The cat has decided to sit in my shoulder. She's even doing this while I type. I'm not sure how long it will last. I fear this will end with her falling and clawing her way down. Ahh, the joys of catdom. She's purring, at least. So we have that.
Today I saw my usual therapist. She is back from maternity leave. The session was basically about what I'd been doing since she left. I told her about my cancer free status (at the moment) and my lack of creativity. We talked about the ways I'm trying to combat the lack of art in my soul. I brought up the afghan.
You know, I have this thing about afghans. I think they should be garish. Mind you, I have a lot of love and appreciation for the ones that people do with bold, beautiful colors of complex patterns. But at the end of the day, I like my afghans to be crazy. I want it to look like some granny just randomly picked out yarn from a bag, never once paying attention to what colors went next to what. There is a homely, lovely feeling to work like that.
I see a lot of writing by people who want to brag about how men have built our culture. I won't deny their influence, but then again, it's easy to build a culture when you're standing on the backs of everyone else. It's also easy to build a culture when you dismiss or deny the artistic work done by the people who don't fall within your group.
To me, things like afghans and quilts have a lot of value. I love the time and attention people take in making quilts. I love the random beauty (or structured beauty) of afghans. I love that people would add lace detail to pillow cases and make potholders have color. The arts of the home may have been humble and dismissed by the arbiters of taste, but they will not be dismissed by me.
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