And since hand/arm rest
IS the order of the day
I'm not even going to edit
or re-type  all the above nonsense 
but rather,
and against the better judgement
of my inner Storymaker
(who prefers things to be tidy--
or at least not to end so abruptly),
I'll hit Post
because really,
why not?

One of the lovely things
about being a creature of habit--

--is that I get to follow ideas
from their first glimmer--

--on into half formed experiments--

--and if I'm lucky,
further still--

--until eventually they flit away
of their own accord.

A drawback to this persistence,
is that I am a teensy bit inclined

to overdo.

 Which means that on this occasion,
it is I who need to flit away--
or at least pause this beloved series
( all 37 of which are now on the 2020 and 2021 archive pages)
while I attempt to rest.

Or rather,
(since I'm terrible at resting),
while I do the myriad stretches and exercises
prescribed for the future existence
of  my yarnish ideas.

Luckily, so far
there have been many wonderful things
to read--

like the gorgeous essay by 
my brother Benjamin C Swett
What I Wanted to Tell You About the Wind
in the Spring 2021 Orion Magazine:
(also myriad others in this unputdownable issue)
and
Carson Demers' book, Knitting Comfortably
(delightful, eye-opening, and occasionally mortifying
when I see how casually I've treated my poor old body)

as well as watch:

like Rebecca Mezoff's beautiful (and informative)
tribute to the work and life of inspirational tapestry weaver  James Kohler
on the tenth anniversary of his death
and
the webinars organized by Fibershed
(I just watched this one that Redbird did on Dog Bane
that hopefully will be available soon as a recording),

and oh, so much else.

Along with reading and learning
I shall also practice hand rest and rehab
which so far means
learning to use a mouse with my left hand
and doing a little studio spring clean
in order to clear both my head
and some space
for whatever parenthetical idea(s)
eventually take pity on me
(naturally using only large muscle groups
which are, truth to tell,
in far better shape than my small ones).

And perhaps you,
if you are so inclined
(and are not so foolish
as to have taken your hands and shoulders
as for granted as I),
will feel free to weave
a few of your own precious words--
those that you've shared in the comments in the last two weeks
or which are quietly rattling around your brain.
Because how not?
So many wonderful ones await.

And though this comes under the heading
of shameless self-promotion and blog support,
if you are interested in the word thing,
or at least attracted to crisp stacks of tapestries,
with no ends dangling in any direction
(ideal for tapestry Post Cards)
I cannot not recommend
the Fringeless Four Selvedge warping class
I did with Rebecca Mezoff,
and
my little zine Tucking the Tails .

Or if you're truly ambitious
 don't have a loom
and don't want to make one
there is always that other
goofy and miraculous four selvedge technique
Weaving a Bag On a Box.
Imagine a list, or  poem
going around around and around a bag
that can be carried around and around
wherever you go....


But enough of that.
I already have more bags than I can use in a life time.
My oh-so-ergonomic broom awaits.
And it's time for some more stretching.

Never a dull moment--
though wouldn't one or two be grand?

Wow-
it's March!

How are you doing?

Me--I am well,
(how happifying is that?)
And the snow is melting!

It's amazing to be back here--
 familiar and strange
at the same time.

I mean
after three months
there is so much to say,
and also, nothing at all.

For while listening
to other people express essential ideas
with perfection and beauty--

--I've been spending my days
with one word at a time.

I mean--
quag.
Isn't it lovely?
What a thing
to get to balance
(or try at any rate)
on its delicious
q-centric
syllable.

And really,
does a person really need
entire sentences?

Even my inner Storymaker
has been mostly OK with it.

She is all about words to be sure,
usually ready to cram in
as many as she can
(Verbs!!! Adjectives!!!!!
Parenthetical Asides!!!!),
but it turns out
that reading dictionaries
studying etymology,
and debating the merits
of this word
or that
is wildly entertaining.
(OMG--a double ff-- YES!)

Almost as satisfying
as having chopped
the ice dams
off the roof.

Now it could be
that writing this essay
back in December
for my friend Debbie Lee's
monthly blog: Witness Wilderness,
was all the Storymaker needed.

Or maybe she has just been biding her time,
waiting for the thaw
while the Luminist blissed out
on quiet(ish) winter days.

Either way,
we're decidedly out of shape
for this blogging biz
and it might take a while
 to fully emerge
from our wintry ways.

Though I suppose that is
what spring is all about, eh?

So a funny thing happened.

Well not funny exactly --
more--
mind expanding?
I dunno. 
It was cool though--
at least-- 
eventually.
At first --
 not so much.

As you may recall,
last week on the blog post
I was blissing out about
my recent Milkweed immersion--
 feeling, I can now say,
 just a teensy bit smug.

"Yay! Look at me 
with my newly fashioned
minimalist distaff 
and cross arm spindle
making all kinds
of super nice yarn
out of Milkweed garden waste!
I love it soooo much.
It's almost like
Flax!"

Well, smug and thrilled.

At any rate,
practically the moment 
I pushed 'send' on the newsletter 
to let you know that the post was ready
(assuming you're on my mailing list),
I grabbed my beloved tools
and raced outside--

--only for the Milkweed
to... ah...
well, I'll let it
​speak for itself.

Just so you know,
it said
as my spindle fell to the ground
for the third time in a row, 
I'm not Flax.

"Huh?" said I--
picking up the spindle
​and checking for cracks.

Oh, I have nothing against the stuff --
it continued without pause.
It's great! 
Super strong -- soft-- agreeable--
a distant cousin of mine. 
Slightly more uniform
since you all have been
manipulating for centuries
(or maybe it, you),
to suit your belief
in efficiency and production.
I mean --
all those precise tools
with their satisfying names:
rippling combs, flax breaks, 
 scutching  knives, hackles and such,
that keep everyone in line.

It's just -- I'm not it. 

Now, I can see why 
you might think it reasonable
to think of me as such--
and maybe even believe
it is a compliment. 

​I mean --
I am a bast fiber 
and you have been 
doing your best
I'm sure,
what with your strick
and your combing
​and your carding of 'waste'--

Or are you capable
only
of listening to (and believing)
 the chatter
in your own big brain
(equally good, it seems
at making you feel like a total loser
and the cleverest of all),
 while hardly noticing
the odd bit of wisdom
a little plant
that is not flax,
might have?
​
Just saying. 

Something to consider. 

"Thanks," said I.
"I will--
​consider, that is."

"Ok," said I
dipping my fingers
in a dish of coolish water
and adding a long white  strand
to the ever-growing puddle 
​of cordage in my lap. 
​
"All right."

It's been a while
since I've woven on
a continuous warp,

​and had forgotten
​ how delightful
it can be
​to slowly swirl
​an emerging tapestry
​around the top and bottom beams

as the prickly plants
gradually emerge,
a letter at a time.
(The names I use for the plants, that is,
​since I do not know what they call themselves). 

The length of the thing
means there is time and space
to notice unexpected words,

It has also been fun,
just after writing
Tucking The Tails,
to find another place
where the practice
of working in the ends as I go
adds moments
of enchantment
to weaving:
getting to glimpse
the elegance
of letters in reverse
out of the corner of my eye--
to admire grace of their shapes-- 
to relish the confusion of
of thinking a 'd'
is a 'p'
and trying to figure out
what word I had
 inadvertently written.
​
And how not to delight
in the dignified nod
of two 'r's
(distantly socializing as now is normal)
as they pass by, 
one going up, one down?

I'm weaving the letters
with naturally dyed wool.
The colors were a surprise
as at first I thought 
I'd write all the words
with black and charcoal fleece,
and I really appreciate 
the indigo and madder,
weld and lobaria pulmonaria,
insisting that they, too
​ get to promote
 the loveliness
of some of the sharp things
in my world.

The two-ply used coffee filter yarn
also had its way with me,
​thank goodness.
For though it is almost
too thick for a sett of 8 epi
(and anything but smoothly even),
it is a pleasure to touch,
to tap into place,
​to think about,
to make,
and to photograph. 

Using the two fibers together
does take a little getting used to--
 the extreme difference
in how each packs into place
 a little disconcerting
especially when I'm trying to count passes--
but I'm getting pretty good at eye-balling
how much the wool will pack down
in relation to the paper,
and the juxtaposition
of warm brown beads of coffee filter
against the smooth fuzz 
of fine spindle spun wool,
is a continual source of delight. 

Even if you're less
easily amused than I,
how not to adore
the exuberance
​of an 'e' coming to life?

I am hoping to fit
two more prickly things
onto the last few inches of the warp
and though am not quite sure there is room,
( the shed will be tiny no matter what
and I haven't even gotten to 
my list of local burrs),
I'm still going to try.

And luckily (hopefully)
I can soon put on another warp
for  apparently
my beloved PVC pipe loom
loves a good continuous one
as much as it loves four selvedge--
and there are so so many more
weirdly wonderful prickles
to investigate,
a letter at a time. 


ps. And in case you care about such specifics
 the warp is that merino/silk,
I wrote about back in May.
As you may recall
it didn't race my motor 
in the cloth samples I was weaving then,
but it does make a glorious warp
as I had hoped (3 ply for this tapestry),
​and I'm delighted that I have plenty more.

Dear Sarah,
I just have to ask--
why are you sometimes so rude to me? 

"Why oh WHY did you do that thing
back when you were eighteen???"
you moan.
"It would have been so much better if..."

If what? 
​That's what I want to know.

ps
and don't forget
that I started working in the weft ends too
so that  all of the tapestries in this post
(plus the bazillion others in the archive)
could be woven that way --
 AND so that you could write
TUCKING THE TAILS.

I mean, it's not like the technique is limited 
to the monochromatic/geometric stuff
you're doing now.
Right?

So come on --
let's mess around some more.
It's still so interesting.

Yesterday, I made a new comic diary --

The front cover 
is a four selvedge tapestry
(woven hand spun coffee filters),
and the back,
a scrap of stiff cardboard
(it is nice to have something to lean on).

The paper inside
is Rives Lightweight printing paper.
It's got an odd texture for drawing
and is hard to erase thoroughly,
but I love that it is both thin
(I can get lots of pages in one book)
and highly absorbent
(I can slop watercolors and black ink
on both sides of every page
without any show through). 

This time, as the drawing says,
I decided to use a four needle
Coptic binding --
well actually it is a two needle technique
(one needle on each end
of each piece of waxed linen thread),
and I did it twice.
​Here is a link to the instructions
(thanks for the link Velma!),
which are wonderfully clear and easy to follow.

Not that I'm all that wedded
to binding perfection
(as you can see from the pics),
but it is fun to mess around.
Maybe next time.

I do try to draw in these diaries every day,
and with the decrease in size
of these last two books
(from 5" x 4 1/4" to 3" x 2 3/4"),
it's amazingly easy to fill four to six pages 
without even really noticing
(rather than than one or two as before),
so if I keep this up
"next time" could come fairly soon--
even with the extra signatures
I added onto this new version.

For comparison,
the big diary on the bottom 
lasted for almost four months,
while the one in the middle
won't even make a month and a half.

It could also be
that the smaller pages
have influenced my style.

Or maybe its the influence
of the tiny houses--
​though I'm not quite sure how.

What I am sure of
is that the portability of the smaller format--
now enhanced by the extreme portability
of this teensy pocket palette
filled with handmade watercolors
created by K. Jodi Gear--
makes it extra easy
to have my materials with me
no matter where I am,

or what I am doing.

I had a plan,
this morning,
to examine
form and function 
​as they relate to the book form.

Snazzy topic, eh?
I pretty much impressed myself when I thought of it. 
Not that I have the language or training for such a discussion,
but it has been on my mind.
After all, I've been building and binding little tapestry books,
putting the final touches on set of a PDF instructions,
and sending paper instruction/story zines around the world,
so it's  hard not to wonder
as I choose a design for each--
​ why this --why that?

I also read other people's books every day--
mostly the kind I can hold in my hand,
though sometimes those of the e-reader variety. 

And I have  yards of reference books.
​
How different then, are my feelings 
about books I read for their stories,

and those I open to a specific page to learn something?

In what ways do I relate to
books I've written (but not designed), 

differently from books I've designed and made?

What about books I'm in--
if long ago when my hair was still dark

and books that are in me--
often so demanding
that I have to create imaginary shelves
in which to house them. 

In addition, there are books I listen to,
as stories read aloud
and ​as part of insightful discussions. 

Then there are books that act as muse--

as vehicles for transport,

as objects in a still life.

And (she wails)
​what about the midcentury feminine middlebrow
my favorite book category of all ?

My plan,
​made early this morning while lying in bed
and thinking this up,
was to illustrate my as yet undiscovered 
but undoubtedly insightful thoughts
on these pressing questions
with a few images of the books
  I've drawn, painted, woven and built over the years.
​
It seemed a reasonable  approach at the time.
​Of course I hadn't yet had any tea.

Alas, once I got going, 
​ three things happened.

​First: a visit to the bowels of my computer
unearthed a crazy number of images, 
each of which stirred up all kinds of distracting memories.

Second: after devoting a good many of the subsequent hours
to tying myself in letter-ridden knots,
I remembered that I am not an academic
and really don't have the language for such a discussion.

Third: when I decided to untangle
​and rewrite one of those knots,
(heaven knows how),
the Weebly blog app,
in its wisdom,
deleted every word I'd written thus far--
for which action
I can only feel tremendous gratitude
(as, no doubt, should you).

So here I am at the end,
bowing to the wisdom of bits and bytes,
shelving the whole idea of codex deconstruction,
and leaving you with this:
​
Books are the best, right?

​ps.   Next Day Edit -- I've been asked about instructions for the wee blocky books, and all I can say is that, while I'm pretty comfy with weaving the tapestry covers, I'm still learning about paper and binding etc, so here are a couple of links to help further
--HERE is where I learned the two needle coptic binding.  
---Keith Smith's books -- Volume 1 of Non-adhesive binding; Books  Without Paste or Glue--where I learned the curved needle coptic binding I've used up till the ones in this post, 
--Velma Bolyard has also shared an enormous amount of book and paper related info, particularly information of kami-ito and shifu (spun and woven paper)
​

So you might have noticed a slight shift 
in the colors I've been using in my comics
since -- oh-- maybe May. 

All I really wanted, at first,
was a slightly brighter green.
Spring had arrived, after all,
and though it often poured rain on Farmer's Market mornings,

the grass, the trees, the new lettuces, the tunes
seemed to call for something more exuberant than
the greyed green  of the indigo/yellow ochre combo
from my beloved limited palette of last winter.

Just a little bright yellow, I thought --
something like the weld  with which I dye wool.
And then a couple of weeks ago
as I was messing about with madder,
I remembered lakes.

Some of the best known historic lakes
​are actually made from my standard  natural dyes:
madder (alizarin crimson)
cochineal (carmine)
and--ta da--weld, 
​which apparently is the source one of Vermeer's favorite yellows.

With the help of  this site,
and some glorious photos,
I did a few rough experiments
the results of which have.... varied.
The madder turned out more orange than I imagined,
the cochineal leans toward purple rather than carmine,
and the weld is more than a little chalky.

But I still ended up with some photogenic pigment,

that blended easily with gum arabic and honey

and allows me to paint my 
 linen shift (a summer staple)
​ with some accuracy.

Also, the greens are definitely brighter.
Weld and indigo watercolors combine nicely on paper
as they do on yarn.

Palette-wise though, I am left in a bit of a muddle.
 For even as I enjoy the new colors,
they can be overwhelming
(particularly the cochineal)
and it would not surprise me a bit
​ if I narrow back down---

once berry season is over.