(no subject)
Today I lurked at bookbinding for almost an hour after it was over, making a neat little CBT-type list of why I didn't really want to go home.
I also talked to an ailourophobe without burning it alive. I feel that was very tolerant of me.
I think my book casings were a bit shit. We shall see when it comes to fitting them properly to the outside of the books. Fret. Only a week of flagellating until then, hurrah.
Steve the Book is BROWN because I felt that nostalgia_lj would clearly appreciate his being a Mim Colour, and also I was a bit limited by the yellowiness of the paper I was given to make his endpapers from. T'other book, whose name is still under discussion, is a pleasing red which I felt lucky to find amidst the many dingy blues in the material box. I shall send a small bit of offcut to kbk for assistance in naming, because obviously it matters that much.
I might secretly make a microbook between classes. Then I can make my small-scale-fiddliness mistakes in secret. I think normal cloth is probably too thick but I'll have a go anyway. Ultimately I would like a small enough book to make into a pendant. That'll require some Specialist Stuff I think.
Today another person noted that I had a Kennedy to pull to bits and asked if he could do it in tones of ARGH IT IS KENNEDY'S LATIN PRIMER KILL KILL. That was nice. I like the Book People.
I am reading a book by a transphobic feminist in order to help me crystallise my reasons for disagreeing with such. Mostly so far I am just flailing in trauma. Her selective argument and staggering simplifications are at least not too hard to poke holes in so I am not feeling too intellectually neurotic at least.
I oddly enjoy writing things that are made up of utterly unconnected paragraphs in a strangely naive style. Speaking of strangely naive styles I have realised that my Art Style of primary-school cuddliness is a distinct thing of actual validity that just happens to resemble things drawn by small children. It is odd how one's creative styles do not necessarily reflect one's taste or evolve consciously. Odd but a bit exciting.
The house is a slum. A lot of the mess is Yak Mess but by no means all. I am not sure whether to steal my craft table into my bedroom. It'd be more useful but also more reclusive.
I realise that a creepily empty house is an Opportunity To Do Lace Knitting Without Distractions. Excellent.
I shall stop now and maybe go to t'other room to do that meme on something that is not an extra-tiny touchpad.
I also talked to an ailourophobe without burning it alive. I feel that was very tolerant of me.
I think my book casings were a bit shit. We shall see when it comes to fitting them properly to the outside of the books. Fret. Only a week of flagellating until then, hurrah.
Steve the Book is BROWN because I felt that nostalgia_lj would clearly appreciate his being a Mim Colour, and also I was a bit limited by the yellowiness of the paper I was given to make his endpapers from. T'other book, whose name is still under discussion, is a pleasing red which I felt lucky to find amidst the many dingy blues in the material box. I shall send a small bit of offcut to kbk for assistance in naming, because obviously it matters that much.
I might secretly make a microbook between classes. Then I can make my small-scale-fiddliness mistakes in secret. I think normal cloth is probably too thick but I'll have a go anyway. Ultimately I would like a small enough book to make into a pendant. That'll require some Specialist Stuff I think.
Today another person noted that I had a Kennedy to pull to bits and asked if he could do it in tones of ARGH IT IS KENNEDY'S LATIN PRIMER KILL KILL. That was nice. I like the Book People.
I am reading a book by a transphobic feminist in order to help me crystallise my reasons for disagreeing with such. Mostly so far I am just flailing in trauma. Her selective argument and staggering simplifications are at least not too hard to poke holes in so I am not feeling too intellectually neurotic at least.
I oddly enjoy writing things that are made up of utterly unconnected paragraphs in a strangely naive style. Speaking of strangely naive styles I have realised that my Art Style of primary-school cuddliness is a distinct thing of actual validity that just happens to resemble things drawn by small children. It is odd how one's creative styles do not necessarily reflect one's taste or evolve consciously. Odd but a bit exciting.
The house is a slum. A lot of the mess is Yak Mess but by no means all. I am not sure whether to steal my craft table into my bedroom. It'd be more useful but also more reclusive.
I realise that a creepily empty house is an Opportunity To Do Lace Knitting Without Distractions. Excellent.
I shall stop now and maybe go to t'other room to do that meme on something that is not an extra-tiny touchpad.