I went to Texas Art Supply yesterday. I found a gold mine. You'll see some of it tomorrow, but the paper in the foreground is part of that mine's yield. I bought 8 1/2 x 11 sheets and cut them in half. I ended up with two sheets of lovely stationary for twenty-five cents. Well, four, if I use each side. I bought ten . . . *zip my lips*
Today, I went to Teavana. The one in the mall across from my doctor's office. I was early, so I sat at a tiny table at the Starbuck's in the middle of the mall. I got to watch people over the rim and around my iPad for ten to twenty minutes. It's great for covert work. I enjoy watching people. I did it when I was an art student, so that I could learn to do quick sketches.
I made a pot of tea a little while go, and while I sipped, I wrote one postcard and a letter. It happened so fast. Didn't even have to think about it. I used my new kitty tea cups. Did not open the jar of white honey, but . . . Oh, my goodness. Lance Armstrong is admitting that he lied. I believed him until now. Poor man. I suppose testicular cancer was a sign?
Mail went out today: Letters, notecard, and postcrds. One package. I forgot to take photos, but it's okay. I will share this instead:
I put this little gem on a postcard to a friend. I should have kept it for myself, huh? Do you ever look back at a mail art creation and really see what you're saying? It doesn't have to be with words or letters, but just your overall unconscious message? I suspect that sometimes we send subliminal messages out into the world on a card or a letter, or even in a blog post. Not always, but often. The red limner was meant to be my signature, yet it ended up being a salutation, with a message for myself. Don't you just get what Lily Tomlin said? I'm living that. I no longer want to write 40 letters in a few days. So, I won't. I don't. Not any more.
And, there is this. I misspelled this word so many times while working on this postcard. I still don't get why, but each time I corrected my mistake, I learned something new. Escriture kept running through my head as the correct way to spell it. Then, the ecriture feminine got to me. I googled it and learned something new. 7gypsies still enhances my life--as well as the little things I create. So, maybe I was meant to look at the bottom of the scrap of card stock I've saved after months, examine it, research the words, and try to fit it into what we do as women. (This one is just for the women, dudes.) It's interesting that men "cultured" mail art, yet so many women . . . No. Men re-invented it, yet women "cultured it." And, yes, we do write, not as men do, but as we are meant to write, because our brains are different. But, isn't that what makes even our letters, notecards, and postcards so unique and . . . desirable? We're different. That what makes us different, is what makes us . . . What? Please. Fill in the blank for me?
That, what makes us different, is what makes us __________.