I spent all day Sunday sorting out my external hard drive. Its old enough now so I’m feeling like I have to back up the hard drive with another hard drive. No way will I ever have time to sit down and put all those 7000 photos on CDS! Add to that the fact that I’m hoping to scan in all the ancient family photos yellowing in a box about six feet above my head at present and you can see why I’m cranky.
How on earth did I manage to get all those in there and what was I thinking when I named file folders things like 123 dump and best photos and to print? Add to that Nimue Moved 07–which had 40 other folders inside it and you begin to get an idea of the crabby level I attained in six hours. I desperately long to start building more complex digital images but I have to get them in order from chaos to find the ones I want. (imagine teeth gnashing here…)
Why doesn’t my generation age well? Why are we so resistant to getting old and heading downhill like our parents and grandparents? My grandma looked like a granny when she was 50, hell 40 as far as I can tell from old photos. I couldn’t really relate to where she was in space and time until I started getting older and accepting that yes, my children were going to reproduce and their children would call me grandma. I’m still not ready for that name to be applied to me although I love my grandchildren dearly. I have old grandma baggage I’m carrying around in the shape of a negative stereotype and I can’t shake it. When I was really young that granny thing was a really positive stereotype to me but as time crept on, it changed when it ran over me at the speed of some cosmic snail.
My grandma was comforting, warm and forgiving. She was round and had iron-gray hair she wore in hairnet. She always wore a housedress and an apron, the complete granny package. She and my mother loathed each other which made her a great ally because through my teen years I pretty much loathed my mom too. As time marched on I started encountering these creepy Las Vegas grannies–the ones you see in white capris, big flowery shirts, straw hats and rhinestoned studded sunglasses. I think LVGs are worse than comfort grannies if I had to choose, but the thing is I’m not ready to try and fit into either mold. I get a shock when I look in the mirror. What the hell happened? Inside I’m not this old, I’m somewhere in my 50’s okay? I don’t want to be put outside the door of everything au courant and left to howl in the wilderness and play old records and whine about how it used to be.
How is it that we all try to find slots, cubbyholes and places, to put everyone so neatly? I’m as bad as the next person measuring, judging, figuring it out and assigning people places in my pigeon-hole desk of life. The problem is that my mental roll top desk is now so full with all my life experiences that when I open the lid everything comes tumbling out and falls on the floor. Sometimes I think that’s better except when I have to remember where the hell I put the IRS bill that is due NOW. For the most part I think It’s better to have everyone tossed in a sort of wonderful acceptance salad. I reach in and what I get out is what I get out. I’m trying to let go of my pre-conceived notions of who they should be for me, its a salad in progress…
Television is not my friend, it insists on categorizing everything– and on the level of the lowest common-dumb denominator too. Ads with people of a certain age are all for things that make you stop peeing, start having sex, start pooping, stop getting even more wrinkled, stop falling down and breaking things, and creepiest of all? The ads with people a few years further down the road wearing little alarms around their necks like dog collars in case they fall down and can’t get up, placed there by their loving children I’m sure. Maybe that’s why I refuse to join the lemmings in their rush off the cliff. I haven’t figured out how to age gracefully yet. I’m still kicking and screaming and bitching every step of the way down that long slope. I still have so much to do and see and make and think about, and that’s why this child of the 60’s hasn’t figured out how to get old yet. I’m just not ready.
I am losing ground on this big document I am wrestling with. Its like eating a dinosaur. I don’t know what its supposed to look like but I’ve found a toenail and now I have to eat the whole thing. I think I’m done with the legs and one arm….
Gimp, a replacement for mega spendy Adobe Photoshop has seduced me with all it can do. I have put up three magical shots so far. And more, more, more will be hatched….
Here it is, Monday again. Worked all weekend on art stuff. Fabric weird dolls, felted creatures, even took a flying leap at some digital imaging manipulation. I did give myself a mental break with a trip to the nursery. It may not be Spring quite yet, everything is mucky brown and gray still and only shoots are poking out of the dirt to show where they will be staking a claim in the next month or so.
The notable exception is my stunning early, early clematis which is covered in buds and beginning to show white flowers. I long for a warm day with sunshine to coax the intoxicating fragrance out of the opened flowers. Meanwhile back at the ranch, I splurged and blew $60 on plants that have COLOR in them. Ranuculus that look like upside down can-can skirts, primroses that come in such amazing Mexican colors and frilled pansies. Who knew? These are wondrous, regular pansies with a permanent wave. The poodles of the pansy world. I love them all, and it was a treat to pass them in their cardboard box sitting on the deck in the rain this morning.
After slugging down my coffee, I trekked out to the studio and just that filip of color added a zip to my morning. But now, its time to focus on getting out the nice, dry, tight words that fit a bid going to nice, tight, dry people who will be deciding between their suitors based on just these words. Deadllines loom and I continue to hunt for balance.
Two weeks left before the one-day gigantic Capital Food and Wine Festival. My 15th poster is on the streets, okay, on walls all over town now. As always it’s a complete shock to go to the grocery store and see my painting as a poster plastered on the entrance of the grocery store that knows me so well I could show up in pajamas and no one would blink an eye. Ah, the beauty of small town living–but that’s a whole other post.
I’m trying so hard to stay on task getting tschotkes ready to sell at the fest. I was even given a tasteful name tag with my name and "Festival Artist" on it. I’m official. I’m always afraid I won’t have enough stuff and this year I have let myself get spread all over the map with new processes and Things.
I am now enamored of what I can do with polyclay, paint, digital images, soldering and glass, mosaic and glass-work, beads and beading, wire work, garden art, wood, acrylic, oil pastel, and Prismacolor pencil on paper. Hmmm…. I wonder if I can get seduced by any other techniquesI happen to run into.
The latest is manipulating my photographs with Digital Imaging or Gimp. Adobe Photoshop is wayyyy expensive. I suppose sooner or later I’ll have to give in and acquire it but I am resisting.
Ah, did I mention that I’m now sewing? As in strangely creepy yet charming stuffed creatures? Felting small animals and still crocheting. Lord, when do I sleep.
Let’s top this off with a new job doing technical writing. I’m either very good or very bad. I haven’t decided yet.