I just got a sewing machine and can't find any simple patterns that I can try. Do you have any? I just want something to do. I'm dying to make something. Also, I have been weighing the option of driving eleven hours to go see a upcoming Comrades show. Come to Alabama! SOON.
We’re planning on coming soon! Sadly, I do not have any patterns. Bags are pretty simple. Bags are always easy, just finished edges on rectangles. There are some really sweet ideas on this youtube channel called Threadbanger. They have a lot of different things. Good luck!
Apparently pop culture has gone from referring to a girl as “pretty young thing” to “ass ass ass ass ass ass ass” hmmm. Despite MJ being the weirdest dude ever, I prefer the former. It’s a shame our culture fosters the idea of degradation.
Yes. I absolutely hate this song. The ‘ass’ song I mean. It’s completely disgusting how objectified women are made to be nowadays.
Welcome to 2011 and a culture of the overtly dehumanized.
Of people objectifying their fellow humans. Of use and coarse joking, of unholy restlessness and disturbing unfeeling turning the minds of people to this decrepit, hoary, rotting way of life that slowly creeps up on them till their whole body is leprous. Lepers have this way about them, they wrap themselves in bandages that their wounds and sores might not be seen. Quietly they decompose, their sensitivity gone, they do not feel when their flesh tears away. Nerves, skin, muscle, down to the bone. It is dead.
I feel that our culture is raising up hearts made of dead flesh. Men who think they are entitled to what they want, because what they want covers it up. And when I say “men” I mean “all man-kind”, those born of men and women, raised by men or women or both. We live in lonely places, full of disconcerting searches for filling. And it seems the hands of men reach for whatever it might be that might cover the ache till the leprosy kills the pain. Drown it, sleep it off, take the medicine, cover it up. Cover it up. Cover it up. Wrap those bandages about you, Man, though they may look like a girl for a night, or a blade, or a computer screen mocking you with fictional “reality”. It may sound like a compliment, a harmless experiment, a moment when you try to see if it floods that void like a tsunami. But those raucous waves wreck you in the end. Some things are specters, taunting man with their images, so he dashes himself against the walls they dance upon…but he’s dead…he cannot feel it. Some things are bandages. Covering the putrification of his soul, that dead thing that craves and craves, like a stomach full of tapeworms. Maybe people are meant to be prized, and that is why it seems empty to me. Maybe they were made to be loved and treasured without lust and without mistrust, without craven images applied to the art of a Creator, without attempting to force those beautiful things that people are into a crude mold, fashioned by hate and destruction. Maybe we were meant to live alive, feeling, and seeing with clarity what it means to be Man-kind. And it doesn’t make sense to dead men. Because they have no idea that life is any other way. No idea at all. I may sound harsh, but I am weary. Weary that my friends are tricked. That people are hurting my friends because they have bought the lies of specters. And my heart hurts for them. Even if they cannot feel it. I do.
“In some sense the most benevolent, generous person in the world seeks his own happiness in doing good to others, because he places his happiness in their good. His mind is so enlarged as to take them, as it were into himself. Thus, when they are happy, he feels it; he partakes with then, and it happy in their happiness, this is so far from being inconsistent with the freeness of beneficence, that, on the contrary, free benevolence and kindness consists in it.”—Jonathan Edwards
The lonesome realization that your home is really a van that is parked in the drive because she needs rod bearings and ball joints, probably a transmission and a new computer always quiets me. I am holed up in my room actively pursuing the need to create. The 240 needs a bushing in her wheel, so I caution myself at driving her drastic distances. So I will settle into making things, read some Calvin Miller, do mitten research. Somehow, the need to create supports me in my living out each day and I am thankful for busy hands.
The house is loud with music. Not mine, but my friends. It is happy, sonorous, sometimes darkened sound that sneaks under my door and throws itself through the walls. Maybe I’ll be content one more night to sit alone in my house and make plans with people tomorrow. Knit. Read. Write. Fill my time efficiently, trying to see the filling that is the quiet of being alone.
“God created things which had free will. That means creatures which can go either wrong or right. Some people think they can imagine a creature which was free but had no possibility of going wrong: I cannot. If a thing is free to be good, it is also free to be bad. And free will is what has made evil possible. Why, then, did God give them free will? Because free will, though it makes evil possible, is also the only thing that makes possible any love or goodness or joy worth having. A world of automata — of creatures that worked like machines — would hardly be worth creating. Of course God knew what would happen if they used their freedom the wrong way: apparently He thought it was worth the risk. Perhaps we feel inclined to disagree with Him. But if God thinks this state of war in the universe a price worth paying for free will — that is, for making a live world in which creatures can do real good or harm and something of real importance can happen, instead of a toy world which only moves when He pulls the strings — then we may take it is worth paying.”—C.S. Lewis (via thefeatherless)
And as long as they are truthfully the affections of your person, the thoughts, contritions, and inclinations that have been innate and acquired with careful inspection, so be the forms of synonymous approval. But when attention and general whorishness of ideas become the foundation of our communications and depictions of ourselves, it is no longer communication. It is just another broadcast from tower to tower in a culture that seeks and hardly finds the Truth in who they are. Popularity is not a just cause.