Regaining serenity

This morning provided an opportunity to take a carload of things from "the weekend studio" to the flat. Many books were among these things. Nor is this quite all the things from the studio and house ... the sewing machine and printer are still there.

For the past two weeks I've been sifting through the studio contents and piling things in one place -

Here it is on my doorstep, hastily bundled together and waiting to be carried up the final sets of stairs -

 The living room in temporary turmoil -

 ... and in the studio, the floor is in danger of disappearing again -

 With some careful selection of same-sized books, many were sequestered behind the desk -

 ... and once again the room looks more tranquil -

One room needs to be serene and welcoming. Then the rest can be tackled, one bag at a time.

Sorting ... postcards

When the box fell off a shelf, it was a signal. These arty postcards, avidly collected in the early 90s, when I started doing art and textile courses, needed to be moved on. They'll be going to a charity that does art therapy with children, The Art Room.

Some of the cards had fallen out, and seeing the writing on the back I started going through and taking these "personal" ones out. Wonderful to see the different handwritings, each conjuring up the sender. (I also found quite a few that I'd written but hadn't sent.) All to be kept for future perusal.

The cards had been filed by category -

"Feet" contained just five cards -

(click on image to enlarge)

I took out a few "interesting" cards to keep, and some "series" to photograph, just for the memory.

Also I finally went through years of accumulated Christmas cards - why keep them bundled up if you never look at them? A photo will serve as well -

Signs and portents

Hopeful signs back at the flat, as home renovation (and clearing) continues.

From this -

 ... to this -

"How we live now"

 And in the studio, another hopeful sign -

I needed to quickly enclose the edges of a couple of UFO quilts found in a bag in the hell-hole upstairs, which is being emptied "one bag at a time".

The quilts are lap, or child, sized. They'd been in a bag for perhaps 12 years. Perhaps longer. They needed a wash, first of all - this one had rust stains, which disappeared on application of lemon juice.

You might call this a random-cut, pieced strippy, using hand dyes and white-on-white fabrics. The top third has been free machine quilted by going round the flowers and cherubs on the backing. The rest is held together with safety pins.

The other is about the same size (the feet give the scale) and was hand quilted in the 1980s. But beige?? what was I thinking! ("First there's beige and then there's death...")

One edge, and the backing, has been turned in to finish it; the backing is stained. I'll wash it and see what happens, but its future is doubtful. (Dye it? Continue the quilting? Cut it up? Throw it out?) Any takers?

Also in that bag is a small piece made maybe 10 years ago, just for fun, which is now being put to use as a table mat -

No need to be precious with this one, it's closely quilted and can take it.

Red dots

... and a red door ...

...and a red house ...

Poetry Thursday - February by Margaret Atwood

February 2012, Kew Gardens

February

Related Poem Content Details

BY MARGARET ATWOOD

Winter. Time to eat fat 

and watch hockey. In the pewter mornings, the cat, 

a black fur sausage with yellow 

Houdini eyes, jumps up on the bed and tries 

to get onto my head. It’s his 

way of telling whether or not I’m dead. 

If I’m not, he wants to be scratched; if I am 

He’ll think of something. He settles 

on my chest, breathing his breath 

of burped-up meat and musty sofas, 

purring like a washboard. Some other tomcat, 

not yet a capon, has been spraying our front door, 

declaring war. It’s all about sex and territory, 

which are what will finish us off 

in the long run. Some cat owners around here 

should snip a few testicles. If we wise 

hominids were sensible, we’d do that too, 

or eat our young, like sharks. 

But it’s love that does us in. Over and over 

again, He shoots, he scores! and famine 

crouches in the bedsheets, ambushing the pulsing 

eiderdown, and the windchill factor hits 

thirty below, and pollution pours 

out of our chimneys to keep us warm. 

February, month of despair, 

with a skewered heart in the centre. 

I think dire thoughts, and lust for French fries 

with a splash of vinegar. 

Cat, enough of your greedy whining 

and your small pink bumhole. 

Off my face! You’re the life principle, 

more or less, so get going 

on a little optimism around here. 

Get rid of death. Celebrate increase. Make it be spring.

(via poetryfoundation.org, with thanks to Sally)

In eastern Canada, the winter winds blow cold from November to March, if not longer - and February is often called "suicide month". It's vacation time for people who can afford it, fleeing to the Caribbean for some much-needed warmth and sunshine, enough to last out the rest of the winter. 

The poem was published in 1995, but sex and territory, famine and pollution, are always with us.  Greedy whining, too.

Anxiety etc

Work has started on the resurfacing of the road outside, with the excitement of watching the big machines tearing up the tarmac and then replacing it -

Resurfacing was needed - sleep has been disturbed in early mornings and late at night by the buses having a clear run, at what sounds like breakneck speed, down to the bus stop. Under the road just outside the house is a pipe, and the tarmac tends to sink at just that spot, causing juddering. A fresh surface will hopefully stop that for a while.

So it was with some despair that on waking I heard the buses speeding by and felt increased juddering, along with some alarming sounds like the wood in the walls cracking. Immediately my imagination went into overdrive - not a good way to wake up, and all morning I couldn't settle to anything.

Having eaten some chocolates left over from Christmas, and made a second big pot of coffee - and feeling more anxious than ever - I decided to go out and speak to "the guys" and find out what was happening. It was reassuring - there will be a second layer of asphalt, and that will make a difference. (Though the proof of that pudding will be in the eating.)

In the menatime, having spread my gloom and fears to several friends in emails, coincidentally I read this article while having coffee. "A trouble shared is a trouble multiplied" - oh dear!

Anxiety wants to travel from one person to another ...

When it comes to worry and anxiety ... unlike other negative emotions, they seem productive; chewing over a problem feels like doing something about it. And so we’d like others to share our worry: that way, several people will be “working” on the problem. The hitch, of course, is that worry isn’t really productive: usually, it’s a distraction, and leads to lower-quality work. 

And note this:

Worrying is the practice of trying to reach a state of serenity by engaging in precisely the activity that guarantees you’ll never get there. So you’re hardly helping an anxious person by joining them in this self-defeating spiral. 

This is the helpful bit:

At [Mike Montiero's] design studio, they have a rule: Stop Adopting Other People’s Anxiety. “Once a client becomes anxious,” Monteiro writes, “their primary goal becomes to make you anxious, because that justifies their own anxiety.” 

Being calm keeps your worry level in check. Calm and action. What one little thing can you do about it right now - talk to someone? make a list? clear a space? empty a bag? go for a walk?

Walking on the Isle of Dogs