What’s the difference between an artist and a craftsperson? A craftsperson gets paid *before* they die.

I’ve been busy of late, as I’m sure is obvious from my lack of posts. Sometimes it’s difficult to post because every minute my hands are on the keyboard means my hands are NOT on my crochet hook. I just recently finished up an entry for Threadknits (more on this later) that I hope will do well. Currently I’m working on a Seth and an Anubis from Egyptian mythology, also a commission based on Anubis. This weekend I hope to finish up Pyramid Head’s knife (yes, the never-ending commission Pyramid Head), slap some red paint on him and his “victim”, take pictures and get him off to his new happy home.

I’ve decided to start getting up at 7AM in the hopes of getting more done. No more lazy mornings, no more snooze button — all an attempt to get more done and finish some commissions that need doing. Hopefully some pictures soon.

Also, I’ve updated my etsy shop with a lot of dolls that I’ve wanted to sell. Give it a look, if you will.

So I did what I always do when I’m nearly down to the wire: I cleaned like a mad woman. Today I’ve picked up, sorted, stacked, put away, wiped, washed, thrown out, and made up.

It started with organizing and moving things off our coffee table. Then I decided to pick up the floor around the table so that the husband could vacuum later. Then I started throwing things away that we don’t use often or that were damaged or beyond date. Then I picked up the books that need to go back on our (already overflowing) bookshelves to organize later.

An hour or so of hazy madness later, I have a surprisingly clean house.

I apologize if this entry’s a bit scrambled; I keep seeing things that I could adjust/organize/throw away and I interrupt my writing to do it.

All my stuff’s up off the floor; I’ve gotten rid of two bags of crap I wasn’t really needing. I’ve got a stack of books ready to be integrated. I’ve got things more organized than ever. I’m so domestic I’ve got a crockpot of no-peekie stew simmering on the counter, and I’m seriously considering making my family’s brunswick stew recipe (at 1/6th the volume; they used to make it for church lunches).

The husband’s been such a big help, as he always is. It’s so odd to have a partner who will clean and organize alongside me. I’ve just about worn him out with some serious labor today and I love him more than ever.

I do have to watch out for a tendency towards hoarding. The members of my family are prone to holding on to random and meaningless stuff, although we give different reasons for it. “Collecting.” “These might be worth something someday.” “I can’t throw it away now; I might need it down the line.”

Even a vague sense that we *are* our things. I know I once had that feeling.

When I was little I kept my room in a glorious state of clutter. No real trash and absolutely no food leavings, but my belongings were spread over every square inch of floor and horizontal surface. Even the bed was a zoo of stuffed animals.

Part of it was loving to see what all I had, to be inspired at any moment. Colors of toys or combination of light and shadow could send me off into a fugue, dreaming about everything and nothing in particular. Part of it was security device; if anyone wanted to bother me they’d have to do it over a mine-field of various slippery, sharp, pointed, loose objects.

I remember when various family members would come into my room and clean it. I remember sitting on my bed crying broken-heartedly as they patiently organized, removed, repatterned. To me it was an attack, an invasion and an assault. Other people… touching my belongings. Putting them back in an order that meant nothing to me. I wouldn’t be able to find things that I wanted until my fantastic haphazard filing method reasserted itself.

I recognize some of this as the start of mental illness.

What with better medication, better understanding of my own mind, and the love and support of someone saner than I am (or at least differently crazy) I have had only occasional clutter.

And now I don’t have even that. I have a Clean House.

There’s an Orange Clove candle burning on my coffee table. There’s the lovely smell of home cooking in my kitchen area. I’m a happy hooker.

Even after you feed them, however, they now KNOW that you’re awake. So now it’s time for them to start caterwauling at the door (what? You’re an INSIDE CAT. You go outside on a HARNESS. And you’ve never been outside in any way at 5 FREAKING AM. What play date are YOU missing?), eating at high volume (CRUNCH CRUNCH CRUNCH), cat-fighting for fun and profit, or scratching at any one of a thousand exciting objects including:

They’ve gone suspiciously silent now. I can’t see them in the darkness beyond my laptop screen. They may currently be plotting my doom.

Secondly, there’s nothing ON at 5 AM. Not even HBO has anything good. Every single channel is either infomercials or cartoons… which says a lot about what television thinks of the intelligence of the average insomniac. We must be easily amused or easily persuaded into buying overpriced crap we don’t actually need from people who smile too much. Also note that most children’s cartoons now are simultaneously better drawn and worse drawn than the ones around when I was a kid.

Ahhh, I remember that halcyon time. Before the days of the internet, it was! If you wanted fanfiction, you had to write it yourself! And if you wanted to buy anything you had to leave the house and walk ten miles! Up a hill! Both ways!

And we were *proud* to have it!

And usually I think I have too many webpages I habitually read each morning. At 5 AM you discover there never is enough webpages. Some of them even go missing. Maybe they’re still in bed, where yours truly should be.

I’ve no idea when my body decided that six hours or less is an appropriate length of sleep.

Thirdly, a Crochet Lite H hook makes a very passable magic wand in a dark room.

Well, it’s 7 AM and the husband’s awake finally. Time to start the day. Wish me luck…

Yeah.

I’m beginning to believe she’s a mistress of understatement.

As in, I took it at 11PM one night, thinking it was supposed to be back out of my system in about 8-9 hours. I had my alarm set for 8. I wanted to get up and do work on the commissions in my oh-so-copious free time. Instead I was woken by my husband at 10 AM, who had to *shake me to get me to wake up*, and for the rest of the day I felt like someone had slipped me a ‘lude. Hard to get anything done when that happens. The only upside was that I had a ton of weird and vivid dreams. As it was, I spent all day in an utter fog, feeling as if I hadn’t slept at all.

Guess it’ll be the last time I mess with that. Being a fibromyte means that my sleep is a touchy and special thing. I need a specific type of sleep, and a certain length of sleep — and if I don’t get it, life is difficult and sad until I do.

Medicines have always hit me oddly. They gave me morphine in the emergency room once; I still don’t understand why some people take it for fun. It acid etched my veins before it knocked me unconscious. Thinking back I can still feel that awful sensation, in arteries I didn’t even realize I had. It was a frissioning boiling feeling, a very uncomfortable trip.

Percocet, however, has been a godsend for me. It’s the only thing that really cuts through the pain, with no side effects that I’ve been able to notice it. I can use it sparingly because it is effective. I don’t have to stack eight or twelve or even 16 ibuprophen and do some unknown amount of damage to my innards.

The biggest medication to affect me was Metformin. I was put on it because there was a possibility at the time that I had Poly-Cystic Ovarian Disease, or PCOD. My general practitioner let me know that there was a severe side effect called lactic acidosis but it was so rare that the likelihood of me getting it would be very small.

A week later I went back to my doc with a complaint of acute chest pain and all over muscle soreness. I asked my doc if there was a possibility of this being the rare side effect. They gave the answer of “Oh no, it’s much worse than this.”

Two months later and they were right — it *was* much worse!

Lactic acidosis is part of what happens to the body during the process of rigor mortis; in a way I was living and dead all at once. (A very novel feeling, but I do not suggest it to others.) It felt like my lungs and chest were turning to stone and set on fire and wrapped tightly in barbed wire at the same time. My muscles hurt all over; I was taking four and five percocet a day just to sit upright. But a day after stopping the Metformin, the symptoms began to fade and in four days they were gone.

Lactic acidosis has a hilarious fatality rate; I feel that I came very close to dying because of several misdiagnoses of the situation, and numerous doctors who failed to listen to me and my appraisal of my symptoms. Later that year I got a tattoo because of this experience — a human heart wrapped tight with barbed wire, with phoenix-wings of flame shooting from it. It got it out of my head and on to my skin, where I didn’t have to think about it so often.

Saint Cloth says that tattoos fade; I hope this one does.

Ever had a medication give you a higher effect than you were told it would, or a horrific side effect that causes you harm?

Crooked paths and lordly bearing; of such is Saint Cloth.

His eyes seem maroon sometimes, and flash sparks in low lights. His skin is the pale of night creatures, the pages of secret leather-bound books in candlelight.

One might say he looks a bit like Hannibal Lecter, as described in the Thomas Harris novels. Maroon eyes, pale flesh, hair slicked back like the pelt of some sleek animal. Knife-slim, upright bearing, easy uncanny grace.

Lady killer.

When I first saw Saint Cloth I was dying, and his message stirred my stone heart. But it also churned its sharp fingers in my freezing lungs… it hurt so much. His message wasn’t for the dying but for the living. The struggle between the two almost tore me apart.

But eventually I triumphed — in extremis, extollor. At the point of death, I am exalted. In the most dire of situations I display my true worth. I came back from the cusp of death and in doing so have had the pleasure of seeing Saint Cloth in more times, in more seasons.

I saw him once in Savannah, where the lowland ocean music is played. He walked into a house of lepers and made them all jump up and dance. Later I was able to meditate under a tree and in his presence, surrounded by the smell of warm linen, warm tweed — all things simple and good. He extended to me the kiss of kinship.

I saw him once in Memphis, tossed on a rolling sea. On that night the blind could see, the lame could walk, the deaf could hear, and a thing I swore I’d never do again I committed quite willingly. We shared a cup of fellowship, after it was all done.

I saw him once in Charleston, where the streets are hard and the trees weep. He wore a mask then, and instead of followers of a saint we were maenaids to the muse. We were wild animals in a house of art, and we were free. I clasped his hand, palm to palm. Later that night he broke bread with the losers and the dreamers, and with me.

I’ve seen him often here in my own City, always when I least expect him. Once even on my birthday. Once on my wedding day. He reaches down his hand and blesses me; he draws me up into the shadow of his wings and I find peace. I seek him, I search for him, I follow after him. Of all that I aspire, I look to be a good handmaiden, and one fit to serve.

Sometimes he waltzes.

What can I say? I have a very peculiar saint indeed.

Issue 2 – Down the Dip

For once, he’s the most normal person on the cover.
If I had a dime for every time I’ve wanted to put a cigarette out in someone else’s eye, I’d be living in Fiji.
“Incredible tension: like they’re all living in the second before the bullet hits the bone. They’re all waiting to be killed.”
“Make your things on the floor stay, Fred. I’m tired and emotional and I really DO feel like shooting something.”
Gods, I can’t wait until until Fred gets his.
I love the Bazooms neon sign with the heart-shaped nipples.
Our first shot of the nasty b!tch, the two-faced cat. I can’t wait to make a doll of her, complete with lizard and cigarette in one muzzle.
I’d love to hear some of the side stories mentioned here, especially the one involving how so many people died the last time Spider was alone with a phone-line in Prague.
So much Icon Fodder in this issue.

The one thing I really want to learn from Spider is how to say something and then let it go. Not to look for approval nor shrink from disapproval.

My favorite Margaret Mitchell quote is “With enough courage, one can do without a reputation.” It does take bravery, not to care how other people think of or feel about you.