I see them everywhere...at the doctor’s, the dentist, the DMV. I saw them when I served jury duty. They scare me!
If I know I’m going to be trapped in a waiting room, anywhere, I take a book. Sometimes I take more than one. If by some fluke, I forget to bring one, I shuffle through the magazines, looking for something like National Geographic or Audubon. I avoid garbage rags like People, or boring housewiffy stuff like Better Homes & Gardens. But usually, I always have a book. The thought of sitting there with nothing to do, makes me break out in a cold sweat.
Most people are like me. They either bring a book, or, like a friend of mine, cross-stitch to work on. I’ve seen people writing in notebooks, working crossword puzzles, doing knitting or crochet, or more often these days, playing games or trolling the internet on their cell phones. But at least they are doing SOMETHING.
Then there are the zombies. The plop their butts in a chair, put their hands in their laps, and....switch off. Literally. Eyes fixed, they stare into space doing...nothing. So, I can’t help but wonder, what are they thinking about? Are they thinking at all? Or, like C3P0 in Star Wars, do they have an internal “kill” switch, and their brain turns off?
The whole time I’m reading my book, I’m aware of them. I see them in my peripheral vision. It starts to creep me out. How can they just SIT there? Are they really human, or are they aliens, with transmitters in their brains, beaming up info on the waiting room habits of earthlings. Although, why they would want to know that is beyond me. Pretty boring stuff. Are they automatons, set up to make it look like your doctor or dentist is busier than he really is? Are they test dummies...some new, super-lifelike robot model, with little cameras behind those staring eyes, to see how well they fool the rest of us? Maybe, but if so, they need to at least make them blink.
Personally, I think they’re zombies. And sometimes they come in pairs...to make you think they are husband and wife.
Recently I had to serve on Jury Duty. There I am, trapped again, this time in a small room with about twenty other people, waiting to see if we will actually be called to serve that day. Behind me is a woman who sounds like she has the plague, and who was apparently never taught how to use a tissue. Every two minutes, for three hours, I heard “snuuuggggluuggth” right behind my head, as she sucked snot back up her nose. And there were zombies here, too.
They have to be zombies. No one can sit, without moving, without talking, without even using the restroom, for three hours! I’d feel less paranoid if they just went to sleep. Snoring and drooling would at least prove they were human. But no, they just sit...and stare...at nothing. No one is home.
Then, when it is their turn to see said doctor or dentist, or the bailiff calls us to attention, SHAZAM!...they switch back on. They blink, stand up, and follow either the nurse or the rest of the jurors into whatever place they are meant to go.
What I wonder is, what do they do when they get home? Do they sit back on the couch and switch off again? Do they plug themselves in to a battery charger, ready for their next sojourn into the real world? Do they report to Zaphod Beeblebrox at the Restaurant at the End of the Universe? Which head do they report to? Do they send data to a Death Star? It’s probably better that I don’t know.
Like I said, waiting room zombies creep me out.
Thursday, February 23, 2012
Monday, February 6, 2012
New Headpiece
Here is my first experiment in pounding heavier wire, adding brass wire wrapping and beading. The wire pieces are parts of many that I salvaged from the garage floor, left there by the messy electrician when he re-wired our garage. It is actually a bit too hard to be useful for jewelry, but I hated to waste it, and it is perfect for me to play around with until I get the hang of pounding wire to give it a better and stronger look. In future, I will use wire meant for jewelry, where I can get the same gauge, but which is softer and easier to work with.
This is also my first attempt at a headpiece. And although I would have put a bit more detail in the curls of copper wire, if it had not been so hard to bend, I still think the piece came out rather nice.
There is still much to learn, but this was fun to make, and I have lots of ideas for future headpieces and hopefully, simple tiaras.
Friday, January 27, 2012
A New Year, A Sad Change
The year 2012 is starting out a bit strange for me. My life seems to be slowly rotating away from some things, and drifting toward others. That’s natural, I suppose, but it can also be sad.
The biggest change, and the saddest, is my decision to leave The Barn Owls Writer’s Group. After almost seven years, things had reached a point where instead of looking forward to the Friday meetings, I was looking for excuses to get out of driving into town. There are a variety of reasons why I made the decision to go on a long, possibly permanent, hiatus.
When I first joined Owls, we had eight or nine members (can’t remember exactly). There was barely enough time for us each to read and get a critique of our five pages within the three hour meeting time. It was a vital, enthusiastic group, with high hopes and a real desire to get published. We even put out our own anthology of short stories, and had book signings at the local bookstores. Not long after I joined, one lady passed away from cancer. But the remaining seven held together, gave a good variety of constructive critiques of our work, went to writer’s conferences, went to a presentation on writing by S. L. Stebel, where two of us (myself included) got to have a short bit of writing reviewed by this man. We got together periodically to have lunch before the Friday meetings, and generally had a good time with a strong focus on improving our writing skills. I loved going to each and every meeting.
Over time, one by one, people dropped out, or, I hate to say it, were driven out because of writing style/genre and/or personality conflicts. When Alan, the much loved only male in our group (he always referred to himself as the head rooster among the hens) got sick and had to move away, and then later passed away, the group was down to six, and the spark of enthusiasm seemed to go out. Slowly the focus blurred, and although most of us brought pieces to read and got great feedback, the field trips stopped, no one was going to conferences any more, and the only time we got together for lunch was at Christmas.
With the exception of our leader, and maybe two others, the rest of us were skipping more and more meetings. We attempted to get new members, and had a few show up for awhile, but they either couldn’t commit to the time, or had health issues that prevented them from attending very often and they eventually dropped out altogether. At one point, a younger woman, who had been a journalist nominated for a Pulitzer, joined, but because she owned her own business based out of her home, she couldn’t always make the meetings. She was just the shot of energy, professional experience, and fresh air the group desperately needed. Unfortunately, not all the members looked at it that way. The woman left the group after only a short time. I think she found the meetings boring and depressing.
Then another longtime member moved to the coast, showing up at meetings maybe once a month or so. Now we were down to five. And the focus on writing was pretty much dead. If no one brought anything to read and critique, then dice were pulled out and some kind of dice game ensued. We even stopped doing the ten minute speed-writing exercise, which I had always enjoyed. I was at the point where, as soon as the dice came out, I left. I wasn’t interested in playing a dice game when I could be at home working outside...or home writing. I didn’t join Owls to play dice. I joined to learn about writing, polish my work, and hopefully get published. I still have that dream, and am still working toward that eventual goal.
I missed the first two meetings of the new year—one due to lack of interest, one due to the fact I had to take care of a sick cat. When the call came out to ask who was going to be at the next meeting, I felt a sense of dread. I just didn’t want to drive the eleven miles into town, so that when one or two members were done reading, the rest of the time would be spent playing games. I couldn’t do it. I finally accepted the fact that the group no longer held any interest for me. The dynamics had changed. However, I honor and respect them as individuals, from whom I learned an enormous amount about the skills and joy of writing.
In sending out my request for a long hiatus, I thought I had left the door open for a return to the group, if the focus returned to writing. I made it clear I wanted to stay in touch. After all, these women had been my friends for over six and a half years. But within days, my name was struck from the e-mail list, cutting me off from any notices of activities or personal adventures. That hurt. Maybe I should have expected it, but it still feels like a slap in the face.
Just a week after I gave my notice to leave, one more member, the woman who had moved to the coast, and who had been in the group way longer than I had, officially left. She was instantly cut off from the e-mail list as well.
So, now they are down to four. I hear they are asking around to see if anyone knows others who might want to join. I wish them luck. Maybe if they get new, excited, enthusiastic younger people in the group, things will start clicking for them again. It’s just unfortunate that it took so many of the longtime members bailing out to effect that change.
I will miss the Owls very much. But, I’m still writing. I still have my dream.
The biggest change, and the saddest, is my decision to leave The Barn Owls Writer’s Group. After almost seven years, things had reached a point where instead of looking forward to the Friday meetings, I was looking for excuses to get out of driving into town. There are a variety of reasons why I made the decision to go on a long, possibly permanent, hiatus.
When I first joined Owls, we had eight or nine members (can’t remember exactly). There was barely enough time for us each to read and get a critique of our five pages within the three hour meeting time. It was a vital, enthusiastic group, with high hopes and a real desire to get published. We even put out our own anthology of short stories, and had book signings at the local bookstores. Not long after I joined, one lady passed away from cancer. But the remaining seven held together, gave a good variety of constructive critiques of our work, went to writer’s conferences, went to a presentation on writing by S. L. Stebel, where two of us (myself included) got to have a short bit of writing reviewed by this man. We got together periodically to have lunch before the Friday meetings, and generally had a good time with a strong focus on improving our writing skills. I loved going to each and every meeting.
Over time, one by one, people dropped out, or, I hate to say it, were driven out because of writing style/genre and/or personality conflicts. When Alan, the much loved only male in our group (he always referred to himself as the head rooster among the hens) got sick and had to move away, and then later passed away, the group was down to six, and the spark of enthusiasm seemed to go out. Slowly the focus blurred, and although most of us brought pieces to read and got great feedback, the field trips stopped, no one was going to conferences any more, and the only time we got together for lunch was at Christmas.
With the exception of our leader, and maybe two others, the rest of us were skipping more and more meetings. We attempted to get new members, and had a few show up for awhile, but they either couldn’t commit to the time, or had health issues that prevented them from attending very often and they eventually dropped out altogether. At one point, a younger woman, who had been a journalist nominated for a Pulitzer, joined, but because she owned her own business based out of her home, she couldn’t always make the meetings. She was just the shot of energy, professional experience, and fresh air the group desperately needed. Unfortunately, not all the members looked at it that way. The woman left the group after only a short time. I think she found the meetings boring and depressing.
Then another longtime member moved to the coast, showing up at meetings maybe once a month or so. Now we were down to five. And the focus on writing was pretty much dead. If no one brought anything to read and critique, then dice were pulled out and some kind of dice game ensued. We even stopped doing the ten minute speed-writing exercise, which I had always enjoyed. I was at the point where, as soon as the dice came out, I left. I wasn’t interested in playing a dice game when I could be at home working outside...or home writing. I didn’t join Owls to play dice. I joined to learn about writing, polish my work, and hopefully get published. I still have that dream, and am still working toward that eventual goal.
I missed the first two meetings of the new year—one due to lack of interest, one due to the fact I had to take care of a sick cat. When the call came out to ask who was going to be at the next meeting, I felt a sense of dread. I just didn’t want to drive the eleven miles into town, so that when one or two members were done reading, the rest of the time would be spent playing games. I couldn’t do it. I finally accepted the fact that the group no longer held any interest for me. The dynamics had changed. However, I honor and respect them as individuals, from whom I learned an enormous amount about the skills and joy of writing.
In sending out my request for a long hiatus, I thought I had left the door open for a return to the group, if the focus returned to writing. I made it clear I wanted to stay in touch. After all, these women had been my friends for over six and a half years. But within days, my name was struck from the e-mail list, cutting me off from any notices of activities or personal adventures. That hurt. Maybe I should have expected it, but it still feels like a slap in the face.
Just a week after I gave my notice to leave, one more member, the woman who had moved to the coast, and who had been in the group way longer than I had, officially left. She was instantly cut off from the e-mail list as well.
So, now they are down to four. I hear they are asking around to see if anyone knows others who might want to join. I wish them luck. Maybe if they get new, excited, enthusiastic younger people in the group, things will start clicking for them again. It’s just unfortunate that it took so many of the longtime members bailing out to effect that change.
I will miss the Owls very much. But, I’m still writing. I still have my dream.
Tuesday, December 27, 2011
"Yuletide"
This was our Christmas card. Hadn't done any real artwork in quite a while, so it felt good to get back into drawing. The picture is done in Sharpies and watercolor pencil.
Also, I had been trying to come up with a cartouche-type signature for a long time, but could never get the R to work well in the designs. Then, as per usual, at around 3:00 am, as I lay wide awake, it hit me. Turn the R around. I tried it, and really liked the way it looked. Only thing I think I will change, is to square off the ends of the enclosing triangle, so it doesn't look quite so much like a Caution sign. LOL
Wednesday, November 16, 2011
Thursday, October 6, 2011
Who Dusts?
Sorry, it’s been a while, I know. Summer was a busy one, but, I’m back now, and I have a question.
From my personal library I am re-reading a very excellent art book called Art Making & Studio Spaces by Lynne Perrella. It is a showcase of 31 artists and the places they work their individual styles of magic. Eye-candy to the max. Loads of ideas. But...
Each of these studios is crammed with stuff—supplies, books, baskets of fabric or paint tubes, collections of figurines, seed pods, chunks of wood, toys, personal shrines, artwork of their own and by other artists, ephemera...just about anything an artist needs for work or inspiration. In almost all of them there is not one inch of table, shelf, or cupboard space that is not covered with something. And in every studio there was not one speck of dust. Nary one spider web clinging to a corner of the ceiling...nadda.
Now, I realize that in a photo shoot for a book you would clean your studio to within an inch of its life, and they probably had a set decorator or stylist to help arrange things in more photogenic ways...but what about the rest of the time? These places would be dust magnets. Who is going to go around and dust bits of dried grasses, tiny Simpson figurines, or shelves full of Day of the Dead statues? Really. It’s a duster’s nightmare.
And no spider webs? Come on. Not one? Spiders would love these places. Hideouts galore. Maybe they were there and camera shy...but the webs should have shown up somewhere. An artist studio without one spider seems a bit too sterile for me somehow.
And don’t get me started on flooring. Carpet...in a studio? Seriously? Even if your art form is sewing or quilting, I know from experience that pins love to hide in carpet, and are only found by me stepping on them. In one studio it looked like, under a table with drips of paint dried to its edge, was what looked like pristine beige carpet. So, where did all those paint drips go? Does this person go to all the trouble of putting a big drop cloth under the table when she works, and then pulls it away the rest of the time? Seems like a lot of work. Why not just have a paint-friendly floor in the first place? It’s a studio, after all. The floor is meant to get grubby and paint-spattered.
So, that’s my question. When the camera crew is gone, and life goes back to normal for these artists....who dusts?
From my personal library I am re-reading a very excellent art book called Art Making & Studio Spaces by Lynne Perrella. It is a showcase of 31 artists and the places they work their individual styles of magic. Eye-candy to the max. Loads of ideas. But...
Each of these studios is crammed with stuff—supplies, books, baskets of fabric or paint tubes, collections of figurines, seed pods, chunks of wood, toys, personal shrines, artwork of their own and by other artists, ephemera...just about anything an artist needs for work or inspiration. In almost all of them there is not one inch of table, shelf, or cupboard space that is not covered with something. And in every studio there was not one speck of dust. Nary one spider web clinging to a corner of the ceiling...nadda.
Now, I realize that in a photo shoot for a book you would clean your studio to within an inch of its life, and they probably had a set decorator or stylist to help arrange things in more photogenic ways...but what about the rest of the time? These places would be dust magnets. Who is going to go around and dust bits of dried grasses, tiny Simpson figurines, or shelves full of Day of the Dead statues? Really. It’s a duster’s nightmare.
And no spider webs? Come on. Not one? Spiders would love these places. Hideouts galore. Maybe they were there and camera shy...but the webs should have shown up somewhere. An artist studio without one spider seems a bit too sterile for me somehow.
And don’t get me started on flooring. Carpet...in a studio? Seriously? Even if your art form is sewing or quilting, I know from experience that pins love to hide in carpet, and are only found by me stepping on them. In one studio it looked like, under a table with drips of paint dried to its edge, was what looked like pristine beige carpet. So, where did all those paint drips go? Does this person go to all the trouble of putting a big drop cloth under the table when she works, and then pulls it away the rest of the time? Seems like a lot of work. Why not just have a paint-friendly floor in the first place? It’s a studio, after all. The floor is meant to get grubby and paint-spattered.
So, that’s my question. When the camera crew is gone, and life goes back to normal for these artists....who dusts?
Thursday, August 18, 2011
You Don't Work, You're Retired.
Someone said that to me recently. It sounded as if I had been consigned to an old farts home...pushed out of life’s loop. That I spend my days sitting in a rocker knitting socks for charity. It implied that once you retire, you cease to work...at anything. You’re just waiting around for the “big one” to hit and take you out. The junk mail from hearing aid companies, assisted living facilities, long term health insurance, and funeral/cremation plans, doesn’t help.
Or, maybe it implies that I now spend my days either sitting in a club house after a round of golf, cruising the country in an enormous, gas-gussling motorcoach, becoming a “Snowbird” and heading to Arizona for the winter, or taking long cruises on luxury liners—okay, so I’ve done that once, because I wanted to go through the Panama Canal, which was awesome.
I don’t work? Right, I don’t work 9-5 at a desk with a little brass placard that reads, “Sharon Robb-Chism, Escrow Assistant” I had one that read just that, once. Among other titles, in other years: Office Manager, Shipping/Receiving Clerk, Sales Assistant, etc. And yeah, I don’t have to deal with insane escrow deadlines, loudmouthed construction workers, rude delivery men, and bitchy teenagers whining about how they hate the clothes being picked out for them and paid for by their mothers, for the new school term.
So, if I had a desk, what titles would that placard have on it now? Gosh, let me think.
Housekeeper (I admit, not my most dedicated work, but I don’t live in a pig pen either), cook (I am good at this), laundry lady, home accountant, yard & BIG garden maintenance lady, landscape manual laborer, home nurse—human and animal, animal feeder, spa maintenance lady, stable hand, stall mucker, horse groomer and trainer (of our own horses), jewelry designer, personal jewelry web-site updater, artist—published, writer—published, photographer—published, reenactor—pirate and medieval, equestrian gamer, costumer—for human and horse, internet forum moderator (not too arduous, this, but still), and last but most importantly, loving and supportive wife.
I don’t need a placard, I need a billboard.
Yeah, I’m retired, but not work? Get real. I work my ass off every single day at one or more of the above. Mostly more, especially during the summer. Would I give all that up for a nice 9-5 desk job? Not on your life. I’d still have to do half the stuff on that list and hold down a day job. Which is what I was doing before I retired, and had all this time to sit around in my rocker and read junk mail implying that my body already has one foot in the grave. NOT! However, I am ready for another cruise on a luxury liner. Maybe the Med this time, or Australia?
Or, maybe it implies that I now spend my days either sitting in a club house after a round of golf, cruising the country in an enormous, gas-gussling motorcoach, becoming a “Snowbird” and heading to Arizona for the winter, or taking long cruises on luxury liners—okay, so I’ve done that once, because I wanted to go through the Panama Canal, which was awesome.
I don’t work? Right, I don’t work 9-5 at a desk with a little brass placard that reads, “Sharon Robb-Chism, Escrow Assistant” I had one that read just that, once. Among other titles, in other years: Office Manager, Shipping/Receiving Clerk, Sales Assistant, etc. And yeah, I don’t have to deal with insane escrow deadlines, loudmouthed construction workers, rude delivery men, and bitchy teenagers whining about how they hate the clothes being picked out for them and paid for by their mothers, for the new school term.
So, if I had a desk, what titles would that placard have on it now? Gosh, let me think.
Housekeeper (I admit, not my most dedicated work, but I don’t live in a pig pen either), cook (I am good at this), laundry lady, home accountant, yard & BIG garden maintenance lady, landscape manual laborer, home nurse—human and animal, animal feeder, spa maintenance lady, stable hand, stall mucker, horse groomer and trainer (of our own horses), jewelry designer, personal jewelry web-site updater, artist—published, writer—published, photographer—published, reenactor—pirate and medieval, equestrian gamer, costumer—for human and horse, internet forum moderator (not too arduous, this, but still), and last but most importantly, loving and supportive wife.
I don’t need a placard, I need a billboard.
Yeah, I’m retired, but not work? Get real. I work my ass off every single day at one or more of the above. Mostly more, especially during the summer. Would I give all that up for a nice 9-5 desk job? Not on your life. I’d still have to do half the stuff on that list and hold down a day job. Which is what I was doing before I retired, and had all this time to sit around in my rocker and read junk mail implying that my body already has one foot in the grave. NOT! However, I am ready for another cruise on a luxury liner. Maybe the Med this time, or Australia?
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