Sunday, August 17, 2014

October's Market Begins...

Welp, I finally managed it.  October's Market now has it's very own blog thingy and the Etsy shop has been renamed and repurposed for it's use.  Go me for progress?

Sunday, December 29, 2013

"Word, Wire, Paper, Bone..."

Word, wire, paper, bone
Oil, fire, vapor, stone

     The Market, October's Market, sells many things; grimoires, charms, curses and hexes, components, ready-made potions, scrolls of magic and scrolls of poetry, golems and poppets, secrets, truths, lies...

     Some say it's a fairy market, some say the goblins'.  They are right.  And they are wrong.  The Market is it's own, and while many secrets and truths are for sale among it's tents and stalls, that one keeps for it's own.

     The River's Daughter is a child of the Market, born of a seed sold to a mortal woman who could not have a child of her own.  She was told to swallow the seed on the full moon and swim in a certain river in the moonlight, and she would have her wish.  She did, and at the next Samhain moon her daughter was born, with nut-dark hair and eyes as blue and changeable as the river who sired her.

     As the Market's child, she knows it's secret, but since it is also her own, she keeps it safely behind her teeth.  She'll sell you what you want, and help find what you need, if you ask nicely.  Few things are beyond her ability to find.  For a price.  There is always a price.

* * * * * * * * *

     The Market's talking again, and it's finally letting me know what the hell it is, so that I can start making it something that exists in the real world.  Shopping list is being drawn up, copious notes are being scrawled, and if my body will just stop with the being sick and hurting for more than a few minutes or a day or two, I can finally get to work on it.

Friday, November 22, 2013

There in my brain it sits

Tangled

Snarled

A writhing mass of word and wire

A construct of paint and vine

Jewels and oils and feathers

Crying in the darkness

Wanting to breathe free

lost

in shadows

It does not know what it is

Or what it should be

It wants to be - to see

Silently screaming

It cannot find its way free

                                      “Lost art” ~M. Carr

Sunday, August 18, 2013

Embroidery Is A Gateway Craft, Part 2

Foray 1 back into the land of brightly colored string, wooden hoops, and sharp pointed needles, completed.  I really did want this first attempt to be as simple, small, and straightforward as I could, given that I haven't done any embroidery at all, except a few stitches on some counted cross-stitch a couple of years ago, in close to a decade.  I was saved from my desire to add beads instead of fighting my way back through the thicket that is getting the hang of a French Knot again, by the fact that I could NOT find a needle that was both small enough to handle seed beads and large enough to, oh, be threaded.  (Seriously, if the eye of the needle is too small for even the bloody threader, than the manufacturer has utterly failed.)  French knots are a stupidly easy stitch once you get it down, but the getting there and getting back again parts both involved a half an hour of swearing.

I may have taken a detour out to Joann Fabrics in an attempt to find needles that would work and extra hoops so I could practice the stitches I've forgotten before working on the main piece.  I may have come back with a few more things than I'd planned.  Like ya do.  I mean, I needed the cork board, and the burlapish remnant bit if I'm going to add a bit of woven stuff to the mixed media base I've been staring blankly at since last winter, right?  It needs raised textures, and I had absolutely nothing to do it with.  Now I can work on that, finally...

Anyway, so, this is done.  Not my most complicated bit, but it's definitely a decent start.


Friday, August 16, 2013

Embroidery Is A Gateway Craft

Eons ago, I actually did a bit of embroidery.  I wasn't fantastically amazing at it, but not all that bad, either.  Due to years of unemployment and general living space uncertainties, I haven't picked up needle and floss in nearly a decade.

Courtesy a few friends getting into various fiber crafts and one person in particular posting some gorgeous embroidery work, I've been re-bitten by the embroidery bug...


This can only end in tears and large amounts of string.

I'm also trying hard not to jump ahead of myself and make myself stick with simple stuff until I get my fingers back on track again.

I make no promises that I won't be adding beads to anything before the end of the weekend...

Monday, August 12, 2013

My Favorite Thing Is When My Art Decides It Wants To Be A Different Format.


It is entirely possible that the reason this has been going nowhere fast, is that I'd originally thought it was going to be a watercolour. I think I may have been mistaken.  I've just ordered transfer paper so that I can finish the sketch and then start on embroidering it.  Because apparently I don't have enough string in my life.

Wednesday, July 31, 2013

Writing Back The Years

Before I was old enough to read or hold so much as a crayon with any semblance of precision, I would sit underneath the kitchen table and tell stories to my stuffed animals and the cats.  The dog, too, but he was a small polar bear of a Great Pyrenees and so he had to lie on the floor next to the table.  (Don't ask why this took place under the table; I have no clue.  I was a toddler, and toddlers are strange little monkeys.)

As I grew older, I started writing my stories and poems down.  I carried a notebook and pen with me everywhere, and would often be teased by my friends because the right back pocket of all of my jeans had pale worn spots in one corner, where the tip of the pen would wear the thread thin.

As a teenager, I would sit up late at night at our kitchen table writing by the soft, golden glow of beeswax candles (I've always been particular about that sort of thing), while the melting wax would scent the air with the faintest hint of honey.

I wrote awful short stories and awful poetry by the notebookful.  Once I wrote a short story (45 pages or so) that I got to a 3rd draft.  Of course, then I decided that it was the worst piece of drivel that had ever been vomited onto a page and burned all of it in the wood-stove one night.  I was 15.  It really was pretty horrid.  Every now and then, though, I would manage something good.  Sometimes it was a bit of silliness.  Sometimes it was little more than a few lines of gold among the dross, but the important thing was that I wrote and wrote and wrote and every time I wrote I got a little better and as long as I was writing I was okay.

For Christmas one year, I got one of my all-time favorite presents... a REAL electric typewriter.  I suspected it was just to shut me up and to stop everyone else from having to listen to me hammering away on my geriatric old Royal, but I didn't care.  It was GORGEOUS and I could type so much faster, which meant more stories and more poems could be written.

Then the passive-aggressive comments started; the subtle criticisms, and the not-so-subtle attempts to dissuade me from pursuing the road I wanted to travel.  "You can't make a living off of writing, unless you're exceptional."  "Fiction's almost impossible to get published."  "No one reads poetry." I held out for a while, but I was young and had already endured years of bullying and abuse from my "peers" and I was so tired of fighting to ignore what other people said.  Then the College Incident happened.

I'd found a college that I actually wanted to go to that had a decent writing program and a number of other useful areas to study.  For the first time, I was excited about the idea of college, and the woman I spoke with had even helped work out a plan for dealing with the math requirements that I fell far short of.  For the first time, I saw a clear way to get to where I wanted to go.

Then I was told that my parents were not helping me pay for college, and that I was on my own.  I'd been pushed and pushed and pushed to look at colleges, but they waited until I found one that I actually wanted to go to, and then they told me that I, with zero hope of scholarships or any financial assistance of any kind, especially that late in the game, was going to have to go it alone.  The blame was placed on my shoulders.  It became MY fault.  MY failure.  I was the one to blame for not going and I had no one to blame but myself for not getting anywhere in life.

I stopped writing.  I gave up and drank the poisoned words.  I cut my own heart out and locked it in a box with iron bands and buried it deep beneath the roots of an old oak tree in the forest of my soul, and I made myself forget that I loved writing and that I might actually be any good at it.  I walked away from the thing I'd loved for almost as long as I could talk, and slunk into the first of a string of dead-end jobs that, as a mere high school graduate, were the only things I was qualified for.

I never could wholly forget, though, and the love of words and stories and tales never left, and if a small shred of writing escaped the confines of their prison, I would treasure their small comforts, even while I regretfully told myself to set them aside as a childish thing that had nothing to do with me.

Enough.

I'm tired of not writing.  I'm tired of believing lies told to me for reasons I don't understand, nor do I want to understand.  I'm tired of pretending to be what I'm not, and I'm tired of KNOWING that I'm missing something so important to myself that I can't even find the words.

I'm remembering my way back to that damned tree, and I've got a shovel.  That box is coming out and dammit, I'm taking my words back.  Fuck anyone who tells me I can't.

Tuesday, July 30, 2013

Heartsong In Snapshots

In my heart, it was always poetry...

Yeats, Poe, Rilke, Baudelaire, Rumi, Basho, Whitman, Frost...

Always, the poems,

the vignettes,

fragments...

Poems.

Why do I always forget that?





The perfume speaks;
          Listen, child,
                         They would poison you with words

Sunday, July 28, 2013

This Is My Brain On Art

Apparently, while reading books on writing, the phrase "word compost" will, in fact, trigger art bits...

words, composting

Any port in a storm, I guess.  Art journaling wasn't exactly what I had in mind when I started reading that book,but hey, if that's what my brain wants to do, than who am I to argue?  I'm making something, at least, which is more than I can say for the last couple of months...

Friday, July 12, 2013

Words Are Spells, Casually Cast Into The World.




For whatever reason, I've been seeing many conversations going around the Internet lately regarding the word "gypsy" and it's derivatives.  Most of them being people being angry because the word has some seriously racist undertones, though many people, especially in the US are completely unaware of them.

Seeing as it's a word that I do use on occasion, I guess I should weigh in on the matter.

You see, my great-grandmother was, in all probability, half Rom.  However, back in 1890-something Poland, being Gypsy was (and more often than not still is) highly undesirable.  Being a half-breed?  Oh, HELLS no.  She emigrated, and came to the US with her husband, to eventually give birth to my grandmother in 1910.  Once again, NOT exactly a fine time to admit to being of a particular ethnic group known for being less than desirable, and so it was Not Talked About.  Also?  The family NEVER referred to Bubka as being part Rom, but ALWAYS referred to her possible ethnicity as Gypsy.  According to family legend, her grandchildren were confused that she never talked about half of her family and would, from all accounts get very angry if pressed, but did notice that most of her relatives were distinctly paler in skin tone than she was (I've inherited her darker, olive-tones, though I'm still relatively pale, being predominately Irish and English and several generations down).  Things like this lend credence to the Romani heritage.

So yes, I will use the word "gypsy".  Why?  Because to me, it's not a racial slur.  It's family.  Do I get annoyed when it's used as synonymous with Boho fashion?  Vaguely.  Do I, myself, use it when referring to travelling and wandering the world?  Yup.  Because for a myriad reasons, including choice, the nomadic life IS a part of the Romani heritage, and as such is accurate.

If someone has problems with me using it, well, that theirs to deal with.  Me, it's part of who I am, and I don't have a problem with it.  I have FAR more problems with St. Patrick's Day's abuse of beer and the stereotype of the "Drunken Irishman"...

My 2 cents.  Take them as you will.