muse

While I’ve had an account for a while over there, and I’ve yet to actually post anything, I’m finally on You Tube courtesy of one of my troupe-mates. Enjoy!

So my little hat refuses to come into being. I’ve been working hard at my first cabling project, a little hat in the “coronet” pattern from knitty. It looks straightforward, so I thought I would give it a shot.

Having ripped the band once and started over, I still believe it is straightforward. Or at least, that it should be. But I’m having wacky issues with the edge of my knitting. The cabling itself is no problem, but my “selvedges,” if you can even call them that are really loopy. I actually mean loopy in the literal sense — It looks like I’m getting an extra little loop or knot in there every time, which means that trying to fix an error by just chaining up the edge (which I learned how to do from this excellent tutorial by techknitting)results every time in something that looks like a slipped stitch at the base of the area I tried to correct. I’ll add photos, but for now I’m just venting.

I’m working the first and last stiches of every row — so knittng them one row, and purling them the next. I didn’t add any stitches or slip anything, because I’ve never done a pattern where I have to pick up stitches; and since the pattern calls for picking up a stich every three rows once the band is done, I was afraid that the slipped selvedge would throw me off when it came time to pick stuff up.

I’m willing to rip it out again, but not until I know what I’m doing wrong and how to fix it. So I’m off to Gauge tonight to buy needles for another project, and to beg and plead them to take a look.

WAH.

Again while trolling wine blogs, I found a great demonstration chez Dr. Vino of a furoshiki wine bottle carrier. What a fabulous idea! It’s so simple, pratical, and beautiful. I am never creative enough to think of that kind of thing on my own. Following the links, I took a peek at Japan’s Ministry of the Environment page on furoshiki foldings and usage. It struck me as a brilliant way to create workhorse carryalls, but also as a gorgeous way to wrap gifts. So I’m stashing it here for future inspiration. You can buy legit furoshiki online for about $10, but it seems like it would with any fabric or scarf of the right dimensions.

Neato!!

While I don’t run a wine blog (HA, this blog has never even pretended to have a theme), I follow a lot of wine blogs. I’m always looking to learn more about wine, largely for my own edification, but also just so I can hold my own with my hardcore oenophilic friends. Dr. Debs, who runs my favorite wine blog, has started momentum in the wine blogging community for a Wine Book Club — where every month, wine bloggers will get together to read, discuss, and review a wine book that’s been selected by a member of the community. I think it is a great idea, and while I’m not really a “wine blogger,” I plan to participate. You should too! The first WBC is being hosted by McDuff’s Food and Wine Trail and is a meaty volume on Italian wines. So head over there for the details. Eventually WBC will have it’s own home at www.winebookclub.org, but there’s not much to see there for now…

I’m in the throes of a hard-core knitting addiction these days. I’ve finished a scarf for my dad (a PoA Ravenclaw scarf this time, which I’m REALLY pleased with), a baby blanket for a friend, and I’m starting a hat which is also my first cabling project. I’m also spending faaaaar toooooo much time digging around on Ravelry. If you’re a knitter or crocheter, sign up for the beta. Do not question. Only do.

So yeah, that’s where the spare time goes. Not to my novel, which has been mentally marinating for quite a while (it is probably mushy by now). Not to my poor under-used blog. I’m even having to remind myself to go to the gym or jog, since I can always knit before bed.

Addiction is a scary thing, friends…

I really enjoyed the October challenge. I’m going to keep trying to do writing exercises on here. I’m not sure what the interval timeframe will be yet. I put a lot of thought into my New Year’s resolutions, so I give myself a month’s grace to really sit back, contemplate, select, and start acting. I figure that still counts, since I stick with them much better that way.

BTW, I made callbacks for that ensemble. Yay for the political plus of having a badass tenor for a hubby… I’m not proud. Whatever works. I just want to sing again.

Well, the audition was horrible. To start off, I was late getting out of work and therefore late to my audition. The gal had just sent the next person in in my place. So as if I wasn’t frayed enough already, I now looked irresponsible to boot.

When I finally went it, the room seemed as big as a football stadium. And very white. White, with a big black grand piano and a slight man in the middle of it. I have always been utterly terrified of him. I don’t know why, as he’s very nice. But I was literally quaking, head to toe. When I went to hand him my papers, you could hear them rattle dryly against each other in my unsteady hand.

He took them, sat down, and we started my song. My knees didn’t exactly hit each other under my skirt, but I could feel every single muscle in my body quivering. And I couldn’t catch my breath. And for a singing audition, that is a very very bad thing. Despite all the practicing I’ve been doing, besides feeling pretty comfortable with my piece, I breathily squeaked it out at a fraction of my usual power and volume. It was utterly humiliating.

He did some vocalizations with me afterwards, which went a little bit better. And then we chatted a bit, just about my job and such. Then he told me they’d be in touch. And then it was over.

I went outside and promptly dissolved into sobbing. I sat down under a crepe myrtle in front of the Methodist church’s pumpkin patch and cried and cried and cried for about half an hour. I managed to call my mom, who came to get me. She convinced me to go back in there and ask to reaudition at a later time. I don’t know how, but I did it. It added in spades to the humiliation, but at least I now feel I did what I could to remedy the awfulness that was my self-presentation. So far, no word back yet.

Mom took me to Trudy’s for dinner where I quickly downed a Mexican martini and refused to feel guilty about the beef fajita tacos or the brownie sundae (at least we split the dessert). Then I drove myself home to wait for Stv to appear, which didn’t happen until about ten-thirty. I cried and knitted the whole time. I was still teary this morning, but by midday I was feeling mostly recovered.

As the icing on a particularly rotten cake, I was so wrung out that I failed to do my writing last night. So with only a week to go in my commitment to do 301 words a day, I stumbled. I can no longer hold my head up and say I accomplished that goal.

And thanks to the Mexican food I’m about a pound heavier today.

NEAT.

Tonight I am panicking too much to write about anything other than my panic. I am re-auditioning to stay on the roster of a choral group I used to sing with about five years ago. I have been dwelling on it for six weeks or so, ever since it was scheduled. It’s been strangely draining just to think about it, that kind of deep seated stress that affects everything else, leading to a big fat crying jag on Thursday that took me out of my show that night. Neat.

It’s odd. I haven’t sung since I left the group, except for some caroling gigs. But I’ve been working on my piece and despite the hiatus, I feel I’m vocally almost stronger than I was when I was last part of the group. How weird is that? But I’m still just scared that I won’t quite be good enough. I don’t know how I’ve managed to build this up so much in my mind, but there it is. I swear, these ten minutes are looming larger than a new job, my wedding, or any of a host of other actually important things.

At least it will be over tomorrow, and then I can rest more easily. I have actually been practicing for once, so it is as good as it is going to get. Right? Right?

Ugh. Save me.

What else? Let’s see. I’m back in the middle of scarf-knitting. Because, you know, I didn’t have enough other projects going on. But this one is a present for my dad, so it’s a good cause.

I taught a bellydance workshop at a sorority meeting tonight. I had forty-five minutes to get thirty girls “up to speed” on shimmys, piston hips, lifts and drops, and some snaky arms. It sounds like the set up for a really bad movie, doesn’t it??

Once again I find myself trying to do this after midnight on a “school night,” so once again, you’re basically getting a blog entry. Sorry. I think it’s high time I posted some of my responses to this exercise I’m doing, and this seemed like a good opportunity. Here are a few of my observations…

1. Writing every day is really hard. Especially on the weekends. For some reason, I can’t get myself to sit down in the middle of the day and do this. It’s always at the end, when I’ve sucked up all the free time doing other things.
2. I find writing fiction scarier than writing about my everyday life. That surprised me a bit at first, but it makes sense the more I think about it. I am fairly open about my life, my thoughts, my insecurities. i am a thinker and a worrier and I’ve put hours into making myself more communicative, so that comes more and more easily. Fiction, however, is a window from the cold, analytical word directly into my imagination. And that feels much more vulnerable. It’s not about what happens to me. It is the stories I tell to myself when I’m idle. It’s a much deeper form of self-expression from my perspective.
3. I have a problem making characters act. They’re in constant danger of thinking themselves in circles for pages on end without so much as getting a fork from plate to mouth. Art imitating life? Quite possibly.
4. I like writing humor or mystery. I don’t like writing dramatic pieces. I keep bypassing writing exercises that would require me to get heavy. I don’t like making my characters cry. They can be scared or insecure or mad or hurt, but I hate reducing them to tears.
5. I have an over-affection for stingers. I run the risk of being one of those Dan Brown-esque authors, who ends every chapter with an evilly dramatic hook. While it does keep you reading untill three AM, by one you’re really sick and tired of being unable to find a stopping point.
6. It is nerve-wracking to know that people are out there reading these exercises, but saying nothing. Now yes, there’s no reason they should have to. But it makes me understand the abject terror with which other writers I know wait for that initial contest, editorial, or commercial feedback.

That’s it for tonight. Hopefully tomorrow we’ll get back to the writing. For now, sweet dreams!

Another late night means I’m going to excuse myself and just blog for my 301. I danced at Carousel Caravan tonight, which was a big deal to me. I’ve always thought of it as the one locale in town reserved for “real” dancers, with a clientele outside of other venues (even though most of it is boozy bar partrons, but hey). So it felt like a rite of bellydance passage for me.

The Carousel Lounge is an amazing place. If you have never been there, it’s a dive bar just off of the highway. The teensy strip of parking spaces fronts a building that is painted with a mural of free-form circus performers. My favorite are the twin fire-eaters in glitzy fringed red bras with flowers in their hair. When you walk in, there’s a jukebox and vinyl booths across from a large thrust-shaped bar. The room has a general patina of age, that indescribable grubbiness that you get in a well-loved public place. It’s not dirt, it’s just use.

The bar is beer, wine, and setups only, but there’s a liquor store next door. You’ll see everyone from sorority girls to workmen holed up at booths with a giant bottle of whiskey on the table and a few sodas sitting around. There’s a miniature carousel smack in the middle of the area behind the bar, decorated with silver tinsel and twinkle lights.

At the far end of the long, rectangular room is a landing strip shaped dance floor, which is presided over by a giant pink paper-mache elephant. Above him hang giant copper-colored tassles. The walls around him is adorned with another mural, this one inside the big top, with a wonky looking ringmaster and various animals.

Dividing the room are a few VERY old video game machines. Tonight, a patron was cleaning house on Ms. Pac-Man. It was impressive to watch! The tables have candy-cane backed chairs that seem to think three legs on the ground are all you really need. The fourth one is entirely optional, and keeps you alert. Maybe it’s the sobriety test?

I love this little place, and it’s wonderfully eclectic clientele. Everyone is super friendly. If you’re looking for a slice of “old Austin”, I recommend you check it out.

Write about a less-than-remarkable aspect of your life.

*****

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