Wrote a legitimate knitting pattern today for a neck warmer: 70 rows of fairly intricate cable pattern (intricate for bulky yarn only 4” tall, anyway).
Good to go, start knitting, pattern is reading coherently and knitting up like a charm.
EVERYTHING IS BEAUTIFUL AND NOTHING HURTS
Got to row 21 and realised I moved ONE stitch to the right instead of the to left in the previous row, off-setting the entire rest of the pattern.
Have to rewrite from row 20 onward.
All the FFIX everything are mine tonight. This game. I love this game.
I love the NPCs in this game.
Riesling out of a mason jar and FFIX on my PS2.
This is how I adult the best.
(and last night I watched Atlantis)
A heavy, costly exhale
And through the extremes of an impulsive decision, I finally and fully realise that who I was is very much no longer who I am.
I have to be ready to let go. I have to move on. I cannot cling to ghosts of the past and force the circle I have become back into the triangular plug where I once fit.
I hope this is the last turning point I have to go through to get this concept through my head.
try to see the silver lining in it all, girl.
Anonymous asked: There's nothing wrong with studying the art within yourself. Maybe you can't have what you wanted once, but I bet you can have quite a lot of great things you've never seen. I don't know; maybe I'm imposing, but that's how I see the world.
This is a problem I have—I have too many interests, and try to dabble in too many things. Thus, it ends up in a lot of stuff accruing that I don’t use or that I hardly use. It also ends up with me spreading myself too thin; I should be focusing on one or two things to really refine and hone, and instead I’ve become a sort of jack-of-all-trades. Which is okay. But, I don’t want to be just “okay”, not at the things I really love. Art is… sort of one of those things. I used to draw and sketch so much, years ago. I wanted to go to Japan to study it, to hone the craft, to become a manga-ka. And I think I could have had a good chance at doing it. Maybe not the best in the industry, not by any means, but I might’ve done it well enough.
But somewhere along the way, drawing like that fell by the wayside, and writing took the forefront. Well, writing had always been right up there with art. But it’s difficult for me, with the dayjob I have right now and the traveling back and forth I have to do for it, it feels, to focus on both of them properly, the way I would like.
But, my anon friend, I do agree with you—and you are by no means imposing. I feel I will see—and, much more importantly, creategreat things. I have confidence in my writing like in no other skill (despite my writer depressions at times), and I know I will write things people will enjoy. That people will want to read, and get others to read.
It’s just a matter of getting there, and to really do that the way and in the level I want to be at, I feel like I have to do some purging and cleaning of all the little hobbies I’ve picked up like pilot fish to my underbelly. They’re not bad, and they are helpful as a creative outlet. But there are too many of them.
Season changes make me introspective.
Reminiscing on my life choices.
Kraken rum and mai tai mix; Thai food; Apocalypse Now.
Wondering when I gave up the dream to study art in Japan. (it was because of him; otherwise, I might have gone. I might not even have gone alone, if I would have played my cards right, for once. But I didn’t.)
Is it possible…
No. No it’s not.
“You can’t find intimacy—you can’t find home—when you’re always hiding behind masks. Intimacy requires a certain level of vulnerability. It requires a certain level of you exposing your fragmented, contradictory self to someone else. You running the risk of having your core self rejected and hurt and misunderstood.”
Junot Díaz (via jaeboogie
And some people are so very, very afraid of that. So much that the unconsciously (sometimes) sabotage the very intimacy they always crave. I used to not understand fully, and bare my teeth at you (even when you couldn’t see me), but now I have finally picked that wound clean and now I understand.
Looking for neat (but relatively easy) styles for long hair—I don’t want to cut it and am still growing it! But I’m bad at being a girl.
I dreamt while I was still awake, today. It’s a dream I’ve had for years now, and I can still taste it in my mouth every time—the cool mint of you gently pressing against the heat of my tongue. The looks you gave me with your dark eyes I see so clearly—the way you brushed my hair behind my ear when I had blue in it, telling me I was beautiful—the way you turned your back to me to change, but I still feasted on the sight of your naked back and sides.
I remember the poem you wrote for me, written in red ink, in your flourishing hand. The phoenix that I’ve kept all these years, hidden away in a box, and sometimes I can’t even remember where it lies until it burns through my memory again and again.
I have so many regrets when it comes to you, and you are the only person I have regrets for.
I wish I would have kept the last letter you wrote me, telling me how I broke your heart, telling me the dream you had with our daughter. I still remember the name you told me we gave her—I have no idea if you do or not, but I still do. I just wish to all the gods I can think of that I would have kept that letter.
I wish I would have kissed you again at your birthday gathering after I left and came back again. I still can feel the press of your leg against mine, the way you laced your fingers through mine when I tentatively reached for your hand. I should have pulled you back into my arms then. But I didn’t.
Now, I drive my car home from work in the dark, and I imagine I’m driving my coveted Z28 6-speed, and that you feather your fingers over my hand as it rests on the shifter, your skin so soft and smooth and delicate against mine. I drive home alone with this thought and wonder how different my life would have been, had I made a single different choice all those years ago—either time I had the chance.
I do not ever regret that you have happiness. But I do regret it was only with me for a few short months in our youth.
Literally, and figuratively
I need a new job.
This one is giving me headaches.
It is extremely unfortunate
I cannot seem to get into audiobooks. I’ve started listening to a few, and they’re… all right, I guess—and it has nothing to do with the subject matter.
I think I’m just too in love with and wed to seeing the written words themselves on a page in my hands. It’s as if my fingers draw a secret life from holding a book alone, something that makes the world the author has created all the more real. With audiobooks, it’s harder for me to concentrate and get lost within the stories, regardless of if I would not be able to put it down or not were I reading it in book form.
It’s such a shame; I have not yet found a way to read conventionally and knit at the same time. Audiobooks would make that time enjoyable—if only I could get into them. I’m almost legitimately angry about this.
I wish you would hear me when I spoke.
I just knit a five-foot scarf in two days.
What just happened
Embers along the edge, flicker like so many stars in the sky.
Finally, I have an Etsy shop set up! There’s not everything on there yet, but it’s a start! Check it out!