“…everyone but an idiot knows that the lower classes must be kept poor, or they will never be industrious.” —Arthur Young; 1771
A couple of kind souls reached out to me after my last post to assure me that I shouldn’t be ashamed of my looks or my age, when I said that I don’t do selfies. And it’s so nice to receive this kind of support!
But confidence isn’t the reason actually.
It’s a bone-cold, lazy (ie exhausted) indoorsy type of week with no social duties whatsoever, yay. I’m knitting a hat from an old handspun skein for no particular reason, G is finally updating my webserver and in return I’m rebuilding the website for his gun club.
It’s always fun to see how a handspun or handdyed yarn knits up, sometimes they need crochet or weaving to show off, other times they really seem to be their prettiest as a skein. I had some which were too small for the pattern, but if I like the fit, they may become headbands for my delicate ears.
I began writing a typical “status of the year” report, slept on it and decided I really couldn’t be bothered and had no profound learning experiences to impart.
I’m a bit dead in the water at the moment, nothing brilliant emerging upstairs, no flow happening if I try to do stuff anyway. Finally got my spray paint a while ago to finish those frames, but had lost all steam in the meantime when it came to showing the result.
This morning it occurred to me that perhaps this is a unique opportunity to dig into all those project ideas (well one or two of them) that I just make a note of but never begin because time.
“It is a silver morning like any other. I am at my desk. Then the phone rings, or someone raps at the door. I am deep in the machinery of my wits. Reluctantly I rise, I answer the phone or I open the door. And the thought which I had in hand, or almost in hand, is gone. Creative work needs solitude. It needs concentration, without interruptions. It needs the whole sky to fly in, and no eye watching until it comes to that certainty which it aspires to, but does not necessarily have at once. Privacy, then. A place apart — to pace, to chew pencils, to scribble and erase and scribble again.