Δαφνη Ευτυχια Αρθουρος

I just found a piece of a wire brush stuck in my forehead. I do hope that's the only one.

There's this project I wanted to finish before Christmas. Now I'm trying very hard to get it done by New Year. I get to say what it is when it's finished -- I'm pretty sure nobody it's supposed to be a surprise for is reading my LiveJournal, but better safe... I'm finally making pretty good time, having recently discovered a couple of technique details that speed things up (and having gotten larger cutting wheels, which helps the speed but also makes the mistakes bigger). It's starting to look as though I'll get it done, if I don't send myself back to square one with a goof. (I'm making three pieces. I screwed up two of the first three, so I went back and cut five more blanks (in case I wreck more of them in the next step), one of which I know I cut wrong.)

My eyes sting, and my nose is probably full of brass dust again. I need to find those dust/pollen masks that I know are around here somewhere. At one point I changed the direction I was cutting without thinking about it and got a face full of brass. Whoopsie. I just spent long enough cutting that my hands and eyes are tired, so I dare not do any more until I've rested -- the next step is not as impressive looking, but is actually much more difficult. Takes a lot less time but more care.

It feels good to make things. It feels good to make pretty things. It feels good to have something to wave in front of the part of my brain that insists I'm no good at making things with my hands. (I'm not really convinced otherwise -- I see certain categories as being the exceptions I've found so far -- but maybe I can convince myself that working on the few things I'm good at will gain me skills that I can use to broaden the list of exceptions, possibly to the point that I'll someday have to stop saying that I'm not good with my hands. (Really I'm about halfway there on that notion.) In the same vein, I really must make it to one of Doug's open forge days. (I've always been fascinated with smithing, and I like working with metal already.) I'm not sure how pounding on iron is going to work out with my fibromyalgia ... but if I get away with it, my doctors will be glad I get the exercise, right?

And before y'all comment, yes, I do know how strange it sounds for a musician to say, "I'm not good with my hands". ([Next comment omitted for being TMI]) Building / Painting / Drawing / Carving stuff is somehow different to me -- those are over in one category and making the right sounds come out of an instrument is over in another. And even with that in mind, I still realize how strange it sounds. Look, it's irrational self-image stuff, okay? (And it does correspond somewhat to my skills, though not perfectly.)

Mister Dremmel Tool is my very good friend. I like the Dremmel. The Dremmel is nice to me and often does what I want it to. Good tool, you get a biscuit.

(I'm still thinking that a computer-controlled or paper-tape-controlled drill press / router would be a Very Nice Thing To Have, but I'm frequently amused/pleased at what I can manage with nothing but a Dremmel and an assortment of bits. Including, on occasion, using it to make other tools. For example, there was this time I needed an Allen wrench on short notice, and I didn't have the right size Allen wrench, but I did have some steel rod and the Dremmel and about five minutes...)

Though I know it's terribly unlikely, I do hope the ex-girlfriend who gave me my first Dremmel is reading this. She made lasting effects on my life in many ways, and that was one of them. The time we had together was special enough, but I wonder whether she has any idea what positive effects she had on me that have lasted long past the end of that one magical summer. Mostly various aspects of self-confidence, and not all tool-related.

Oh wow, the flood of image memories that paragraph triggered ... hummingbirds in the honeysuckle outside the bedroom window, the dog that would glare at us to get us to go to bed when he was tired so that he could take his spot at the top of the stair guarding the family, the fender of my car sitting on the floor of her basement, her mother's face when I modelled the shockingly bright green lace dress that we had found at a yard sale (a moment later her mother produced a matching green ribbon to tie in my hair), and that very special smirk she so often got, that was adorable when it should have been annoying. Oh, here come the sound memories and touch memories. Yow.

Earlier, one of my cousins was talking about not looking back. One can't spend too much of one's time looking back, but remembered joy should be ... well, remembered every so often.

Someday I really must visit Austria.

I'm not staying focused on one topic at a time lately, am I? OoopsOhWell.