This weekend, I lived in a land of fiber, livestock, deep-fried food, good tunes, funny clothes, fabulous pottery and art and jewelry and fiber arts, and dust.  Despite the fact that I had a brand-new digital camera in my bag, I didn’t take a single picture.  Why, you ask?  Well, I guess I am, at heart, a dummmmasssssss sometimes.  But really, when I’m all decked out in handmade iron-age reproduction clothing, it’s nigh impossible for me to yank a digital camera out of a bag and use it, even a camera that was an anniversary present.  It’s too hard on my brain, see.  It’s just too hard. 

Ok.  We had beautiful weather.  We had beautiful people.  We had beautiful camelids and goats and sheep and dogs.  We even had beautiful corn-dogs. 

I got scary Viking Combs.  And a  scary new needle-felting tool. And I accidentally got some yarn and roving.  And I had to get some raw wool to card, since I was sitting there doing demos with Etaine and she had decided not to bring her scary viking combs.  I got to teach several people some fascinating things about fiber arts 2,000 years ago, and I think they were actually interested.  And I got to meet a whole bunch of folks from Knitters Review, with whom I have had some unknown number of conversations online.  But now they have faces attached to their writing.  And that’s cool.  And I got to argue with Dark Mary about which of us got to keep the crazy-pieced Brigid’s Cross I made, and how to price it, and how much we would hate whoever bought it unless it was one of our dearest pals. 

And I got to give the spirally red hat to Olwyn.   She, the second initiate of the Hat Mafia.  It is most fitting: she is from Jersey.  And she was gobsmacked.  And it fits her perfectly.  Yay.

I danced with the Rock-Candy Cloggers while Robbie Caruthers and Brooke Parkhurst and a whole bunch of other folks played some fantastic old-time.  I recited something newish I wrote to Bran, who had never heard it, and it was powerful enough to make us both simultaneously nauseous and anxious to listen to Led Zeppelin.  That’s good.  Trust me.  I poked Annie Modesitt to see if she wants to publish my essay in Cheaper than Therapy, and it still looks like a yes.   And I got a good start on some new shoes. 

And I haven’t even told you the half of the weekend we had.

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