(no subject)
I like Christmas. I usually keep this quiet; it keeps my jolly friends from singing at me and my bitter friends from eviscerating me with spoons. I like the tradition, cinnamon buns and catnip. I like the quieter music. I love the lights. It took me a few years to grow past Christmas depression; I used to cry. Now I'm content.
I was asked by my Mum what I wanted a few months ago, and at the time I didn't have an answer. I'm moving across the world, after all. More stuff's not going to help me.
At the same time, I love gifts. I love getting them, I love giving them. I spend a lot of time on thoughtful gifts. May keeps telling me not to buy him things; if I had my way and the money I'd heap him with presents every day, every time I pass something in a window that I think he'd like.
Armed with negligible bits of information, my family pulled together some beautifully perfect gifts for me. New brushes, apple perfume. Two tempting, exciting packages of Precious Metal Clay, a jewelry medium I adore dearly.
Perhaps the most exciting gift, for me, is one I asked for only this morning. My brother's just finished a photography class, and he came home with a pile of prints. I picked the four best ones, lay them out on the living room floor and asked him for them. He said yes. I could not be happier.
It's taken me a long time to start collecting other people's artwork. I've decided to start asking for such things more often; I know so many talented people producing good content and good work, everything from websites to poetry to sculptures in steel. I always make the majority of my gifts, saving the financial drain and allowing me to put more than a few minutes of thought into my relationship with the receiver of the gift.
I get attached to physical objects by connecting them with events and people. My mother's an amateur potter. I asked this morning if she'd make me a few small bowls to keep with me. Her work is all grays, greens, blues, thick glazes and balanced forms. I love it. My father makes brass and glass sculptures. I want to ask him if he'll give me one of his glass clams, cast from shells picked up on a local beach, a perfect little thing that I can put on my bookshelf and smile at.
I was asked by my Mum what I wanted a few months ago, and at the time I didn't have an answer. I'm moving across the world, after all. More stuff's not going to help me.
At the same time, I love gifts. I love getting them, I love giving them. I spend a lot of time on thoughtful gifts. May keeps telling me not to buy him things; if I had my way and the money I'd heap him with presents every day, every time I pass something in a window that I think he'd like.
Armed with negligible bits of information, my family pulled together some beautifully perfect gifts for me. New brushes, apple perfume. Two tempting, exciting packages of Precious Metal Clay, a jewelry medium I adore dearly.
Perhaps the most exciting gift, for me, is one I asked for only this morning. My brother's just finished a photography class, and he came home with a pile of prints. I picked the four best ones, lay them out on the living room floor and asked him for them. He said yes. I could not be happier.
It's taken me a long time to start collecting other people's artwork. I've decided to start asking for such things more often; I know so many talented people producing good content and good work, everything from websites to poetry to sculptures in steel. I always make the majority of my gifts, saving the financial drain and allowing me to put more than a few minutes of thought into my relationship with the receiver of the gift.
I get attached to physical objects by connecting them with events and people. My mother's an amateur potter. I asked this morning if she'd make me a few small bowls to keep with me. Her work is all grays, greens, blues, thick glazes and balanced forms. I love it. My father makes brass and glass sculptures. I want to ask him if he'll give me one of his glass clams, cast from shells picked up on a local beach, a perfect little thing that I can put on my bookshelf and smile at.