Rx: glass
I’m bushwhacking. Cutting my way through, chopping at the giant weeds that have sprung up, shaking off the moss, getting an encouraging glimpse at the sky now and then, even if it is balanced by the occasional boot full of mud. Sucking swamp mud. Lo and behold, a clear space ahead…why, it’s my blog! Poor old abandoned ruin. The blog, or maybe even me. Take your pick.
It happens over and over in my life: a kind of paralysis, anxiety run amok, a demand to know how it will all turn out before I even start. This is not conducive to anything, really, so instead I do nothing. For a long time. Sinking under the pressure. That swamp mud is vile, sticky stuff.
I escape the same way every time: one project, no thinking, just doing. Then another. Then another. I know I’m on the way back today. I’ve sewed the first approximation of some Christmas gifts. Mopped the kitchen floor. Went to the craft store. And then I cut glass. (It cut me back, but that’s only fair.) Played with all my new supplies, some fiber paper, Thinfire paper, circle cutter. Got some kiln-carving experiments in the kiln ramping down as I type. So surely the worst is over.
Thinking is still causing me some trouble. I believe I need more color and design, less verbal expression. Which is odd, because my talents have always been the other way around. But I was curiously happy just resting my eyes on a pile of bright transparent turquoise shards today. If they weren’t so sharp, I’d carry them around with me.
Hmm. Well, there’s beads. Duh. Bright transparent turquoise beads might do the trick. And I need more projects.
iridescent plans
Now I’m scared. I’m just home from a buying binge in Austin…daughter Shan’s wedding reception/party is coming up and I need a dress, so I headed for Silk Road in Austin, which is the only fabric store truly worth its pins around here, and now I have six, lord help me, six yards of dupioni to cut into. I actually invented this fabric for a fictional character a while back, a peacock blue silk shimmering with purple overtones–or undertones, or whatever you call that shimmery thing dupioni does–and there it was in the store, fated to be my dress. If I don’t blow it. And I cannot afford to blow it. Shan keeps reminding me it’s a casual event, and the dress pattern itself is casual. The celebration is in the fabric.
Then on to Blue Moon to buy glass for our next fusing class project and it was all the same scheme, peacock dichro and irid on black, shimmery and shiny and food enough for my glass hunger for one week. No, never enough. But sufficient unto the day is the credit card damage thereof.
you will get burned
You will get cut. You will get burned. If this troubles you, take painting lessons.
That’s my favorite warm-glass t-shirt. But this week it’s too hot to melt glass. Or shall I embrace the obvious hyperbole: it’s almost hot enough outside to melt glass. It’s definitely too hot to sit in front of a torch. The kiln can soldier on, though–it’s not going to make the garage perceptibly warmer. I’m still on bottles, although I’ve overcooked a few in my zeal. It’s nice being able to experiment on free trash. I bought a couple of casting molds too, and some mica powder to play with. Glass crushing is to become my next skill. Seems easier than precision cutting, whereat I have not yet arrived.
Everything outside is getting burned just sitting there. We’re breaking all kinds of heat records this week. We’re on stage 2 water restrictions, and I continue to indulge murderous fantasies directed at my lawn and so-called landscaping. I’m thinking a nice rock garden for next year…for growing rocks. They don’t drink much.
Creatures are suffering and on the move looking for water. T and Milo even saw a porcupine the other day. Milo was on a leash or we’d have a disaster story to tell. The chickens are quite put out and wait impatiently for noon every day when I let them out of the hot chicken yard into the hot backyard, where there is at least a little green shade left to enjoy. Mojo, that most sensible old dog, wants to go outside only three times a day: once for dawn patrol, once to help me feed the chickens, and once for dinner in the evening. Otherwise he’s counting his blessings and his zzzzzz’s in air-conditioned bliss.
Scheduled trips to Portland and Finland sustain me. But Portland has Bullseye glass. Finland has Iittala. There’s no escaping this heat. Glass is always hotter than whatever else is happening.
sagging stuff
I guess everybody who gets a kiln slumps a few bottles. I don’t mind being one of the herd. Saggy bottles are neato. Everybody likes them. And they’re not entirely predictable, so there’s always that moment of great anticipation just before lifting the kiln lid.
The Martini & Rossi bottle that went out to Dad on Sunday: 
This is a vermouth bottle so it seemed right for an olive tray complete with little forks.
The blue one here is a Bombay Sapphire gin bottle. I’ve taken up collecting odd shapes. Can’t wait to see what happens to the boot:
So thanks, littering douchehounds who drive through my neighborhood on Saturday nights. I’ll take your empty beer bottles and use them for general niftiness.
You can keep those used condoms, though. They’ll never sell on Etsy.
