Once in a great while, I wonder what on Earth I'm going to do with all the collectibles I deem worthy, in my ever-dwingling storage space. There are times when I wish I could blink like a genie, or twitch my nose like Samantha Stevens, and have most of this stuff disappear. I cannot seem to create it away, or give it away fast enough. My head fills to brimming with ideas. Wish I could work as fast as I imagine.
A great idea is good for a handful of repeats. Like the idea for the waxed paper tubes I finally got around to working out. The first one was a good way to use up some of the jute, ribbons, twine, and string I've keep on hold for journal embellishments--usually bookmarks. I'm good for two more embellished mail tubes, since I have two tubes left. Check out part one of number two that evolved last night:
See the little jade bead? It's one of my favorites. Why? Well, to lift a quote from gemstone.org: "today, jade
I like the glass beads, too. I didn't string them because I wanted to fill in the spaces between the circles and the hearts instead of just wrapping them around. It gives an impression of motion, as well as it draws the eye back to the blue in the stamps and the mail edging. Who knew I'd find a use for all the little strips I bought on sale several months ago? Why, I did, that's who! This clever limner is always imaginating. It might explain why I'm often accused of walking around with my head in the clouds. Yep. I practically live way-way up, where the air is thinner, and ideas abound.
And, while I am confessing, I resent being interrupted when I work. And I want a wife. I want someone to cook and clean and do all the wifey things wives do, while the not-wife gets to create to a heart's content. No wonder males . . . Sorry. I was saying?
Oh. Okay. I resent having to stop creating because I have to do everyday things. Do men have to stop to change diapers, cook dinner, do a load of laundry. Drat! I did it again. Sorry. I meant to say: I straddle planes and realms. You know what I mean, right? I mean planes of existence. I don't think I could live if I had to stand with both feet in the sensible realm for too long. Try to imagine not being able to dream, pretend, work out ideas . . . Or have conversations inside your head. Talking to yourself should always be allowed, and encouraged. Who among you carry little books like Moleskines in your bag just to jot or doodle? You know. Capture idea that might not come again?
Flash! Sitting here writing, I glanced up, looked out my wind,w and spied the young boy next door pushing a toy mower. I grabbed My Third Eye, aimed, took the shot, but I was too slow.
See what I mean about imagining . . . A kid pretending. I wanted to capture him, all the while, as I aimed, a number of things happened at once: I was musing about what I'd just written. Not paying attention, movement grabbed my attention . . . A young boy imagining he's mowing.While his mower is red, yellow and blue plastic, his father's is the real deal. He mows lawns for a living.
Trying to get the shot I was overcome by sadness at the idea of young Alex pretending to mow grass like his dad. I wondered if he dreams of being and doing more. I know he likes to pretend he's Spiderman and Superman. I hope he will aspire to be more than I ever dare(d).
Imagine that: I almost captured life in action. One pass and he was gone. Out of sight. Out of range, yet never out of mind. He's gone, yet he remains in the world of imaginations. He'll go on and on, every time someone reads this. Alex is captured in the nest as long as the net goes on. I take it as a good sign that Alex will grow up to surpass a random act of play.
Okay, here I go again. Feeling a little down over missing that shot. Sitting here with chin in hand, watching Spirit bark and run along the fence, (I forgot to mention his visit last week. Somehow he got loose. But, that's another story.) then, unexpectedly, the idea of tribal sticks came to mind for the second time. The first was last night as I was winding down to welcome sleep. I Googled "tribal sticks" and shuddered when I read one definition. My idea is quite different. But anyway . . . No. Wait. Maybe I'll call it a mail stick. A plain old mail tube? Never mind, and moving on . . .
Are you ready for a challenge? The spineless need not apply. If you're daring, brave, capable of creating on-the-edge mail art on the fly, then come back for details tomorrow.
Take me on and I guarantee you'll joy the journey, 'cause it'll be a trip.
Only six inches of this mail tube has been finished. There's more to come. And when it's done? Mail call!