Last night I got bored (meaning I ran out of the yarn I wanted to work with and was too bummed out to read or write) and instead of doing something to make life better for the people I love, I took a bunch of cameraphone images. Vignette has an option that allows you to take pictures with a random effect and random framing, which made this kind of fun. I take comfort in a little risk-less unpredictability. (Meaning I’d rather not make decisions.)
In any case, I thought it might be a good way for me to remember what my nights alone at home look/feel like. I’ve certainly got plenty (more than plenty) of written documentation, but not many pictures of the empty apartment.
It’s important to me to document silly little things like this because I already wish I could remember what my nights were like six months/a year/two years ago. My memory has so many leaks and cannot be trusted.
My hands are gross. The palm:finger ratio seems way off.
I’m using this fabric as a makeshift curtain. It’s probably a little too pink and floral.
Polypody of the oak. Female fern. Constantly on my mind.
Oval frames make everything so precious. Is ovular a word? Does it mean what I think it means, or does it have something to do with ovaries?
The brown yarn in this image is the one I ran out of. Jared Flood patterns (this one is Turn a Square) are so addictive.
Also addictive: Liszt. And lists. This list of Liszt. A few days ago I mixed up “addicting” and “addictive” and I am still haunted by this horribly embarrassing mistake. Especially since I was trying to point out how other people make that mistake. Especially since I was around someone I’d very much like to impress.
I am obsessed with my own twitter feed. Grady just woke up from her nap in the other room, and this is what she’s saying while playing in her crib: “Lalalalala. Lalalaaaaa mama. Lalala muhmuhmuh. (Pause.) AaaaaaAAAAH. Bah. Bah. Woof woof! Owwww. Ah. Waaaahvaaaavaaaaavaaaavvvvvvwa. Mmmmmmmf.”
Did I show you my new stately pony bookends? I found them at the thrift store, and fell in love – even though they used to be a hideous brown and were completely non-functional as bookends. So I painted them and screwed them right onto the bookshelf, where they rest now. Also, yes. That is a book called “Witch’s Brew” by Alfred Hitchcock.
I still collect scraps of yarn and fabric to stuff toys with. Even though I never make toys. But the cute jars full of cute scraps sure do make me happy.
Horror-film face. I believe a cat’s torso is growing from my jaw.
I am completely enamored with and very embarrassed by this blanket. I guess that makes it a guilty pleasure, right?
Do people really not wear nightgowns any more? I missed the memo. Also, I should have said “quilty” pleasure. I suppose I could go back and change it, but that feels like lying. And also this blanket is not technically a quilt, as it is not quilted. Anyway, I love this particuar nightgown. It makes me feel like a ghost. A sleepy ghost.
I am not super-excellent at self-portraits. So I did a lot of practicing last night, and this was probably the best I came up with. Tricks learned: open your eyes super wide, slight smile, overhead and slightly-to-the-side angle.
This is probably the runner-up. Yeah. Like I said, I am not good at this. But my hair looks pretty alright here.
My glasses are missing a few rhinestones. I take pleasure in rough edges.
I wanted to exhibit how cute Winston is when he sleeps, but this image kind of looks like an old daugerreotype (or whatever the hell they’re called) of a frontier carcass.
Is it a constant struggle for every amateur blogger to accept the self-indulgence of the medium? Every post I write is a battle between brazenness and apology.
