Thursday, July 28, 2016

Triple Threat Thursday


Playing with FLOW Magazine is like having a play date every time you open the cover. There's something for every mood. There's simple. There's complicated. There's stuff I still don't know what to do with. But I try.


I don't want to know the joy of missing a party just yet, so I haven't read the article. Instead, I chose to have my own party. A bunting party! Yea-uh! 



This is so much fun y'all. Cutting tiny shapes can be zen-like. Time and space slip away, and it's just paper, scissors, and you. No, no glue. Not yet.


Oh! And the Force. Always, the Force.




Wednesday, July 27, 2016

Wednesday's Wink



Blue bunting.
Blue bunting does not mean I'm blue.
Blue simply looks good with gray.
The  end.

Tuesday, July 26, 2016

Tuesday's Turn





"I urge you to please notice when you are happy, and exclaim or murmur or think at some point, "If this isn't nice, I don't know what is." kurt vonnegut

"If this isn't nice, I don't know what is." limner c


Writing a letter has the same effect.

Monday, July 25, 2016

Monday Morning Mail Bunting




What began as a monochromatic theme quickly morphed into something else. Why? I could not find all my grays, is why. It really is pretty though, but I cannot show the address. Sorry. That does not mean I will not try again. After Monday.



Sunday, July 24, 2016

Bunting, Bunting, Who's Got the Bunting?

There is no such question, is there? I honestly believed it was a line from a nursery rhyme. Never mind. This post is still about fun bunting. I called it something quite different until Anna set me straight. And I grew up disliking bunting. Why? Since it's so much fun now? Well, I disliked it because we always had to untangle the Christmas bunting for my grandmother's tree. That mess was always tangled! And they gave the job to the children because the adults for sure didn't have the patience for it. So what made them think we did? I hated that angel hair stuff too. It was asbestos! They made that stuff forbidden because they didn't want to hear us whine while we scratched our itches, which was fine by me. Those poisonous decorations are still packed away in my grandmother's country closet. Surely the bunting has rotted and gone to the things-from-childhood's-past graveyard--all dust and detritus. (sigh) So, here's to a week's worth of bunting.

Bunting mail. Actual bunting. Shared bunting . . . A bunting a day will keep the dust buntings away. 





Sunday's Bunting Mail is destined to be posted on Monday. Monday's goes posting on Tuesday. Tuesday's heads out on Wednesday . . . Let's see if I can keep this up for seven days. Wait. I haven't even done the Thirteen Letters Challenge yet! A bit ahead of myself, huh? Perhaps, but I'm certainly not bored. Not much beats paper fun for keeping boredom at bay, until it gives up and goes away, for good. Or only until it comes back to spur a body onward and up!

Let us bunt together. Summer's the perfect bunting weather. Bunt on!

Sunday, July 10, 2016

How to Embrace Bouts of Insomnia



When I don't know what to do with myself I do well if I simply go with the flow. Remembering to let go is the thing I need to remember most. How does one create the habit of recall what you already know? I mean, how difficult is remembering to let go? Aha! I got it. It happens when the mind remembers to be still. 

I've been going through my restless mode a lot lately. No remembrance required for that. Why not? Nothing satisfies my inner urges. No book does. You would shake your head in wonder if you saw the small stack I've picked up, and put down. There are small piles of books, paper, magazines, letters begun and put aside, abandoned projects, cameras primed and ready for some memorable shot that waits in the making . . . The only thing that seems to capture and hold my attention is the heat and the wind outside. Large blocks of time are devoted to sitting on the patio, watering sered grass, trees, plants, and imagining without structure. I imagine the fine grit blown where it falls with abandon and randomness to have come from the world-away-Sahara, with purpose and pre-ordained planning. We are in a direct path after all, so Houston is hazy. Knowing we're holding onto soil blown from some desert allows my fantasy to take flight. The things I imagine would make you laugh! Silly me. Silly me having fun, and picking grit from my teeth!

All that sunshine puts me to bed at night like a gentle mother's proffering of warm milk. Most nights. Truth is, I am a certified night owl. Used to be I prowled. With a camera. The things I captured! But no more. Insomnia comes and goes like the Sahara winds. It, like the sands, have a purpose. I embrace it. It is beneficial if one looks on it as a fact of life. Don't fight. Resistance is futile.

For me, insomnia is simply not sleeping when the rest of the world goes to bed with the chickens. Instead of fretting I get busy. I go from studio to bed, to studio and back again, stealthily, so as not to wake the dead, and create some of my best work. 



Once in a blue moon I fall asleep with the lamp on. Before that happens I manage to  read, write, or create my own style of mail art-- if the mood strikes, seeing as how I'm not very good at  traditional mail art. Inspiration comes when and where it will. Last night I picked up a copy of HI FRUCTOSE. It pays to always have sharp blades on hand. Sharing is a good thing. While I'm sure great artists would put this to good use, I cannot even use it for an envelope. So. I share.



No, it doesn't cause nightmares. Or headaches. Or drive me to drink. I simply do not understand it. So, I share. There are artists in my address book who will take the pages and run with them. Until they go out in tomorrow's mail, I return to the tools I know. They either hold insomnia at bay, or beckon it closer until sleep embraces it and falls on me like a veil. I peacefully float away to the land of Nod, to return in the morning.