I’ve been getting a lot of spam in the comments in the last few weeks, so I set the blog to only accept comments from people with typekey accounts a few days ago.  I know, it’s a pain, but I don’t want to come home from vacation to find people advertising viagra all over my blog comments.  So, here’s the plan.  If you want to comment and don’t want to get a type key account, just email me (lanea at cox dot net, put the punctuation and symbols where they belong).  I can even post your comments for you if you ask me to.  And I can remove the authentication when I come home if it’s as annoying as it seems to be at first glance–it looks really annoying to me. 

Sewing and packing, sewing and packing.  My fingerprints are full of needle marks again–that creepy guy Kevin Spacey played in Se7en’s got nothing on me.  Except that, you know, I don’t kill people, and I’m not a  huge enforcer of horrible punishments for people who like cake or makeup too much, and I hope I’m not very creepy.  But I could sew circles around Mr. Baddie, and my fingerprints are really interesting.   Also, I learned last week that, if  some archaeologist disinters me one day in the future, they’ll know I’m a stitcher by looking at my teeth.  It makes me very very happy, knowing that my avocations mark me so clearly.  Ok, maybe I’m a   little creepy.

I am officially losing my ever loving mind, prepping for this vacation. 

I’ve been sewing like mad–that total comes nowhere near the honest truth, but I only have so much time to measure stitching.  Out friends have new clothes.  Scott has new clothes.  I have new clothes.  I pulled out one particularly great save and now have a gorgeous teal silk dupioni dress that is very flattering, rather than the boob-crushing, hellish nightmare of a monstrosity it tried to become (dupioni has no give, even on the bias–I had forgotten).  Had the fates been cruel,  Nessa might have a gorgeous teal silk dress that made her fairy Godmother Lanea burst into tears of frustration whenever she saw it.  Sorry Nessa–you can have it when I, er, get taller.   Or when I just can’t bear not to see you in it–that’s  a real possibility, what with my need to dress the Celts. 

We also have a new camp bed, thanks to Bodwin and Scott.  Our old one made me cry when I set it up a few too many times, so Scott refused to bring it home last year. The new bed is currently violent blue.  I think I need to bribe someone with, you know, 2-D artistic talent.  Maybe I can bribe them with clothes.

We’re firming up pet-sitting plans (boy howdee, am I going to miss our pets).   It looks like my wonderful younger brother Andrew is going to care for the three furry beasts again this year, thankfully. 

I’ve been watching the live-action version of the Tick–who knew it was so funny? 

And making a make-shift irrigation system, since we’re still in the midst of a drought.  I hate coming home from a trip and finding my green charges withered and dying. 

And re-reading all of the Harry Potter books, which is good, because I don’t need challenge from my books right now.  I need escape.  And weirdos.  There’s nothing like immersing yourself in books about a counter-culture when you’re getting ready to immerse yourself in a counter-culture.  Very comforting. 

Also, sleeping not quite enough, and having very strange dreams. 

I just can’t wait to get out of town, dammit, and see our far-flung friends.  Why are there work days between me and summer camp?  WHYYYYYYAHHHWAHHHHHHH!?

I need a nap. 

I’ve been remiss, obviously, about this poetry thing we do. Blame in on my job–I always do. Here’s something from Marianne Moore. As is probably obvious, Ireland is terribly important to me, and like all things that are terribly important to me, my relationship with the country and its culture and my tiny spot in it is tangled and messy and a bit sore in spots–particularly those spots where the missing, broken, Irish part of my family should be, had they not vanished on the toddler I was at the time. So is Ms. Moore’s–and she conveniently talks about fiber arts as a filter for what she actually means. Nuff said.

Spenser’s Ireland

has not altered;–
a place as kind as it is green,
the greenest place I’ve never seen.
Every name is a tune.
Denunciations do not affect
the culprit; nor blows, but it
is torture to him to not be spoken to.
They’re natural,–
the coat, like Venus’
mantle lined with stars,
buttoned close at the neck,-the sleeves new from disuse.

If in Ireland
they play the harp backward at need,
and gather at midday the seed
of the fern, eluding
their “giants all covered with iron,” might
there be fern seed for unlearn-
ing obduracy and for reinstating
the enchantment?
Hindered characters
seldom have mothers
in Irish stories, but they all have grandmothers.

It was Irish;
a match not a marriage was made
when my great great grandmother’d said
with native genius for
disunion, “Although your suitor be
perfection, one objection
is enough; he is not
Irish.” Outwitting
the fairies, befriending the furies,
whoever again
and again says, “I’ll never give in,” never sees

that you’re not free
until you’ve been made captive by
supreme belief,–credulity
you say? When large dainty
fingers tremblingly divide the wings
of the fly for mid-July
with a needle and wrap it with peacock-tail,
or tie wool and
buzzard’s wing, their pride,
like the enchanter’s
is in care, not madness. Concurring hands divide

flax for damask
that when bleached by Irish weather
has the silvered chamois-leather
water-tightness of a
skin. Twisted torcs and gold new-moon-shaped
lunulae aren’t jewelry
like the purple-coral fuchsia-tree’s. Eire–
the guillemot
so neat and the hen
of the heath and the
linnet spinet-sweet-bespeak relentlessness? Then

they are to me
like enchanted Earl Gerald who
changed himself into a stag, to
a great green-eyed cat of
the mountain. Discommodity makes
them invisible; they’ve dis-
appeared. The Irish say your trouble is their
trouble and your
joy their joy? I wish
I could believe it;
I am troubled, I’m dissatisfied, I’m Irish.

As I mentioned last week-ish, during that phase when I was posting zippo, I went to the Smithsonian folklife festival with Bodwin, Ruadhan, Mapgirl, and Kevin.  It was blazing hot, but the festival covered Virginia, Northern Ireland, and the Mekong Delta.  So we couldn’t miss it.

I tell you, I have never considered so decorating a vehicle.  I am a slug, I tell you.  Entirely devoid of artistic inspiration.  I don’t think you can appreciate the insane amount of work that went into this bus from here.  Just trust me–they worked hard.

In addition to the wacky bus, there were some cool exhibits, particularly on ancient Ireland.  Shocker, me focusing on that.  Lookit!  A mini roundhouse.

I want us to make a full-sized roundhouse so badly, but it never really occurred to me to make a little one to use at demos.  I may have been hit in the head too many times for the thinking parts to be working right, these days.

And there were some repro tools, including a nalbinding needle,

And some lovely repro pots

And a cool repro stone figure

Tommy Sands was playing at the festival, so I filmed him singing “There Were Roses.”   If you’re not familiar with Tommy and you’re at all interested in pacifism or peace in Northern Ireland, get familiar with Tommy.  And have a few pints with him if you ever get the chance–he’s loaded with good stories and generally wheedles lots of free drinks out of the publican.

We also went to our friends Barry and Sarah’s wedding up in Pittsburgh.  Where I took horrible photos because I am just too shaky sometimes.  Espresso doesn’t want me to be a photo-journalist.

I came away with clearer photos, but none of the happy couple together.  We had a lovely time, and Barry and Sarah seemed to have a good time too, which is very important in a wedding.

And then I went right back to the two sweatshops, one for web monkeys (I finished the big bad new site), and one for Crazy Lanea, tailor to the Celts.  Here is the larger portion of the fabric pile I started with.

About two-thirds of that has been cut into pieces for clothing.  I’m actually sewing several things for myself this year, because the pile of fabric I was hoarding for personal use was taking up far too much space.  I’m a bit panicked over how much work I need to do before next Saturday, so, er, let’s distract the crazy girl with cat pictures before she cries, shall we?

Scott got a sander:

So Yarrow got a new toy:

Which he proceeded to defend rather viciously:

That face generally comes right before Speedwell falls prey to his housemate.  Poor Speedwell.  As usual, he hid from the camera.

Back to sweatshop.

Just working really really hard.  The big new site launches Thursday afternoon, so testing testing testing. 

And Deadwood.  Though Deadwood is gone now.  Sigh.  How could they cancel that show? 

And the Transformers, which I never saw as a kid, and Rowan never saw as a kid, but Scott and Bodwin were excited about.  It was, um, very smashy.  And they do lots of that tight-frame CGI-stuff, which looks to me like lazy animation.  I think MTV is to blame.  Still fun though.  And the pontificating robots apparently ring true to fans.   

And the Smithsonian Folklife Festival–pictures and film coming soon.  Tommy Sands–good as ever.  Food from the Mekong valley–good as ever.  Unfortunately, um, a Mummer from Aughakillymaude was threatening to impregnate me with some braided wheat and a horse costume.  Now, obviously, his understanding of physiology and reproduction was sketchy.  And he  didn’t understand why I avowed Scott would be quite displeased or why I disliked the idea so intensely.  Some boyos can’t take a hint.  To make things worse, he claimed the Mummer-induced pregnancies also only last six months.  Since when has prematurity been something to shoot for, exactly?  I thought full term was still the way to go . . .  when I was living in Dublin, I did work on that whole birthing reform legislation project, and they were rooting for full-term pregnancies, breast-feeding, and better prenatal care for rural Moms.  The North can’t be that different, can it?  Thankfully, I was with people who supported my right to avoid Mummer freakiness.

Also, a great deal of sewing happening, and cutting fabric, and plotting, and some minor sock-knitting. 

Oh, and rereading book five of the Harry Potter series.  Scott’s company is hosting a sneak preview tomorrow afternoon, and he got us tickets.  So I decided a quick re-read was in order.  A quick re-read of nearly 900 pages.  I hope the movie is good–I shunted aside a Puitzer-winning novel to support the cause, so I’ll be hella pissed if the movie is bad. 

Lots of hand sewing going on, though nothing of interest, really.  Hemming, mending, and finishing up some stuff that needs to get out of the basket.  But yards and yards of fabric are now pressed and ready for cutting, so maybe the sweat shop will open this week.  Oh, also, Janet, Colleen, Marta, and I went to a shanty singing get together in Falls Church.  What a blast.  There were some amazing singers there, and everyone was very friendly.  I think I have another accidental musical outlet.

Here’s a little visual recap of last weekend.  First, Simone and I battled traffic to escape the DC area through the beautiful exurbs, straight up the historic route 15 corridor towards Harrisburg.  Around about Gettysburg, we started digesting ourselves and decided Friendly’s was as dissimilar from McDonald’s as we would find.  But PA roadsigns are evil and deceptive, and there was no Friendly’s.  There was an upsetting traffic circle, full of tourists; and some restaurants full of tourists, and then business 15.  And then, salvation.

In the form of a strange quail, with red, swirling, demonic eyes, and pretty tulips.  The Distelfink (which translates to “thistle finch”), she serves good food. Including

and

Ah, the signage.  And also malts, and decent sweet potato fries.  Take that, tricksie Friendly’s.  We didn’t want you anyway.

Then we got to the hotel, and slept, and woke.  And things got really good.  The kind of good that only comes with scads of ducklings.

Ducks like Cheerios.

Next came Icelandic sheep, ewe and week old lamb.  The mother’s name is Hanna Mae.  The lamb was apparently still nameless.

The sweetness was too much, the weather was too hot, and we had already performed.  So there was nothing for it, but ale.  And apparently some lager.  I hid in the shade, and Simone and Monika foraged successfully.

Sunday reprised much of the fun–more ducks, border collies (too fast to photograph), wonderful performers, and another stab at finding Friendly’s.  We got there this time, but only after visiting The Lion Potter, who has the best roadside signs we’d seen in ages.  I’d seen David and Junko’s work before, but having had the chance to meet their kids and visit their studio, I have the sneaking suspicion I’ll keep handing them money for quite some time, particularly since learning that they both studied at Sandy Springs Friends School, erstwhile home of our friend Seilach.

Just waking up after returning from Pennsylvania.  Which, well, I believe we conquered.  Saturday’s performance was good–we had a nice crowd, they were interested and enjoying themselves, and a few of them wanted to chat after the show.  We poets were rewarded, and it was nice

Sunday was astounding.  People came to see us because they read about us on the festival’s website and had to be a part of the experience.  Audience members who we’d never met before and who had never seen us sing or tell gave us presents and asked for merchandise we’ve never bothered to make, and books and CDs we’ve never produced, and performance schedules we’ve, well, never scheduled.  I got one of the kindest compliments I’ve ever received from a professional story-teller I’ve hired several times for PCF, but who had never seen us turn ourselves into bards because we were so busy making a festival happen.  We’re quite possibly bound for some national storytelling events, and we’ve already been hired to perform at next year’s fling. 

Yep.  I’m gobsmacked.  And also, it’s about freaking time, really.  I feel like an egomaniac saying that, but there it is.   Each of us working away at our craft for at least a decade, and supporting each other’s work, and supporting the work of other singers and storytellers and bards.  And finally a pack of strangers not only gets is but asks for more, please.  We need to actually come up with a name now, I guess, and a logo, and sit down with some recording equipment. 

Etaine, Anubh and I are performing at the Pennsylvania Celtic Fling this weekend, and you should come check us out.  We’re on at 1:00 on Saturday and 2:00 on Sunday at the storytelling stage.  I hope to see some of you there!

I know I don’t normally talk about work much here, but since it takes up at least a third of my time, it seems to be worth mentioning now and again.  I’m leading the redesign and complete content overhaul of a federal website that launches on July 13th.  I can’t show you the new version of the site yet, but this is the old design: http://www.childstats.gov/.  It may as well have been coded by a team of squirrels and birds managed by angry hobos, there’s so much trash in the pages.  I’m adding the new version of the publication, which is significantly longer than last year’s version; and cleaning out reams of horrid code that gave me nightmares for a good long time; and trying to set the site up to be significantly easier to update in the future.  Aubrey the wonder-designer as gotten rid of the whole oxygen-deprived-children design scheme and designed something lovely and airy and intuitive.  So this project has and will continue to consume a great deal of time and energy, and I’m really looking forward to finishing it.  I’m grossly behind on gardening, fiber arts, reading, and social obligations, and I just hate that.  can I be independently wealthy now, please, so I don’t have to slave away like this?  Please?

The main field of the blanket is very close to finished.  At this point, I’m just wallowing in soft yarn and making sure the blanket is comfortable for someone taller than I am.  Now that I can’t help but be covered by the thing when I work on it, I’m happy to say that it’s quite soft and warm but not stifling, barring DC summer heat.  I’m almost accepting of the color variations, though I will always be the sort of person who teeters on the edge of loving bright, random color variance and wishing the damn hippies and clowns and rainbow unicorns would tone it down, already.  Because some of us need to rest.

There it is, several squares ago.  The table is 59" by 33".  And, because the texture makes me intensely happy, another shot:

It turns out that someone bought the not-yet finished lopi felted bag I had on display at the Tuatha booth during the Potomac Celtic Festival a few weekends ago.  I was still working on the needle-felting when Maryland Sheep and Wool ended, and Mary insisted I leave the thing with her, muttering that only I thought it needed more needle-felting (not true–Brooke and Lisa agreed that more would be better).  I soothed my worries by lowering the price, which was the wrong thing to do, because someone snapped it up and now it’s floating around out there in the world, not living up to its potential, and I’m tortured about it.  Damn artistic sense, always plaguing me. 

I’m starting to really hunger for a new project.  The blanket is getting to be too hot to work on in this weather, so some something smaller is appealing.  I could frog and restart Print o’ the Wave, but that sounds a bit like too much dedication for me to gin up while I’m grinding towards a huge deadline at work.  I have some great silk/bamboo loveliness that I intend to make into an adorable short-sleeved scooped-neck bit of charm, but the pattern grew legs.  The sock yarn is building up, so that’s an option, but that would make three pairs of socks on the needles, and that’s crossing some imaginary line in the sand for me. 

But relief is on the horizon: sewing season has started.  I need to make Scott some new stuff, do some mending and alterations, and, well, clothe as much of my tribe as I can.  So get ready to see me creeping towards that mile of hand-sewing I’m sure I’ll complete eventually.

And, also, Deadwood.  Season III is finally coming my way, thanks to that blasted Netflix gizmo.  They’ve been holding out on me.  So don’t be surprised if I start cussing like mad, and exuding a lot of dust.  I aim to be one entangled inebriate, I tell you.

And finally . . . Scott installed a new dishwasher, replacing the not-very-old one that was both very stinky and very very broken.  I hated the old one.  I hated it like poison, what with its regular threats to leak or stink, and its refusal to clean anything well, and then its collapse into ruin right after Mike fashioned counter clips for it.  The new one is more efficient, much prettier, better for resale, and nigh silent.  It’s as sexy as kitchen appliances get, and now only some paint, some in-cabinet lighting, and some construction adhesive stand between me and a completed remodel.