being part of my favorite thing!
You'll never know what that has meant to me.

Thank you, Dear Readers, my friends. From the bottom of my heart.  xo

Susan

Barbie shoes have long been a metaphor in our family for overwhelm . . .

They are the kind of annoying little thing that can multiply until they seem to be turning up everywhere.  They rarely stay on Barbie's feet, where they belong.

Their significance originated when Hannah was very young. Cleaning up her room was an overwhelming prospect for her, so I would have to break it down into manageable tasks.  We would often begin with, "Just pick up all the Barbie shoes.  Then come back and report."  

With three daughters, there never seemed to be a shortage of Barbie shoes (or barrettes, or figurines, or books, or whatever) laying around waiting to be stepped on. But for some reason, Barbie shoes are the thing that has remained code for, "Help!  I'm drowning in all this little stuff...someone please just take over and tell me what to do!"

Yes, this is a cry for help.  I am drowning in 30 years' worth of Barbie shoes.  There's something very comforting about family junk -- 30 years of tangible history -- and something terribly disquieting about watching it get carted out the door.  Even if it is to a new life with someone who really needs it.  Or to a daughter who has been eying it for years and hoping she could take it to her own home. Or to the landfill, where it should have gone 25 years ago.

Fact is, my brain isn't functioning terribly well right now.  I'm not much of a friend, mother, wife, blogger, or anything else.  Mostly I want to curl up in my chair and watch old television shows and eat candy.  And I've spent a good deal of time doing those things....until now.  With the packers coming next week, there is no more time for wallowing.  The Barbie shoes MUST be sorted, and sort them I will.  And am.

I've never missed a move yet.  But I'm a little out of practice.

All of our possessions that make the cut will be going into storage in Phoenix for an unspecified amount of time.  We'll be moving into a corporate apartment for the first month, then who-knows-where until we decide what we want to do next.  So much freedom!  All the things I've told my daughters are being repeated to me:  "The world is your oyster....You can do anything you want to do...Look at it as an adventure....We can do hard things...."  (But I like all that advice much more when I'm the one giving it.)

Small Works will return....sometime.  Once the dust settles.  Once at least the Barbie shoes have been put away, and maybe even a few other things.  Heaven knows there's plenty to be done, on both ends of the move.  Thanks for your friendship and your patience during my technical difficulties (read: failure to cope).  It gives me a great deal of comfort to know that, no matter where I go, my blog neighborhood goes with me.

See you soon!

  

  

poemcrazy

I laughed at this cartoon when I came across it the other day - well, shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot trying to combat a vague sense of anxiety, more than laughed, I guess.  Yes, I'm a dinosaur.  We've documented it here so often before.  This was just another reminder. 

Then I showed it to my daughter (the newly minted teacher) to see what she thought.  And for emphasis, I added the information that, in my hometown, cursive has just been struck from the curriculum - hit by a meteor at last and destined to become quaint hieroglyphics to future generations.

As with most things, she's keeping an open mind. It's one of her best qualities.

She replied that it remains to be seen whether penmanship was important for fine motor development or not, whether those hours and hours of practice we endured actually benefited us in some way.  Or whether today's kids might be better served by spending the time learning about technologies that have a direct impact on the world they live in and the one they will grow into.

She was right, of course.

And I guess my anxiety actually comes from a worry that words themselves might become extinct.  I wonder whether kids can have the kind of relationship I have with words if they are never given the opportunity to master their creation from the ground up - to tame hands and pencils and use them to give tangible shape and meaning to their thoughts. I guess it remains to be seen.

Maybe - keeping an open mind - the speed at which kids can connect words using all the technologies at their fingertips will allow them an even freer rein, to think faster and to record those thoughts and feelings in words more completely and accurately than ever before.


Back when I studied writing in college, 

I was working on a manual typewriter.  I had to really want every word.  The beast had a very stiff touch and a reluctant return, and every error meant one kind of messy and time-consuming correction or another.  Usually I wrote first drafts longhand, on a yellow pad, then refined them on my trusty typewriter.  I was continually frustrated that my hands could never quite move at the speed of my mind. I can't imagine how much work I might have turned out if I had possessed the technology that I do now.  On the other hand, each completed piece might have felt less satisfying.  We love most the things for which we work hardest.

Recently I've been enjoying the book poemcrazy by Susan Goldsmith Wooldridge.  Actually, I've been savoring every word.  The book is just a celebration of words, really - poetry reduced to its most basic components. If you are a lover of ideas, and more specifically of the magical ways in which words can convey meaning, you should pick it up. 

"Poetry has an interesting function.  

It helps people be where they are."

  
 -- Gary Snyder 

If words strung perfectly help us "be" where we are, and perhaps more importantly, understand where others are, then I guess I should make room for the possibility that words will always be much more than the sum of the letters that create them, and that how they come together is immaterial.

And if that's the case, I guess I need to let kids be where they are, and that is definitely in a world of fonts.  Not penmanship.
 

Magpie Fri.

detail from image by Francesca Woodman

Beckoning

I put my ear

against tomorrow

listening for a sound

a beat, a sign, the wave

of drumming fingers

to a future song

and I can almost hear

to sing along

but almost says it hasn't

quite become, half-born

a foot, one hand, a hint

and who knows what

will happen when we get

to then and there

--smh

 I know, I know -- still AWOL, because I've been sicker than sick all week.  Brought back a nasty little souvenir of some kind from Phoenix.  But I did manage this.  Thanks to Tess at Magpie Tales for luring me to the keyboard.  Click over there now to explore a hundred more...

Meanwhile.

We sold it!  

It's a miracle!

Getting all the closets cleaned out before the packers come will be an even bigger one.

To celebrate/recover...I took a little 10 day trip without really mentioning it to anyone -- anyone being, in this case specifically, YOU, Dear Reader!

I couldn't tell you, because the sale did not really become final until I was already well into my vacation.  You understand, I hope!

Since we signed the papers, I believe I have gained 5 pounds.  The revelry must end.

And it will....Monday.  

Small Works will return on Tuesday, August 14.

Miss you!

(sorry,  I said that with my mouth full and while wearing a swimsuit, but it isn't the first time in our friendship that I've been glad we're not blogging via Skype...)

   

Someone smart once told me, 

"Art asks questions.  Ask good ones."

Actually, it was Hannah while we were eating lunch yesterday...she threw that wise gem out over fried chicken tacos and a bowl of melty queso studded with green chiles.  It was a perfect lunch and a perfect conversation.

I thought of it again today while I was eating a much less-perfect lunch alone with the August issue of American Craft magazine. In the "From the Editor" feature, by Monica Moses, I read about a new book called Unintended Consequences by Edward Conard, an uber-wealthy investor who uses the term "art history majors" to slam people he thinks aren't contributing enough to the economy.

Guilty.  I haven't contributed enough to the economy in years, actually -- and I shudder to think what he might say about an English-major-turned-fiber-artist.




But Monica Moses offers a perfect response:

"Yet what endures in a civilization is not its spreadsheets and financial instruments but its plays and sculptures, its sonatas and paintings.  As John F. Kennedy put it, 'Aeschylus and Plato are remembered today long after the triumphs of imperial Athens are gone.  Dante outlived the ambitions of 13th-century Florence.'  What has power in the long run is the creative stuff.  So shouldn't we invest in the art of our own age?  Shouldn't we appreciate the art of the ages?  In their own way, isn't that what the art history majors of the world are doing?

Money is a funny thing.  Central as it is in our culture, it is only a means to an end.  The Edward Conards of this country don't hang financial documents on their walls.  Even they see beauty and meaning elsewhere.  Money is the middleman, and the real value is in experience, feeling, and art."

It seems to me that the reason art endures is that the questions remain largely unanswered. 

Willa Cather said, 

"There are only two or three human stories, and they go on repeating themselves as fiercely as if they had never happened before."

So although I am feeling a great deal of personal uncertainty about what my exact artistic direction should be, I am glad to be reminded that asking the questions remains valid and meaningful -- important even! -- no matter what form they take.







Nice to remember I'm really happy
being exactly what I am.
Whatever that is...artist, writer...
maybe I'll even think about going
back to school for an MFA in art history.

I've got a bit of a problem.  

Okay, it's a whopper, actually. An epic struggle.  Like I'm trapped under an enormous rock.

Luckily I can still barely wiggle one finger.
I'm using it to type this post.

The problem is not as simple as a rock, however.  It is infinitely more complex.  The most basic components consist of a house that refuses to be sold, a studio that is unable to be used, a life that is in what seems to be a permanent state of limbo...and all the accompanying psychic distress.

Things were iffy in the world of high-end fine craft before all this started, of course.  Which doesn't help.

The result is, I can't work, and even if I could, 

would I have the wherewithal to do so?  Not sure.  

I do know I can eat candy, exercise in a losing battle to combat the all-candy diet, and clean house.  And read books in my pajamas.  And watch Arrested Development -- it's only funny the first 400 times, btw...

That's about it.

All my friends and loved ones have wisely pointed out that this time is a gift.  That this is my chance to finally (finally!) devote myself to writing.  They are right, of course.  But for some reason, their well intentioned counsel feels like they just set another rock on top of the enormous rock. And then all climbed on top to stand on it while they wait for me to start typing.

So it felt like a tiny little shred of grace today when I came across this article on Think Jar Collective.  It focuses on Richard Feynman, a Nobel prize winning physicist who obviously knew a thing or two about how things work.  This excerpt from his writing provided me a bit of hope.


 

Then I had another thought: Physics disgusts me a little bit now, but I used to enjoy doing physics. Why did I enjoy it? I used to play with it. I used to do whatever I felt like doing – it didn’t have to do with whether it was important for the development of nuclear physics, but whether it was interesting and amusing for me to play with. When I was in high school, I’d see water running out of a faucet growing narrower, and wonder if I could figure out what determines that curve. I found it was rather easy to do. I didn’t have to do it; it wasn’t important for the future of science; somebody else had already done it. That didn’t make any difference. I’d invent things and play with things for my own entertainment.

So I got this new attitude. Now that I am burned out and I’ll never accomplish anything, I’ve got this nice position at the university teaching classes which I rather enjoy, and just like I read the Arabian Nights for pleasure, I’m going to play with physics, whenever I want to, without worrying about any importance whatsoever.

Within a week I was in the cafeteria and some guy, fooling around, throws a plate in the air. As the plate went up in the air I saw it wobble, and I noticed the red medallion of Cornell on the plate going around. It was pretty obvious to me that the medallion went around faster than the wobbling.

I had nothing to do, so I start to figure out the motion of the rotating plate. I discover that when the angle is very slight, the medallion rotates twice as fast as the wobble rate.  Then I thought, “Is there some way I can see in a more fundamental way, by looking at the forces or the dynamics?”

I don’t remember how I did it, but I ultimately worked out what the motion of the mass particles is, and how all the accelerations balance… I still remember going to Hans Bethe and saying, “Hey, Hans! I noticed something interesting. Here the plate goes around so, and the reason it’s two to one is …” and I showed him the accelerations.

He says, “Feynman, that’s pretty interesting, but what’s the importance of it? Why are you doing it?”

“Hah!” I say. “There’s no importance whatsoever. I’m just doing it for the fun of it.” His reaction didn’t discourage me; I had made up my mind I was going to enjoy physics and do whatever I liked.

It was effortless. It was easy to play with these things. It was like uncorking a bottle: Everything flowed out effortlessly. I almost tried to resist it! There was no importance to what I was doing, but ultimately there was. The diagrams and the whole business that I got the Nobel Prize for came from that piddling around with the wobbling plate.

-- Richard Feynman (1918-1988)

[Feynman, R. (1985). Surely you’re joking, Mr. Feynman, pg. 157-158]



So now I'm going to take that little bit of hope and fire up my new (to me) mac laptop, graciously provided me by my daughter who believes in my writing dreams.  And I'm going to play for a bit, and see if I can't lighten things up.  Try to somehow shift it from something that adds pressure to something that can alleviate it.

These are my old friends words we're talking about, after all.  We have known each other a long time.

(Now if someone wants to come along
and lift the house off my back,
that would be okay too.)
 

I'll keep you posted. 

Monday Magpie

Figure Eight, 1952, Franz Kline

Notation

I want to be a poet, I have always

known it, my hopeless flow

of words forever trying

to arrange themselves just so --

my grandfather, his deep

vault of thoughts

and father, his dialogue

reciting what was sung or said

and mother, how her ink marks

became music

these are to thank, or blame

but poetry is for the eyes

that hear it, the ears

that can see what it is trying to say

hands that find a way to move

the pen and person

also for the grass, trees

in wind, the birds, the mind

and everything else that was made

to sing, the dance and sway

of numbers, science and the way

it fits its pieces perfectly

rhythm, rhyme, spot-on surprise

the sharp breath and the sigh

the pattern of all things

the privilege, still

I want to be a poet,

at least I have always known it

--smh

This poem is a response 

to a prompt from The Mag. 

Stop by to add your own twist to the story . . . 

Yeah, I know....right?

I'll admit it -- it's been a bit of a rough patch.  My apologies to all!  If you think my blog is boring, you should take a peek at my life!

Being an artist is infinitely more fun than being a property manager.  Or a cleaning lady.  I admit it.  In fact, it's probably been good for me to dabble in these alternative careers just to appreciate the joy of being able to putz around a studio with a work table so messy you're not even sure you can recall its original color.





But I've learned my lesson! 

I'll never take my messy studio for granted again!  I promise! No complaining about show deadlines, or sore fingers, or uncooperative stitches, or a dearth of good ideas, or the economy, or...ANYTHING!

What, you don't believe me?! 

I'm hurt. Truly.

Just stay tuned....
 

People can change. 

(at least I want to believe they can....I've heard it both ways of course --  some think they can, some think they can't, but I think we should give people, and in this case specifically me, the benefit of the doubt and assume that, given the opportunity to become better it could happen....couldn't it?)

Reality check.

It's really hot in Phoenix.

I knew this of course, not a revelation...after all, I have visited Phoenix many times in the summer and exclaimed "It's really hot here!" at least once per hour for the duration of my visit.

HOWEVER...

Until last week, I had never visited Phoenix with the intention of living there myself.  Interesting how just the slightest little shift in perspective changes everything.

Perspective is worth 80 IQ points.

-- Alan Kay

So when my husband sent me a text this morning saying:

"it's 114 degrees today, Darling -- 
hurry and sell the house 
so you can come and live with me in hell..."






 
I had to laugh, but I also had to look out the window and sort of appreciate the "for sale" sign on my lawn, swinging gently in the breeze of an 80 degree blue Minnesota sky under a green canopy of leaves shading an even greener lawn...


Life ain't half bad.

Wishing one and all 

a happy (hot!) holiday!

  

Light a sparkler, 

enjoy a parade, 

eat a hot dog, 

or drink lemonade --

or perhaps just make the most

of a shady spot 

with someone you love . . . 

Hope you find something to make you ooh-and-aah.

Happy 4th!

Thursday already? Time flies...

First, an update on my little bird friends --

All 4 babies successfully made it off the ledge, eventually.
And I was lucky enough to get to see 3 of them take the leap!

It was amazing!  

But then Russ asked me how I am going to entertain myself now that my "science project" has come to an end....and he makes a valid point.  The dining room suddenly seems a lot more boring than it has for the past several weeks.

I immediately looked in the refrigerator to see if I had any accidental science projects started that I could use to replace my baby robin adventure.  But unfortunately (and in a rare turn of events) there's no current candidate for a mold-farm there, since these days I have to keep my refrigerator ever ready for inspection.

Perhaps I should make a tiny "for sale" sign for the nest, in hopes that another family will take up residence?  Hopefully it would get more action than the one in my front yard seems to be generating... 

Which reminds me -- I found this while cleaning out my purse this morning:

Who knows how long it has been there?  But I have a long-standing rule that any fortune cookie fortune freshly re-discovered is just as valid as one that tumbles directly from the cookie onto your plate.  I immediately thanked Ms. Fate for reaching out to give me a pat -- a little "there, there" from the universe to indicate that I'm completely justified in my crankiness at the approaching 4th of July holiday for which I find myself....STILL HERE.

Oh well -- not much rush by any sane person to get to Phoenix in July anyway, now is there? 

But think how smart I will seem when I am FINALLY moving there next February!

Tough love.

 
Today I am painfully aware . . . 

of the reason baby robins should not be raised in the dining room.  It is because the people living in the house may not have the stomach for it.


As you may recall, several weeks ago 2 robins built a nest on my dining room window ledge.  Then there were 4 perfectly blue eggs.  Then 4 perfectly ugly featherless things.  Fast forward a few weeks, and now there are 4 absolutely perfect miniature robins, fluffing their feathers and pretty much looking for handouts full-time with 4 constantly gaping beaks.

It's been a fairly dramatic illustration of the parent-child relationship.  Russ pretty much laughed every time he walked past them over the weekend.  Guess he's getting tired of paying for kids' car insurance.


But suddenly, today is graduation day! 

Time for the fledglings to . . . fledge!  For several days now, the babies have looked just about as ridiculous trying to fit in that nest as a bunch of 30-somethings would look living in their parents'  basement.  This morning, they were quite literally taking turns standing on top of one another, because there was no longer enough room for them to be side by side.

I was excited!  

They've made it this far!  BUT --

How to get them to leave?  A tricky question, and obviously one best left to the experts, of which I am not one.

The parents, who have been feeding the birds tag-team and non-stop for nearly two weeks, have stopped feeding them today.  I've seen the father plunk himself down somewhat disgustedly several times near the nest and on the ground under it, but so far he is turning a deaf ear to his babies' cries of hunger.  AND IT IS KILLING ME.

Personally, I would like to set the dining room table with some delicious fruit, nuts, and yes, if I have to, worms -- and invite them in for tea before they leave.

He'd like them to just get on with the business of becoming robins.

This afternoon, one has made its way out onto the ledge and is standing there looking wistful and like it truly regrets its first life decision.  It would like nothing more than to climb back in.  (I don't know if it is male or female, but I am calling it Hannah.)

The others seem to be watching to see what will happen next before they do anything rash.  For one thing, with the first one out, the nest is a little roomier than it was.  But surely they are all getting very, very hungry.

One problem is that they are shaded from the world by a curtain of ivy, so to them it looks much easier to step in through my window than to find a way out through the leaves.  They keep pressing themselves up against the glass, looking at me hopefully for signs of something to eat.

I've been mesmerized all day.  Can't stand to watch, can't bear to look away for fear I might miss the leap.  If I can't feed them myself, then flicking them off the ledge with my finger seems like the second best option.  Or just telling the parents to please EXPLAIN the situation to them a bit more clearly.  Help them understand that this is really in their best interest. Take the edge off their fear.  And maybe mine.

Perhaps if I were sure that SOMEONE knew what they were doing, I'd feel a bit more at ease about the whole thing.

Hmmmm...
perhaps.

A Cautionary Tale.

Today's story is of a more...ahem....personal nature than is our usual fare,

including intimate details, and may be uncomfortable or not well-suited to the more sensitive among us....so proceed with caution, Dear Reader.

Still with me?

Okay, here we go...

I went into the bathroom
   

-- now, if you can't get past the opening line, here's your chance to bail out -- 

for a routine visit -- just doing the kind of thing girls sometimes do in the bathroom (if you are a boy, use your imagination) without a care in the world. Thinking about how I needed to do some deadheading on the potted flowers on the front porch, actually....

When suddenly, and as a matter of course, I happened to glance down.

Now boys, let me stop here and explain that girls are accustomed to the ins and outs of dealing with foreign objects in personal areas, and think nothing of finding, for instance, a string hanging there, because they probably placed it there themselves with good reason and are in fact in the bathroom performing a managerial task related to it in some way...but I digress...


Anyway, in this instance I glanced down and, adjacent to the expected string....a thread...

WITH A SPIDER HANGING FROM IT.  

A SPIDER WAS SPINNING A WEB....THERE???!!!

The scene got a little noisy and dramatic at that point, especially for a routine bathroom visit, so I will spare you any further details, but if you have been a Small Works reader for any time at all you probably know how I feel about spiders.  Just about the last thing I'd want....dangling from my...whatever.

A twisted nightmare version of Little Miss Muffet in which the spider has somehow taken up permanent residence in her tuffet AND believes he is entitled to have unlimited access to her curds and whey...

It raises several questions, of course -- I wanted to know:

a) how it got there
b) how long it had been there, and
c) whether it was actually making any kind of future plans whatsoever....I shudder to think.

Hannah suggested the new Swiffer 360 duster, which she says they claim can fit just about anywhere.


It all reminded me of the Dr. House episode in which they finally figure out that a tick has crawled into a girl's thingamajig and bitten her and as a result she is dying from an array of bizarre and horrifying symptoms.  (So will someone please keep an eye on me . . . ?)

I don't know what the moral of the story is, 

I only know I wish it didn't involve ME. 

And I guess it's now become painfully obvious that I've been living alone for too long -- actually DEVELOPING COBWEBS and not just in a metaphorical sense.

We're talking about actual cobwebs, people.  With tenants.

Someone buy my house, please.

All wet.

Plans, plans, plans.... 

say what you want about them.  They are usually pretty useless.  The act of planning has value, but the plans themselves?  Often of much less importance in the end.  Because when it comes to most things, we're just not really in charge.

For instance, Minnesotans were planning on a hot, dry summer. The weather people thought so -- all signs pointed to it.  And yet late spring has broken all kinds of rain records.  In fact, a zoo up north got so much rain overnight, the seals and a polar bear planned their escape and swam away.

True story (and actually a sad one -- 11 animals died).  Anyway, our much talked-about plans for coping with the sure and dreaded drought?  All wet.

Right now my own life is also failing miserably to conform to my plans.  I am supposed to be dealing with moving vans and whatnot....instead, I am what?  Not.

I am twiddling.  My thumbs, my toes, my brain, anything that can be twiddled.
Spinning my wheels,
cooling my heels --
would be watching paint dry, but the paint dried about 6 weeks ago, so even the entertainment value of that exercise has now evaporated.

At least we now have a definitive answer to the question of home vs. off-site studio.  Off-site wins!  If you want to keep working while Ms. Fate is throwing water on your plans and having a good chuckle about it.  So I'm making note of that, for future reference.

One good thing that my current lack-of-a-life is affording me, however, is time to do things like read, and see movies! 

I've always been a huge fan of YA -- never stopped reading books for Y after I became an A, actually.  It's a guilty pleasure, only I don't always feel guilty about it because thank goodness there's a whole lot of very worthwhile literature for young people, and it seems to be on the increase.

Two of my recent favorites:

Both sophisticated, quirky and interesting.  Both spunky, charming and romantic.  Both written by men, which I found to be particularly intriguing --



teenage love stories written by men?
Fascinating and a breath of fresh air.

About time, I say.

One is obviously (and heavily!) illustrated by Maira Kalman -- a definite plus!

I'd highly recommend both, if you're looking for breezy summer reading that will make you laugh and smile and sigh a bit.

And speaking of smiling and sighing...

Another kiddie love story by a man --
a movie that I am completely smitten with:

Even if you're not busy raising time-wasting to an art form (as I am) you should take a little time out to see this magical movie!  Take the kids!  Or better yet, leave them home!  It is pure delight.  And yes, I admit I love Wes Anderson so I was biased from the moment I bought the ticket.  But still . . . Were you ever a kid?  If so, see the movie.

And I'd love to know what you're reading!  Please share! Because I have a feeling I'm going to have a little more time to kill, before all is said and done...

Yikes! June 20 already?!
Well then . . . Happy Summer!

Sunday Scribble.

Puddle, 1952, M. C. Escher

Wish You Were Here

it rained that day, we woke

to find morning dark gray

sky rumpled as the bed

windows slick-streaked

but okay since we were here

together, not much to do just

be, the rain tapping its toes

to our forever song, punctuation

marking memories -- now

there are footprints, reminders

tracked across my thoughts

my mind a puddle, our picture

a rippled postcard sent to show

exactly where we were 

and how, that day it rained 

-- smh

Thanks to M. C. Escher, 

and Tess at

Magpie Tales 

for the prompt -- 

click over for a few good reads

and then leave an idea of your own . . .

When we try 
to pick out anything by itself, 

we find it hitched 
to everything else in the universe.

-- John Muir

Chelsea turned me on to this quote while we were having lunch today, and I just loved it! 

It offers plenty of food for thought . . . 
so many idea paths to pursue, 
from physics to spirituality to ecology 
and on and on.  

What would be nice to know is, are the things I'm doing today impacting everyone and everything else to which I am hitched?  And if so, how?

Sort of the ultimate good question!  

And an interesting one to consider, especially at a time when I am existing in a life fermata of sorts:  occupied daily by the mindless, big-picture insignificance of things like keeping my house clean for showings, but also considering many options for reinventing my course when my journey resumes.

I should take it as a welcome pause.  They don't come often in life.  And I'll be forced to leap soon enough. But I do so love it when I hear something or read something or see something that gets my attention and causes me to look around at where I am and see it in a new light.

Thanks, Chelsea and John Muir, for the bit of Wednesday wisdom.  Please feel free to come up with something good for Thursday as well!  Because I can use all the help I can get.