I should definitely be studying...

I work hours at my two jobs then come home to work hours on my masters degree. Simply put, if I can find some time to create, it seems like a miracle. That, or I'm starting to procrastinate way more than I should.

Anyhoo, my latest necklace:

I was mostly just playing around, but this took awhile to make. My goal will be to make my own beads eventually, but for now I'm using store-bought beads. I got this idea from online, but I can't find where. I do like how it turned out, though. Granted, working with chain can be a pain, and I have a slight bruise on my left pointer finger from opening and closing the little chain-links. Worth the pain, in the end.

What I've Been Up To

This summer has become a time of creativity for me. Ever since I've come home from college, my hands have been furiously working on one project after another, and I still see many in my future. I figured I would share what I've made so far because if you ask me, it's pretty nifty stuff. Allow me to demonstrate:

T-Shirt Dress

 This dress above was made out of two large T-shirts. I went online and did some research about making simple dresses so that I could make another layer out of crochet, but decided those patterns were lame and made up my own. I will show the next layer to this after I finish making it, seeing as I just started.

London Dress Remix

 I bought this dress in London a year ago by accident. All right, not by accident, but truly I didn't mean to. I went to this market up in Camden Town and I thought this dress was cute, so I made the mistake of asking how much it was. The guy said fifteen pounds, which wasn't a bad price, but I only had twenty pounds on me and didn't want to spend all my money. As I walked away, he stopped me and asked why I didn't buy it. Long story short, I miraculously brought his price down to ten pounds and made off with the dress, only to find it a tad short. Wearable, but slightly out of my comfort zone, especially when I returned to the conservative States. Therefore, I decided to change the skirt (and the buttons, I lurve these buttons) to make it more me. Methinks I have succeeded.

Crocheted necklace

I have made at least three of these necklaces. I got the pattern from the book Austentatious Crochet by Melissa Horozewski. I have fallen in love with this book and also made the pocket book as well (but that's a present, so I'm not showing it. Not to mention a small cape for my nice outfits). I'll probably end up making almost everything in the book with little touches like these coin beads.This one I simply happened to make for myself and I've decided working with small yarn sucks, but the end result is so darn pretty, I can't help myself.

Well, there you have it. If you ever asked the question: what does an art major do after college? Here's your answer. We continue to create and work, but instead of projects chosen by our professors, we have to be a tad bit more independent. I do have an idea for a series of paintings (or charcoal, color pencils, something...), but I'm having far too much fun crafting. Until later then, I will have my finished crocheted dress up soon... I hope!

What I Want to Do While Alone at Work

I work at a library, but I am simply part time and usually cover shifts my four other coworkers don't really want to work. For example, today is Saturday, and the library's only open for four hours, wherein I am all alone with my thoughts, a myriad of books, and plenty of space. Here are some of the things I would like to do instead of simply sitting behind the Circulation Desk...

1. Dance between the shelves to my favorite music.
2. Sneak around as I pretend it's the zombie apocalypse and I'm the last living human.
3. Seek out the Literature section and NEVER LEAVE.
4. Do cartwheels between the tables in the study area.
5. Dance on the study tables.
6. Sit in the art gallery and simply stare at the art for an hour or two.
7. Play with the large globe and see where my finger lands when I spin it.
8. Go into the basement and search for hidden treasures.
9. Read all the Juvenile books.
10. Turn off all the lights and pretend I'm on a mission as I explore the dark nooks and crannies.

I really do love working in a library. Not simply because I'm a huge bibliophile, but because I like the people, the atmosphere, and the chance to continue to learn. A library is a safe place full of knowledge, where the silence can calm and the smell of books can warm your soul. Even in a completely empty library, one doesn't have to feel alone as long as she knows how to find a good book, a comfy seat, and lose herself in her own imagination.

Scraps

Now, I'm no poet, I'll tell you that now and apologize for the awkwardness of what will soon follow. I simply prefer the flow of prose and ignore the whole stanzas and rhyming thing. It always has confused me on how many rules poetry can have, and yet also say to throw out all of those "guidelines" and wing it. I'm aware of how prose also has rules like grammar and verb tense and such to follow, but those as well can be ignored if you do it right and/or intentionally. For some reason though, poetry just seems like slopping through two feet of snow: awkward, unusual, and tiring.

Then again, practicing poetry is good for prose, and my one friend has offered to put my words to music if I ever send anything to her. On a similar note, my grandmother passed away a couple of weeks ago and I'm taking it harder than I expected. Writing poetry and crocheting have really helped me cope, as well as focusing on my plans for the future. So here is simply a girl remembering her favorite aspects of her grandmother and trying to keep the memory of such a strong woman alive.

Nimble fingers, thin
Long and pale,
Expertly weave yarn,
Thread, or string.
A pause and point,
Her nail sparkles
In the fading light,
Her words of wisdom
Lost to naive ears.

Frosted eyes behind
Thick round lenses
Marked with a line ----
A German nose
Shades thin lips on a
Round, soft face. Irma smiles,
Cracking the ice.

This one is actually about my grandmother's/ aunt's house, which will probably be sold soon. It's where my father grew up and where I have always gone for the fondest memories with my family.

Simple white with evergreen trim,
A bench swing on the porch,
Sliding in the breeze.
The actual shape of the exterior
Escapes my wandering mind, but
The memories live within the house
Framed in dark wood molding,
Bathed in warmth,
Smelling like home-cooked meals and laundry,
Squished around a gargantuan dining table,
Decorated in Christmas lights, and
Covered under a hand-knit afghan,
Made just for you.

Grayscale

The world may not be BLACK and WHITE, but it sure has a lot of gray, and that’s the kind of art I like to do. Charcoal, ink, and pencil are my favorite mediums, ignoring the abundant array of colors available to me. Roy G. Biv could never keep up with my amazing grayscale. I like concentrating on the shades of an object, seeing how the light highlights its point of impact, forcing all else into shadow. A few quick scratches with my quill and I create crosshatching, which although I only use one dark thick line, I somehow can make an assortment of tones. Who needs color when you can say everything in monochrome?

           

Grays are the hardest colors to make. First, start with two complimentary colors—let’s say red and green. Note, green in a secondary color, so first mix blue and yellow together, and then add red. After a nice brownish sludge appears, begin adding white. Magically, the color drains from the paint, but leaves hints of the reds and blues that once existed. Those little mistakes scream your secret: that no matter how much you see the world as gray, the color still shines through.

(Simply another piece I wrote for Creative Writing Nonfiction)

Turkey Dinner

All           our

                around       house, 

little turkeys watch with unblinking eyes from tables and cabinets. One stands proudly beside a 

PAIR of PILGRIMS, made of wood and painted in exquisite detail. Another, made of plastic has a ?questionable? hole in its back. Perhaps it's supposed to hold a cup? Nah, too small. One hides

_________a philodendron

under                         

in the dining room, peeking out behind the heart-shaped leaves to watch those who pass by. At first, you might not notice these strange birds all over the place, but after you find them, you will see them every time.

My family bought my mother these little turkeys as a joke, and every year the story gets told

again and again and again and again...

around Thanksgiving. My father tells it best, because he sat in the front passenger seat right next to mother. But I think I can tell a mean story as well.

In the summer of 2003, my family decided to travel around the continental United States. We drove across to

the   G  R  A  N  D    C  A  N  Y  O  N,

up to BrYcE and ZioN Canyon,

then finally over to MOUNT RUSHMORE

before heading back towards back to Ohio. My mother and father were the only two who could drive, since my sister Maureen was the oldest at 15. I had only been 13 for a few months, and Micheal came in last at 10. We relaxed in the back of my father's seven-passenger van with a pop-up camper in tow. On top of our van, we had an extra storage container known as a BIG MAC to hold a few extra objects and give us a bit more leg room.

The night before we arrived at the campground near MOUNT RUSHMORE, my mother was driving. It was late, and the rest of us (including my father in front) were dozing off... I had put down my book awhile ago when the sun went down, and now only barely registered the headlights through the front windshield. My eyes

kept...

        slowly...

                  closing...
          as sleep took over...

"I'm gonna hit it, I'm gonna hit it..." my mother hissed, her hands gripping the steering wheel. She had a tendency to repeat phrases when she became flustered and worried. My father shook his head to wake up and glared out the window. We three children in the back leaned to try and see better. A semi truck rumbled towards us, but it was on its own side of the road and nowhere near our van.

"The semi's not going to hit us, it's on the other side of the road," my father sighed.
"Not that, THAT! The turkey!" Mother said, jabbing the air hurriedly before latching her hands back to the wheel. We all squinted our eyes and tried to see past the blaring lights of the truck. Sure enough, a small speck of a bird had just crossed the double yellow line and was heading into our way.

 

                                                "Slow down!" Father said.

 "I'm trying!"                                                        

                                          "Swerve to the right!"

"I CAN'T!"                                                   

"SWERVE TO THE RIGHT!"

As my parents bickered, the bird came CLOSER and CLOSER.  My heart raced and I stared in horror as finally the turkey disappeared from view. Suddenly a large shape leaped into the air, thudding into the top of the windshield with a

THUMP!

Then it s k i d d e d across the top of the van, hit the BIG MAC, and flew right into the front of the oncoming semi.

A moment of silence automatically occurred inside the van. We looked about in disbelief and wondered what to do. Sleep became the last thought on our minds.

 

 

 

 

 

By the time we came to the campground, we started to find the fowl-hit-and-run funny. As morning arrived, it was down-right hilarious. Who knew turkeys could jump so high? My brother climbed up onto the top of the van to check the condition of the BIG MAC, but also to see if any feathers got stuck. ever since then, we have told the story

1...2...3...4...5...6...7...8...9...10...11...12...13...14...15...16...17...18...19...20...21...22...23...24...

COUNTLESS

times and my family jokes that my mother should never cook turkey, since as my father says,

"we all know she'll just go out and hit one with her car."

This year, a few remarks were made and mother even thought of using black licorice to make tire marks on top of the cooked bird. We told the story to my sister's friend who came to visit, keeping the joke alive. In my mother's defense, she always replies,

"Hey, I thought turkeys could fly!"

I'm Back~

I'm now back in the US of A and doing work once again in my home university. That being said, I've already created a few new works in my Creative Writing: Nonfiction class. This piece, I quite literally just wrote, but I like it. It's an exercise to practice not using passive verbs such as to be. If you find anything of the sort, please comment because then I can go in and get rid of it!

Enjoy!

Liberty Trail

(The path beside Euclid Creek, off of Liberty Road South Euclid, OH)

            The creek bubbles and spits as it swishes over the shale stones. It sinks under man-made bridges, past houses of all shape and sizes, and hides between patches of tall trees. The leaves fall into the burbling water, running away from their duties as curtains from the outside world. Come, follow me to a magical place full of mystery. Sneak behind the suburbanized streets and into a land still untouched by man. The trees whisper secrets as they sway their branches back and forth, making the sunlight dance along the shale. In one direction, all becomes nature. In another, houses and domestic life peek between thick trunks. Ducks, deer, squirrels, and chipmunks dash in and out of sight, slipping gracefully away from the dangers of humanity. Invisible birds chirp from high in the canopy, lending their voices to drown out that of hissing tires and the laughter of small children, just now on their way home from school.

            One ford crashes together just barely out of the reach of civilization. Heavy rainfall pushes the rocks, transforming the creek’s personality. Sometimes crossing the ford can be an easy bridge over piles of shale and soil. Other times, only stray rocks from distant lands help the weary traveler across. Humanity pours opaque substances down into the clear water occasionally. The change forces away the innocent creatures until the weak current can pull the harmful chemicals out of sight. Until then, the creek acquires an even stranger appearance. Yet even as much as humans appear and fill the stream with plastic and trash, it pushes on. Euclid Creek has seen the time before man, and if for a moment silence could reign, all could hear its secrets.