A cautionary tale...

Last Monday I decided it was a day to get organised.  And therefore, I did three things:

• Took down the Christmas decorations
• Shaved my legs
• Washed all my bloomers

In retrospect it was akin to a woman shaking her fist to the gods and daring them to send in the Mack trucks...

... and they obliged.

Earlier this week a new schwack of snow hit the city. It was a magnificent big fluffy luminescent  snowflake morning which came with an underlying bit of caution. Black ice lurked beneath some of the snowy surfaces. (Sorta like the alluring siren song of aquamarine white wave tipped waters - which just happen to be shark infested).  I hopped on my bike and looked forward to my morning commute. I planned to stay on the sidewalk, go slow and praised myself for having studded winter tires.  I was moving along quite well when suddenly... I slipped.

Looks like I have plenty of time to brush up on my crochet skills now... and time to reflect on the futility of trying to get ahead of the game when it comes to the mundane day to day stuff.

Happy New Year (belated)...

Listening to History - Bill Woodrow (sculpture)

Good morning! And welcome to my first second official "Judi Day" of 2012.  I'm hoping they won't necessarily all be like this one, as we  "roll in"  the New Year with carpet installers arriving shortly. The house is in chaos. 

***I wrote this last Monday and didn't get it posted on time... if I scratch the whole thing and start over, I anticipate another entry that doesn't make it to the blogosphere  - so I'm just going with the flow.***

New Years Day was spent moving, dissembling, tossing and of course the annual renegotiation of space (which is a premium commodity in our abode).


" I'll trade you -  your room with the window for my room with more square footage."
"But you have a hole behind the door..."
"...Leave the door open perhaps?"


One thing I hate about moving all "this stuff"... is it becomes glaring apparent to all - that I have alot of stuff. Spinning wheels, looms, sewing machines, knitting yarns, weaving yarns, and all the infinite accessories and tools that go with each endeavor. And of course, the ever expanding library of books. I am a book sucker. I love books. Mine are mostly "how to" or art books of every description. When they're tucked away in bookcases they aren't so obtrusive, but as they creep out of knitting bags, and onto tabletops and counters and bedside floor space they become more obvious. When they need to be moved upstairs, downstairs, from room A to room B... well let's just say statements like "something must be done!" hang heavily in the air like the smell of bacon on a Sunday morning.

Having said that - I love my books. I like looking at them, holding them, adding little stickies to pages to remember anticipated projects perfect for handspun yarn or the orphan skein rescued from a bargain bin on my travels. As I write this I realize I have always been more of a person who is just as excited by the idea of the project (the imagining of it) - than a person who needs to sees it to physical completion to be satisfied. A project or idea can dance in my head for quite awhile and the vast majority need never evolve further than being a theoretical stitch on a needle; or a fibre of thoughts ever spinning.

(One week later: still climbing over books and magazines and buckets of yarns, and boxes of fabrics...)