Sunday, 15 June 2014

When All I Thought About Was Sewing...And Did None

This week has been a rather trying week. Work has been pretty shitty, all in all. Busy, which is good, but also learning that, lovely as most of my colleagues are, there are some that have an agenda, who are rude and unpleasant and who I'd very much prefer not to have to spend time with. That said, the beauty of my job means I don't have to talk to many people if I chose not to.
Another beauty of my new office is that everyone is super intelligent and interesting and I can walk into the kitchen on any given day and find conversations about economics and politics and films happening. I can quietly wash my mug and boil the kettle and learn about the price of oil and why it affects so much and go back to my desk with a new nugget of information.
In some ways, this lone working is quite nice, because if I'm feeling a bit anti-social I needn't explain this to anyone and can just go to the park, listen to some music and pretend that I'm not surrounded by tourists and City Boys.
Better than looking at Outlook

With Winterfylleth, this was an ideal way to spend a lunch break

A cheerful route back to the office
My busy week meant I was too tired to sew in the evening when all I could think about whilst I was working was sewing. I've got into a huge rut - I can't sew any dresses because I can't make the bodices fit, I think I know what I'm supposed to be doing but I'm too tired to be sure. And because I don't want to start anything until I've done this project, I can't do anything else. So I'm stuck. Not sewing. Not knowing what to do. No clue, no sewing, no dress.
My lack of creativity has led to a funk. Without an outlet, I get (more) tetchy, (more) angsty and generally a bit unhappy. It's that feeling you get when you want to eat a bar of chocolate but will yourself not to, when you know you shouldn't do something, but you can't help it - it's all you can think about. That tightness in your throat, that restlessness in your legs, the tingling in your fingers.
The unsettled feeling of not creating seeped into everything this week - my mood at work, my inability to get into any of the books I started reading, to pick an album and listen all the way through rather than flitting from artist to artist, song to song without finding that one tune that gets you at that precise moment. Dissatisfaction that chocolate can't solve, that whisky won't numb, that nothing but that one thing you don't know and can't find will erase. I tried everything.
But finally it was Saturday night and I was sitting in Queen Elizabeth Hall on the Southbank and Mark Lanegan cured me. He's done it before, with his growling raspy voice that stops you in your tracks, reaches down your throat and makes you want to cry the deep, hard tears you cry at the end of a Richard Curtis film (the good kind of tears). Seeing him live was just the tonic I needed. I came out feeling soothed, calm, and ever so slightly more positive. If you've not discovered the magic of Lanegan, try my favourite album of his "Bubblegum" or my close runner up "Blues Funeral".
I still haven't done any sewing or fit fixing because I spent today doing laundry, playing with the dog, eating home grown raspberries, going for a run I'll definitely regret tomorrow and going through my clothes and chucking stuff out I don't wear. I have very few clothes left. I best get sewing.

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