Monday, October 24, 2005
Now, as a child, I would sometimes say, "But it's not fair!" And my mother would shrug her shoulders and respond with, "Life's not fair." splutter, splutter, uh, uh... Oh for cryin' out loud, what kind of answer is that? It was the truth. Life isn't fair. Isn't that crummy? It really stinks. I've been giving a lot of thought to Debra's (Spincic) assertion that our work spaces tell others a lot about us. Maybe I've been giving it too much thought. But I come from a large and illustrious family of obsessive compulsives and that's what we do. We compulsively obsess. We roll things around in our minds- some of us whistling the whole while. We pick it apart- we're not to be trusted around anything mechanical, unless you're looking for a complete overhaul. We poke, we prod, we pinch- some harder than others. If you have any extra flesh on the back of your arm (and who doesn't?) you better make sure ya stay a good couple feet away from my Dad. We research- how does that really work? We accumulate seemingly useless bits of information. I am absolutely certain that there is not one single question out there that somebody in my family doesn't know the accurate answer to. But of course, when we share our knowledge, the rest of us feel compelled to say, "Naw. You're kidding?!" Really. So after carefully considering the question of whether my work space tells others a lot about me... ah nuts. It does. They might see that I'm creative and that my mind is busy. They may see that I'm sentimental and silly. They might see that I'm passsionate about my family and quilts. But they'd see a lot of other things, too. Things I can't explain. Or don't want to explain. I'm a disaster, of sorts. And when you're that disaster that others see- well, the least of your problems is that others will notice! But it's not fair! What's that line from, "Cold Mountain?" "Ruby Thues, you are a K-tastrophy." That about sums it up. But you know? I don't want to be a K-tastrophy. So, I cleaned my quilting room- "I'd never, NEVER call it a "studio." That implies that an artist creates here- whoa whoa whoa! Way too high expectations...just the resident disaster at work. So I call it my "shop." My shop has been pristinely orderly and clean for several days now and yet... it doesn't seem to be having a positive influence on the mess within. My Mom said, yesterday, that I'm chained down and that while it seems like I'm moving... I'm really only going in circles. Could that be true? Well, she was right about the whole, "Life isn't fair" business. Anybody got a pair of boltcutters? "Cause I might be forced to gnaw off my own leg!