Obsessions.
​They happen.

 I call this one "material inquiry"
when I want to impress myself --
or use the other elegant phrases
I tried to conjure last week--
but while in its midst,
this infatuation mostly feels like joy.​

Except,
 I am learning as I go
so my information has gaping holes 
about which I know nothing,
and the things I do know
are somewhat situation specific.

Water, for instance.
Here in Idaho it is very dry right now
so I've found it necessary to soak the dry leaves
before splitting or twisting them into cordage
to prevent the strands from breaking.

A tub of water for a few hours works pretty well,
as does rolling in a wet towel overnight,
depending on character of the material.
A good soaking rain is great
(we had one once),
as the brown leaves around the edges of 
iris and daylily plants can be twisted immediately. 

Freshly made cordage (everything still damp),
is easy to weave with.
It packs in best
when going through a small section
of the open shed before packing
(one or two warps at a time instead of five or six
or, heaven forbid,
traveling selvedge to selvedge before packing).

If the cordage has had time to dry, however, 
(about five seconds around here right now),
it needs to be soaked till pliable enough
​ to bend smoothly around the warp.

If, however, a gal happens to soak her cordage
for too long in extra warm water
(cuz...tea... hot water in the kettle...),
said cordage may become over-saturated
and this may lead:
first  --to lovely, easy weaving
second --to shrinkage as the cordage dries,

third --to undesired needle weaving
and a revision of her original vision 
if she happens to have woven other elements
over the too wet cordage
using techniques/ materials that do not
want to slide down the warp
at the same rate as the cordage.

and fourth-- to a bit of house wrecking
when trying to force things
in an attempt to avoid needle weaving
and vision adjustment
.
Luckily, I kinda like the wrecked house
and its new island location
so decided not to repair it.

Of course I (that mystery gal),
likes all of it enough
to try other aqueous experiments,
for instance tossing a couple of rings of cordage
into a linen scouring bath
(linen skeins and washing soda
simmered for an hour+).

Astonishingly,
the cordage did not fall apart.

What it did do was grow plumply darker (dying itself?)
and develop a new character.
Wet, it felt a bit like holding
a string of dark brown pearls
and was lovely to weave--
when damp but no longer wet, that is.
Some lessons stick.

One person said the photo above looked like woven coffee beans.

After drying completely though,
the pearl/ coffee bean effect went away.
The cordage stayed quite dark,
and didn't exactly shrink as a whole,
but the character of the individual strands 
ended up different from any cordage I've used so far,
wet or dry,
and the bit with which I didn't weave
went boing.

No chance to try weaving with this weird stuff yet,
but rest assured that soon enough 
​it'll be damp once again
to see how it behaves, both off and on a loom.

Finding things out is  addictive, don't you think?

Part of me wishes that I knew
what I don't yet know,
so I could figure out how
to learn whatever those things are
in an organized way.
​
But then again...
The mystery is better.

At least until I do learn a thing,
whereupon I'm sure to write about here
because
duh
I'm blabby that way
even when apparently speechless with delight.

SO FAR:
-dead leaves,
-stuff that's in the studio,
-weird results
-four selvedge tapestry,

-all of you.

What a plus to know
you're here with me.
​Thanks.

is not what I imagined I would do.

Oh, it started off according to plan--
painting walls and scrubbing floors.

​But clearing out the stuff --
completely emptying my studio 
as per my dream drawing above--
and going on to create  a calming,
almost anonymous space
that wouldn't make my brain buzz
(the kind of space you might find
at an exclusive artist retreat center
in a glorious and exotic location
where wonderful new ideas cannot help but flow in
and where they serve you lunch in an attractive basket
​just when you're getting peckish),
 proved to be easier dreamed than done.

At home,
without the luxury of that imagined, anonymous space,
but WITH a powerful drive to find it,
(and with the joy of picking lunch in the garden
just when I'm getting peckish,
and having neither to update my CV nor pack supplies),
I actually had to confront myself
in the form of my stuff:
 towers of books,
endless teapots,
(I am not a collector but somehow have an absurd number),
pipe parts for looms,
baskets of toilet paper rolls,
frogs of many forms,
​random sticks....
​
And that proved fascinating.
At least to me.

Because it turns that the decisions made
while doing all this clearing out
are much the same as those  I make
when creating new work--
(the satisfying work, that is), 
which allows the whole process to be about NOTICING--
not just with my head, but with my whole body.
(even if sometimes it is about my head,
for who knew ancient and slightly rusty
 thinning scissors would be so full of possibility).

So that's what I've been doing:
 practicing noticing.​

​What does it feel like,
this funny skein at the bottom of a drawer,
this book at the back of a shelf,
 this color, this technique, this teapot, this material,  this image?

Like a lead weight on my shoulders,
heavy with
​ expectation.

Fluttery-- like wings.

Like I can't breathe.

ALIVE.

Like my Grandmother's frown of disapproval.

​Like Dancing.

Like sorrow.
​
Like Anger.
​
Like the center of the universe.

Like possibility.

​

It's practically a cliché these days --
the joys of clearing up, uncluttering, death cleaning,
the miserly counting of garbage bags of routed stuff,
the endless compelling discussions about issues of abundance and scarcity
(all which made me not want to do it
much less write about here cuz -- HUGE topic),
but all that aside...
I didn't actually have much to  toss. 
And it is useful to take stock--
 to ask questions.

What am I doing.
What do I like.
What do I think I like.
What do OTHER people think I like
(teapots and frogs apparently).
What do I think I like because other people think I like them.
What do I not stop doing despite the weight of judgment (internal and/or external).

You know. 
At least I bet dollars to donuts you know...

And if you're a regular reader,
or read the post before this one,
you also know these are things I was trying to do
 before my staycation.

But apparently I required
summer school remedial work.

And to show you how helpful it has been,
(since there was not a final exam),
I will say that at this very moment
it is lovely to notice
how great it feels
​ be back,
writing to you all,
and  poking at ideas
in this particular way.
​I'm so glad.
​
Happy September!

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. 

A couple of days ago in the Fringeless class
someone asked: 
​"How do you do that cool picking-up-the-sheds thing?"

The class includes a number of weaving videos
including a rather long one
in which I weave most of the piece in the photo below--
chatting all the while about what I'm doing and why I'm doing it.
At least I talk about building shapes.

Apparently I don't talk much about 
what I'm actually doing to open the sheds
and pass the bobbins however,
so I thought I'd try to explain further here
in case those of you not taking the class might find it useful too.

As I may have mentioned before,
I adopted both techniques--
first  bobbins then finger picking--
after a decade or more of  butterflies, beater and treadles.
Once again, it was Archie Brennan who made it seem worth a try.
With a big pipe loom warped and ready
I committed to weaving the entire thing
 (Hang Up and Draw first tapestry on the linked page)
using only bobbins.
 I started with leashes as well
(long heddles you can grab and pull), 
but before long found myself finger picking both sheds
so haven't bothered with leashes or butterflies since. 

Anyway, yesterday I decided to try to film myself weaving.
Without Rebecca Mezoff and her
excellent eye and amazing camera
the following two videos are not the snazziest thing in the world,
but here they are nonethless:
1-over and back, over and back, at 'slowed down normal' speed
2-over and back in super slow motion
3- a rather wordy description of what I think I'm doing
(which may, or may not, be what I'm actually doing
but is the closest I can come)
4. Some assorted comic drawings which might help too

 EDIT!!!!!!!OH NO!  The videos vanished.  SOSOSOOS sorry 
I have no idea what happened but will try to figure out
or fine another video solution
They take HOURS to upload so it'll be a while I'm afraid.
After all my boasting and that marvelous feeling of doing something cool
Maybe words and comics are the best after all
​SIGH.
​

The Wordy Description
-Bobbin in right hand going both ways, always
-Shed picked with left hand going both ways

OPEN SHED
(in this case weft moving from left to right but not always)

LEFT HAND:
(always picking up the warps from left to right no matter which direction the weft is going)
-decides which warp to pick up first,
- slides up that warp towards the shed sticks where the opening is wider
-fingers slip behind three to five raised warps
-pull them open
RIGHT HAND:
-slips into shed just opened
-passes bobbin through the space behind the warp and back into the same hand
(bobbin now in front of the warp)
-pulls slightly on the weft while 
LEFT HAND:
-releases warp threads
-drops down to grab the end of the weft
-adjusts weft tension
(leaving enough weft in the shed to make a nice bubble)
-holds onto weft while
RIGHT HAND:
uses bobbin to tap weft into place.

PICK SHED
LEFT HAND:
(scooping up warps from left to right no matter which direction the weft is going)
-chooses  warp at the edge of section to be picked up,
-pushes back against the open warp to the left of that warp
-reaches back and grabs desired "back" warp between thumb and middle finger
- pulls that warp forward, holding it on forefinger 
-moves one warp to the right, over the next open warp 
-pushes back against that open warp as before to make space to grab next "back" warp
 continuing in this way until 3 - 5 warp threads (about one inch worth) have been grabbed.
-pull to open that section of the shed
RIGHT HAND 
​​-slips into space just opened
-passes bobbin through the space behind the warp and back into the same hand
(bobbin now in front of the warp)
-pulls slightly on the weft while...
LEFT HAND:
-releases warp threads
-drops down to grab the end of the weft
-adjusts weft tension 
( leaving enough weft in the shed to make a nice bubble, which is easier with pick shed as the released warp adds its own tension)
-holds onto weft while
RIGHT HAND:
uses bobbin to tap weft into place.

All of this takes a LOT Of words,
and I generally find Comics to be a more efficient medium
than plain text, but hopefully the videos make things somewhat clear.
And alas, if I had to draw an entire comic 
for every blog post, you'd get one a couple of times a year!

NOTE: Bobbins
Still REALLY happy with both sets of new bobbins I wrote about here
Both makers are HIGHLY RECOMMENDED

NOTE: Sett
​ The warp on the loom in the videos above is sett at 10 epi,
8 epi is easier and smoother (more room to teach and grab)
but much of this depends on the size of your warp 
and the size of your fingers.
If your fingers are large and/or you like to work at closer setts
I  recommend some kind of shedding device for the pick shed --
Leashes and String heddles (very short leashes), are both excellent.
I describe the latter in Backstrap Dialogues,
and will put a detail below, which should help.

So that's it for now --
EXCEPT! that for those of you not on Instagram
I wanted to include a photo
of  the finished running shoes
I was working on last week!
SO happy.
(Shoe pattern from Simple Shoe Making)

that among the many reasons I make things, 
is that the very act of construction
is a kind of pathway
further into--
and also further away from
my daily life.

The 'into' part seems obvious.
Immediate  tactile engagement
with materials I love
and objects I use
helps me,
both literally and figuratively,
​to feel the ground as I walk.

This is particularly powerful,
when the soles of my handmade shoes 
are worn through--

and the quick and dirty replacements 
I whipped off in April-- 

​​and wore with glee in the springtime woods--

prove, in June--

to  be magnets for every sharp
quill-like
hitchhiking seed 
around.

To tell the truth, I was less than happy
about the the state of  those shoes.
Grumpy about miles of overgrown trails,
sad about the loss of dead friends 
(one of whom used to do a lot of trail clearing on my behalf),
and in pain because those seeds are SHARP.
I felt at a complete loss.

But drawing it into my diary,
(both in the moment and later),
I remembered that it's not the fault of the plants
(just trying to propagate the world as we humans do),
or the shoes
(they'd been doing a great job for months),
but rather that I had the wrong clothing
for that moment,
and that with a little bit  (lot) of effort 
with needle, branch loppers, thimble and weed whacker,
it would all be just fine. 

If nothing else,
​I  at least could see a way to proceed.

After yanking and properly disposing of
the bulk of the barbed and painful seeds,
the grey felt shoes work fine once again--
at least for town runs--
and when they are on my feet.

But I'm not going to bring them to the woods for a while, 
so  a new pair was still in order --
something with no nap
for burrs.

 A piece of hemp canvas 
laminated to a scrap of cotton
seemed like a grand idea,
so away we went.

Unlike the grey felt,
(which sews like butter),
this stuff is tough.

But that is what I wanted, right?
​
And pre -punching the holes helped a lot.

Though not entirely.

Indeed it would be nice
if all this noticing
didn't involve callouses and blood --
(glovers needles are made, duh, to slip through skin),
but it sure makes what might otherwise be a mundane task 
a time of  edgy productivity --
(micro drama in every stitch),
with moments of great satisfaction.

Indeed, now that I've given my hands a break to write this,
it is probably time to finish stitching on those soles.
The new four selvedge students
are running off without me



*Cordwainer: The term cordwainer entered English as cordewaner(e), from the Anglo-Norman cordewaner (from Old French cordoanier, -ouanier, -uennier, etc.), and initially denoted a worker in cordwain or cordovan, the leather historically produced in Moorish Córdoba, Spain in the Middle Ages, as well as, more narrowly, a shoemaker.[6] The earliest attestation in English is a reference to “Randolf se cordewan[ere]”, ca. 1100.[1][6]According to the OED, the term is now considered obsolete except where it persists in the name of a trade-guild or company, or where otherwise employed by trade unions.
​(from Wikipedia)

So technically I am not a cordwainer.
 I don't belong to a trade-guild,
(at least not one that has anything to do wtih footwear
though I am a member of the Palouse Hills Weaver's Guild
and thus of the Association of Northwest Weaver's guilds), 
and if I use leather, it is local buckskin
(possibly from a deer shot by my aunt).
But eleven generations back,
John Swett (1575-1651)
who immigrated to Newbury, MA in 1630*
with his wife Sarah,
apparently was. 
So, close enough.
Though I bet he didn't get his leather from Córdoba, Spain either.

*Shoemakers, tanners, and other tradesmen arrived in Jamestown (Virginia) by 1610, and the secretary of Virginia recorded flourishing shoe and leather trades there by 1616. The first English shoemaker to arrive in America whose name has been preserved, was Christopher Nelme, who sailed from Bristol, England and reached Virginia in 1619. Nearly one year later, the first Pilgrim settlers landed in Massachusetts. The first shoemakers who followed the trade there arrived in 1629.
from The Honourable Cordwainer's Company website --"What is a Cordwainer"

** The dates and names of my relations are from the book Jockey Corners: Remembrances by Paul P. Swett, M.D., compiled and edited by Norris P. Swett M.D. and Steven C. Swett, Bragg Hill Press; Norwich, VT,  1997

***ALL shoes shown here are from patterns from Simple Shoemaking
​

You know what never occurred to me?

Several things actually --
(apparently I am clueless),
but the two that just struck me are: 
1. that the response to Fringeless
would be so immediate and enthusiastic
(thank you SO much to everyone who is signing up --
I hear it's wild out there in the facebook group--),
​
and

2. that rather than grow tired of four selvedge warping
or be longing for a break
​after months of focus
(including the awkwardness of
listening to/watching myself on film
as I try to catch all the moments
when I say warp instead of weft),
I'm actually giggling as I review some of the videos,
enjoying all over again the pleasure of working with Rebecca--
​and of tapestry itself.

In fact, the whole thing
​ has made more interested than ever
 in the things this four selvedge warping business
allow me to do.

Actually I did take a break last week--
slipping off to our cabin to clear my head

But even as I relished the solitude
​and sank into the peace

of mending weed-whacking trousers
 listening to birds,
and reading books
(The Stranger in the Woods turned out to be an appropriate choice),

I was also thrilled to return to this linen warp
 (sized just before leaving),
and continue with my experiments.

Not that some of these experiments--
(weaving with unfamiliar or long ignored materials, for instance)
couldn't happen with other warping methods,

but somehow the completeness
​ of these tiny works
with their crisp edges
and contained little selves,

So thank you
EVERYONE
for your interest
(in four selvedge and whatever else)--
for reading, for weaving,
for making stuff,
for writing back
and generally supporting this work
in whatever way suits you.
I'm just so darned curious about
how it will unfold. 

And  speaking of miracles--
I wove three little four selvedge tapestries
while filming Fringeless 
and they were such fun to make
that we're going to share the joy
​and give them away.
Everyone who registers for the class before the end of July
(that'd be the early birds among you)
​will have your name in the hat.

​

Sometimes I forget
 the impact new things can have.
In the endorphin rush of a thrilling idea,
pausing to sit with it ​for more than a moment or two
rarely enters my head.
As a friend once said to me, 
"Must you do everything 500%?"

Apparently I must.
(Well, I'm pretty half-assed about many things,
but it's generally an enthusiastic kind of half-assed).

But given that reality,
it's amazing that it was a full two years
between the time my running partner Nancy, and I
first took off our shoes (for half a block),
until we were barefoot/minimalist running full time-- 
two years that included 
a crazy shoe-juggling period
where every run included three or four changes:
from 'conventional running shoes,'
to minimalist running shoes, 
to bare skin,
and back.

It was hassle to be sure,
​but worth the trouble:
to build calluses,
to strengthen all the new muscles
to NOT injure the bajillion little bones in our feet,
and  to get over my slight embarrassment
at being seen doing this crazy-seeming thing that felt so good.
(Not that many people are out and about at 5:30 AM, but still)

Anyway, thanks, 49 year old Sarah,
​ for giving it a try,
and for giving it time.

But even as I am grateful for whatever foresight we had,
I still forget that other body parts:
 eyes
nerves
ears
and hearts,
are as in need as feet, 
​and that too much of anything, 
​ too quickly,
can have a bigger effect than one might expect.
​Even  color.

Indeed, so overwhelmed was I
by that tiny red tapestry
that I hid all the freshly dyed skeins
in the bottom of my palette box,
turning with relief to some soft, safe, blue/greens.

Which was great except
that apparently it wasn't so much the intensity of the red
as the quantity.
For​ my freshly awakened rods and cones
 demanded that I include the wisp of purple
I'd hidden in the bottom of the box
after an over-reaction
to my last dalliance with super bright color.

Again though, I leapt before I thought --
and had to go find a paint color for my comic about the new piece 
for there was nothing in my lovely limited palette
that came close to describing that bright dot of purple
that dazzled and overwhelmed me at once.

And when I added said color (not quite right, but close enough) 
I was overwhelmed once again--
that bright hue
sucked up all the air in the page.

Who knew what DRAMA
there was to be found
in a few square millimeters?

But it's an interesting kind of drama.
In the right mood
​it is downright entertaining to notice
 how the simplest shifts
 change the tone of everything--
a  color
or fiber
or technique
bringing the familiar
into crazy new territory.
​ 
But what use are those wild leaps
if they are accompanied by so much extra information 
that it is  difficult to tell 
to what one is actually reacting? 

Indeed it could be that the color RED
was so overwhelming
only amidst the other things in my life at the moment,
not least the thrill that
​ Fringeless,
(the online four selvedge warping class
Rebecca Mezoff and I have been putting together),
is nearly out in the world.

It might even be  that this last
is a bright red four selvedge tapestry
​ all by itself. ​

The trailers are live, 
 Rebecca is finalizing the videos as I type, 
most of my drawings are in her hands,
​and early bird registration opens -- um-- TODAY  (June 25).

The actual class will become available July 9th,
and I can hardly wait to see what wonderful and dramatic things
 you weavers (and soon to be weavers)
will create once you are free
from hems, edge finishing and  thrums.

 I've never done anything like this before
yet I believe the class will be great
(if, occasionally, a little goofy).
Rebecca's firm and experienced hand on the camera
and on the video editor ensures that the information
is clear, thorough and lighthearted. 
And unlike an in-person workshop
where one or the other of us throws information at you
willy nilly for days (at least that's my exhausting approach),
 this workshop allows you to learn at your own pace,
watching the same videos again and again if you want
till each step makes sense.

But this going live business
is also quite nerve-jangling for me
because pretty soon
anyone at all
will be able to hear me play the concertina
in a venue I couldn't possibly have imagined
back when I swore to my first teacher,
that I'd NEVER, not ever,
EVER play in public.

Not that you actually see me playing.
All the video footage is about warping
and weaving
and yarn
and looms
and goofy textile joy.
 (Rebecca and I have both
 devoted our lives to tapestry
and take it so seriously,
that we can joke about it endlessly). 

But I was an adult beginner musician,
and am just a teensy bit fragile
about the way I play the tunes I love so well.
To be sure I've worked hard for the past decade,
and I practice daily,
but it's a private thing.
​Or it was.

Then again,
 a couple of years ago
my diary comics were a private thing too.
And now the fact
​that I didn't wait for my face to dry
before painting my hat,
doesn't stop me for a second from putting it here.
And I do love those tunes.

So here is to us all being brave--
to trying things out:
 tapestry, tunes,
color, comics,
or being ourselves.
​
But perhaps just one of these
(or two),
at a time.

Standing desks are apparently quite the rage these days, 
so I,
as a contrary sort of gal
have  moved my operation (and my butt) to the ground.

It wasn't a carefully thought up plan,
but rather a happy accident 
that resulted from ​a sudden urge
to clear out the seemingly endless binders 
of expensive and carefully collected slides 
from back in those pre-digital image days
when the last step of tapestry completion 
was a trip to the photographer 
and subsequent filing and storage of 
the resulting 4x5 transparencies
and sheets and sheets of images in their little plastic cases
that exhibitions and publications demanded.

Since I didn't exactly intend to tackle this project,
I just plunked down on the floor and began.
​
But of course the sorting took hours
and was somewhat distracting
as somehow
between 1990 (when I wove my first tapestry),
and 2007 (when digital images took over completely),
I managed to do a lot of weft faced plain weave.

And what an unexpected  pleasure
to come upon projects long forgotten
(Scarface was such a great dog,
​that carpet bag-on-a-box project was pure fun).

But even more delightful
was standing up afterwards
and noticing the absolute absence
of a nagging hamstring pain
to which I've grown so used 
that its absence was more noticeable than its presence.

So not only did I manage to get rid of pounds and pounds of slides 
(still have one fat binder for  posterity and/or my son to toss after my demise,
but NO discards for future Pinterest-worthy window covering projects),
​but was also was moved to remove
​the work table in the middle of my studio.

In other news --
​spring is definitely here,
and the new insta-desk (board on books) 
has coincided with comic diary #18
to which I added a few sheets of  Reeves lightweight
that I had in the basement.
So far this paper is more satisfying to draw and paint on
than the lovely-to-look-at-but-hard-to-use
handmade Mexican paper in the last book
(visible in the running drawing above,
and on the right in the slide sorting comic at the top).
But as with so many things (image storage etc),
only time will reveal the efficacy
​of one's  seemingly sensible decisions.

Speaking of which...
version four of the knitting project
proceeds apace,
in all its fat stockinette glory. 

​Never a dull moment around here.

On 24 April, 2014
I took a deep breath,
gritted my teeth
and pressed "post"
on an image of a tapestry house by the sea. 

It was my very first blog entry
on a brand new website,
and it was terrifying.

You'd think I'd be used to such things
as my work  has been in cyberspace since the mid 1990s.
My husband-- code writer and web builder--
had thought it'd be a good idea.

"WHY would I want such a weird and public thing?"
I cried.
"And anyway, who would ever look?"
After all, I only checked my email every couple of weeks.

By 2014, however,
web construction (and my attitude) had changed just a tad,
It was time to tackle the newest iteration on my own.

My wonderful web-savvy sister
pointed me toward  Weebly
(a relatively friendly website builder),
and after a few shitty first drafts
and much angst,
the thing came together-- 
though committing to a blog took a little longer.
​
"What is the point?"
"Will I be able to sustain it?"
"Will I be able to stop if I want to?"
"Will I have anything to say?" 
"Won't the stuff I do seem boring and repetitive?" 
"Will it change my relationship to the work if I talk about process?"
"Will the ideas get shy and stay away?"

Well yes, it has changed my relationship to my work --
at least I think so.
Having taken the blogging path
I can't exactly do the experiment of what would have been happening had I chosen the other.

And NO, there has been a shortage of ideas. ​

Or maybe I just easily amused
​ since four years on, 
not only am I still entranced by weaving tiny tapestry houses, 
but I also seem to have had something or other to say
about my boring, repetitive and oh-so-satisfying work
almost every Tuesday since.
​
 I learn something every time I write--
and if not always from the actual words,
then absolutely from the bliss of all of you coming to read,
and from your shared thoughts and experiences.

The last three blog-o-versary's 
have slipped right by me.
I guess it's  hard to notice the big picture when I write every week.
​
But this year I noticed 
and thought it would be a grand time  to try something new,
something I've been meaning to do since I started selling 
 "How To Weave A Bag On A Box" comic instruction zines on Etsy.
It was time to move the store
RIGHT HERE!

Alas, however, I am still just as much of a scaredy cat
about new web-based enterprises
as I was four years ago.

Apparently, I'll tackle a new tune,
a new fiber,
a new pair of shoes,
refurbish an old spinning tool,
make paint,
tackle an unfamiliar comic-diary-binding-method
embrace a plastic spindle,
 embark a giant secret project that I'll tell you a little bit about in my next newsletter,
and even do the laundry--
rather than commit to pushing that 'publish' button.

But I'm getting closer.  REALLY.
And if you think of it,
​you might check back later in the week,
because honestly,
I have  both physical and PDF versions of my comic instructions
(How to Weave a Bag on a Box and Backstrap Dialogues for now),
all loaded up
and once I know how the system works
I plan to also make a tapestry gallery too
(need a tiny house anyone? a large colorful tapestry?),
and my plan is to have free shipping to celebrate.
​So stay tuned! 

Indeed, I  feel myself getting braver by the minute.
​
But maybe some lunch first.
And a little weaving in the sun.
OH yes, but first I'll push the "POST" button.

So what effect does the shape of the distaff
and the length of its 'handle'
have on the spinning--
and thus the yarn?

And what about the relationships between
 -the position of the distaff
-the position of the fiber
-the preparation of the fiber
-the positions of  my hands
-and the style of spindle?

My first two willow distaffs
(distaves?--my computer thinks not)
are inclined toward narrowness at the bottom--
a bit like a pointed lozenge shape-- 
causing the ever decreasing fiber mass
to slide down as I spin.

Unlike the willow I used for the first two (which had been drying for a year),
the fresh osier branches are still very flexible --
and also relatively heavy. ​

The two plants also branch differently --
the willows alternating as they go up,
the osier branches sticking out in pairs, 
(what is the botanical word for this phenomenon?)
allowing  for distaff symmetry.

 I'm not generally all that attached to symmetry.
But I'm pleased with the shape,
though can't so much about  its effetiveness
or the increase in weight
since I've only just begun to spin.
​Stay tuned.

And since this box of fleece just arrived
I might get a teensy bit distracted.

 Thanks as ever for all the wonderful comments and ideas --
I do so enjoy them even if I rarely seem to answer -- except in my head, alas.

Also -- any thoughts on this combination of comics and 'regular' photos?
Somehow it seems best to me to stick with one or the other--
the  transition can be jarring.
But sometimes I  don't have enough drawings
for all I have to say. 
Hmmm -- a lesson there?