Betsy Phillips's Blog, page 29

Jail

A family member, who shall remain unidentified, is back in jail. I have an overwhelming urge to write him a letter in which I call him a dumbass.

I keep thinking that one of the problems I’m having with fiction is that we live in a fictional society. People just make shit up and then fight with each other into accepting the made up thing. “Me sticking my dick into this child doesn’t hurt her. She was asking for it.” “The government is on strike.” etc. And fucking Lamar all “we have to go along with what the President says.”

I believe fiction is powerful and I believe in the transformative power of stories. Imagine a new reality and you can strive for that new reality.

And, I guess, I feel like we’re in a period where this thing that’s so beloved to me–storytelling–is openly and mostly being used to harm people.

For my part, I know, I know, the well is always a little dirty. That everything we do has some slight stain of bullshit. That longing for some past, purer time is just longing for a time when you were more ignorant of the problems of the world.

But I still feel just fundamentally offended to find the stench all over this thing I love right here near me.

And yet, what a bullshit position–to be happy being oblivious to the taint.

But what does a fantasy story even look like in this era? “A girl has a dress with a pocket. In that pocket is a rock. Whenever she looks in her pocket, the rock is there, right where she put it. It doesn’t disappear. It doesn’t become anything different. It’s the only stable thing in the world.”

Or “A boy hums a tune for the joy of it. It doesn’t mean anything beyond joy, because he doesn’t know the meanings of most things yet. Someone complains that he is too loud and the boy is quieted by his mother.” That’s a sad one.

But I feel like the fantasy is that something can be real and meaningful and harmless. And I feel like that is a terrible indictment of us as a species.

Yarn

I made some yarn I like!

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It’s not perfect, but the width is a lot more even and I’m getting a feel for how to spin the merino. Even plying with the Turkish spindle is so much easier that I’m just like, gah, why didn’t I start here?

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And the tree afghan is coming along. I’m hoping to make some good progress on it this morning as I wait for my washing machine to arrive.

Turkish Spindle, The Affair Continues

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On the advice of others, I’ve ordered some BFL to spin. Until it gets here, I’m just fucking around with the Merino I bought because everyone dyes Merino such pretty colors. I figure, it can’t hurt to practice. And I still like the Turkish spindle so damn much. It just spins down there forever, letting me work on my drafting skills.

I think my goal for this year is to start and finish some stories. The idea that I’m having such lovely success with JESUS CRAWDAD DEATH at a moment when I simply cannot bring myself to write fiction is… well, the humor of it isn’t lost on me.

Another goal is to learn how to ply without hating my life. I wonder if I should be setting the twist in the single before I ply it?

And my third goal, which is probably longer-term than just a year, is to get good enough at spinning that I can make myself an afghan. I signed up for a fiber of the month club, so I will get to try all kinds of new fibers and the afghan goal will give me something to do with those fibers in the end.

But I need to get back to fiction.

Oh, and here’s how the afghan of trees is coming!

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I didn’t keep good track of what was what, but I believe what we’re looking at, from the bottom up is acorn (the triangle), red Kool-aid and food coloring (the bottom two trapazoids), second or third exhaust walnut in the first square, osage orange and walnut in the second set of trapazoids, and walnut in the top square.

I’m not a big fan of browns, but there’s something really nice about these colors. I am glad I threw in the red, though.

I’m Not Even Going to Bother to Pretend Otherwise

Today I go back to work and everyone goes home and thank god. Jesus Christ, I don’t know what I’m doing or why I’m tolerating this bullshit.

They have their own issues, of course, but mine are why I can’t assert myself when I’m with them and that I just fall into old self-destructive thought patterns.

And the worst part about having such a long-running blog is that I can see this is just the same old bullshit. I haven’t progressed in any way. I haven’t found ways of dealing with them that make my life any easier.

I just batten the hatches and try to make it through the storm.

There has got to be a better way.

2019

Whew, we made it.

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It Continues

My dad insisted I call the plumber right away when he decided he didn’t like how my bathtub was draining. I tried to refuse, because it just drains slow, always has, but then my washing machine line sprung a leak.

Because, I’m sure, the house was finally rejecting this shitty ass washing machine. But anyway, I called the plumber on Friday.

Because he’s awesome, he sent a kid out today. Right now.

And I have, apparently, messed up the whole morning by having the plumber come at an inconvenient time.

Insert eye-roll here.

The hardest part about it is that all the shittiness I feel manifests itself in me feeling like I’m gross. Like my body is so disgusting and that me being out in public is some kind of freak show spectacle. Like I am grossing people out by being where they can see me.

So, it’s like, I have to steel myself to run this emotional marathon with my people and do so while my mind tells me that I am imposing on the world by being a part of it, so maybe I should just find a way to be all kinds of smaller and less present and easier to stand.

It really makes me mad how my brain, when I need it to be the strongest and most on my side, is like “yep, we suck. Suck, suck, suck.”

Turkish Spindle, My Love

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It spins forward forever. There’s no race against the moment it starts to spin backwards.Making a half hitch is super easy, in spite of my initial misgivings.Oh, how I love that you can just come up anywhere; you don’t have to flail around looking for the little notch.

But also, also, this is some Falkland top that came with the spindle and it is so much easier than the fucking Merino. Has some of my anger at spinning been because of a crap random choice of fiber to start with?

Deep Breaths

I am kind of surviving this visit with my parents. Every morning I tell myself that there’s Xanax if I need it and every evening I don’t take a Xanax, I tell myself I’m winning.

Winning what, I’m not sure.

Apparently a central conceit of The Meg is that Jason Statham is a drunk. With a six pack. And yet, all the YouTube videos about what’s wrong with The Meg neglect to mention that, if you spend five years drunk in Thailand, you’re not going to have a torso like a god.

Anyway, I still think the best Jason Statham movie is Death Race. Kill the wife off early. Give him a director that understands that the gaze in a Jason Statham movie is on Jason Statham. Gratuitous Statham nudity. A gay subtext that is so in your face one wonders if it counts as subtext. Violence. Entertaining as fuck. Perfection.

But the most Jason Stathamy thing to every happen in a movie (or series of movies) has to be in the Fast And Furious franchise where Jason Statham murders a main character and half a hospital and yet, because of his willingness to save a baby, becomes a good guy. Only Jason Statham can make shit like that work.

Jason Statham would also fight my parents and win. I keep that in mind.

Three Santas

[image error]My nephew, his dad, his dad.

The Copper Afghan

Argh. How did I neglect to show you how it turned out?!

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I really need to start updating Ravelry with this stuff.