Only a week I had it, and Notes for a Journey took a flight to Missouri.
“Bon Voyage!” I called out, wondering if it was in fact on one of the planes I heard, flying over head. Not that I hear many… lucky as I am. I wonder when it comes to rest in new hands, what journey it may take.
Since its departure I have had two floors of tea-stained paper to clamber over as I tiptoe around my higgledy-piggledy house. The humid air cuts drying time in half and no wind means no stray leaves can find their way inside from the gaps under the doors.
Last week I had the fortune of retrieving a large black clean sack from under the neighbour’s deck, which was thought to be my deck by the delivery woman, my dear bookbinding friend. Parting with many bits and bobs she was, and lucky enough was I to get it. I spied it through the hedge, and squeezed myself through the fence to retrieve it. Hauling it over my shoulder, I tossed it back over the fence onto my lawn under the plum(less) tree, then hauled myself back over with it. Taking the sack upstairs, I excitedly revealed its viscera:
Off cuts of creamy acid free paper, olde maps and thick book board to create some little wonders... some recycled wonders at that. Grateful I am, for my black sack, grateful indeed. With a recycled art & craft market this weekend, my eco-friendly hands are busy creating from left over studio pieces and found objects. In this studio of mine not a lot goes to waste. I hoard everything. Teeny tiny pieces of leather, jammed into a hessian sack in a colourful kaleidoscope of journals-to-be. Strips of paper left over from deckle-edge creations are set aside for future intricate workings.
Such pieces of hoard are featured in this morning’s completion - my Ode to France, the Fleur de Lis Book Necklace, which is now for sale in my Etsy shop.
Before making this journal, I wandered in the bush and admired the tall trees, the opulent greenery.
Afterwards, I wondered if I could paint my face white, and mime what it is I couldn't find words to say.
Maybe I could make lots of little books, like an alphabet, that speak a language…
Each as one word, thought, or expression…
Would they sound like the wind, or the rain? Or just shifting bouts of energy?