Friday, July 15, 2011
There's not a great deal of crocheting happening here at the moment, apart from more bunting which will be used for the Jumpers and Jazz in July festival (rapidly approaching!). I've attempted to begin a new project, a granny square mini skirt to wear over jeans, and I need to get moving on that if I'm going to get to wear it this winter. I've also got a small sewing project started and will hopefully share that soon!
Speaking of sewing projects, Kirsten sent me a message a little while back to tell me that she had made this art quilt using a design I created for a papercrafting tutorial at a few years ago. Isn't it beautiful? I adore this project, and would love to be able to quilt like this! You can see Kirsten's post about it here, and more of her beautiful work in her flickr photostream and my original paper version here.
ummm... what else? Music of course. There's always new music. Too much to list, really, but I'm a bit infatuated with Felix Riebl (of The Cat Empire) and Ray LaMontagne at the moment, so I need to mention them. I haven't neglected The Tallest Man on Earth though (who happens to be touring Australia later this year), and I recently emerged from an addiction to Camera Obscura.
... and poetry. How have I not heard of Billy Collins until now? I particularly love this one... I most definitely have a little fishing village with no phones in the southern hemisphere of my brain.
Bye for now :)
by Billy Collins
The name of the author is the first to go
followed obediently by the title, the plot,
the heartbreaking conclusion, the entire novel
which suddenly becomes one you have never read,
never even heard of,
as if, one by one, the memories you used to harbor
decided to retire to the southern hemisphere of the brain,
to a little fishing village where there are no phones.
Long ago you kissed the names of the nine Muses goodbye
and watched the quadratic equation pack its bag,
and even now as you memorize the order of the planets,
something else is slipping away, a state flower perhaps,
the address of an uncle, the capital of Paraguay.
Whatever it is you are struggling to remember,
it is not poised on the tip of your tongue,
not even lurking in some obscure corner of your spleen.
It has floated away down a dark mythological river
whose name begins with an L as far as you can recall,
well on your own way to oblivion where you will join those
who have even forgotten how to swim and how to ride a bicycle.
No wonder you rise in the middle of the night
to look up the date of a famous battle in a book on war.
No wonder the moon in the window seems to have drifted
out of a love poem that you used to know by heart.