Part 2: Did I answer the call...

OK, so this will be longer than yesterday.  Stay with me, won't you?
When my sister died (along time ago) amongst all her things were dozens upon dozens of notes.  Little kitschy note pads and journals and loose leaves with pretty pictures printed on them, filled with everything from heartfelt journal entries to shopping lists.  These notes and lists were so much a part of our lives. They were our lifestyle.  Notes to mum explaining where you were going and when you'd be home, remember this is in a family of 5, pre-mobile phone times.  And lists of things she shouldn't forget, and memories or feelings she wasn't ready to let go of. This was partly because of her make up and partly because of the aluminium poisoning that ravaged her memories.  But, whether it was because of her immensely strong will that she showed me everyday, or whether there is some little, tiny, microscopic piece of protein in our DNA that makes us this way, I'm afraid to say, this too is my craziness.  I am always writing things.  I have always got little books and note pads at the ready for me to store away those thoughts that I am so scared that I will lose.  I think this is also a connection to my trinket box fascination.  I feel the need, so desperately, to contain my memories, to have a place where they belong.  I have many notepads and journals of my own going back 20+ years. Some of them are artistic, some are wordy, some are childish and some are so beyond me that when I look back at them I can hardly believe it is my hand that wrote it.  Maybe this is why I keep them.  Some I decorated.  Some were bought because I thought they were so beautiful to start with that I had to have them in my collection.  So now, is this what I do?  Well it is part of it.  And probably very much part of my "scrapbooking".  The pages I have done strictly for me have little to no embellishment on them.  They are just photos with my memories written with them.  I keep these memories, maybe not so much for "them" but for myself.  Maybe one day I'll lose them and this will be the list I look back on to remind myself.
When I make a "journal" I just do the covers.  I have no intention of putting anything on the inside.  If the journal is for me, then the crisp, clean pages are just like a crisp, clean sheet pulled across a freshly made bed; it's somewhere I want to jump into, to feel safe.  I can pull the pages over my consciousness like a doona up over my ears and block out the deafening noise of all the pain around me.  I can hide my face in them, close my eyes to shut out the light from the world that burns into my mind and scorches it with it's hostility.  Those pages, scented and brittle, smooth and clean are there to shelter me from the world outside.  They will catch my tears.  But they will not betray my thoughts.  Such a promise from something heartless, breathless, unconscious.
I really like making things that are going to be used.  If someone else is to take my journal then part of this objects journey is to fill a spot in that persons day.  To take a list, or record a thought. Or be doodle in, to have an appointment scribbled on it with a shaky hand.  To give something so unfinished is to give the possibility of something greater.  Is to give the opportunity for something more.  My journals are not eclectic pages that I have created but safe places to go for the heart of who has it.

So... I had a miscarriage a couple of weeks ago.  Of course, as soon as Kev jumped on the plane.  And although it wasn't a baby that we had planned and yearned for, I can't help but feel the broken heart of someone who has lost something so connected to themselves and the promise of something so much more than themselves.  Maybe it is because I know how in love Kevin and I are with the people that we have brought into to the world, I fret for the love.  Maybe it is more the smell of a newborns head or the first gurgling smile that you wait for, gazing upon every little milky pore on their face, calling over anyone who will pause and absorb the grace of this wonderful fruit of our hearts.  I'm not sure.  I thought I was very steeled against this type of disappointment (this is the fourth baby Kevin and I have lost), and yet as my body betrays me (as always) and goes through the purging process so my heart goes through the mourning.  Maybe it's just because without Kevin's arms to cradle me and his chest for me to smother my wails and absorb my tears I feel so very, very vulnerable.  Or maybe it's just hormones.  Drugs will cure my physical ailments, time will cure my heart ache and I am strong.
I'm so so sorry, I can't bloody stand people that wah wah wah.  What a freakin' whinger, LOL!!  {Thank you to those who have let me have my vulnerable paranoid moments.  Honestly, everyday [at about the same time] I thank God for you.  xx}

Anyway, this is a box I did recently.  I felt I just had to jump on the "steampunk" bandwagon.  It really isn't my style so much.  I love the period pictures but I am much more aligned in my heart with the nature side of things than the mechanical (which is absolutely hilarious.  I know soooooo too much about machinery for my own liking!!  Bloody things rule our lives!!)

I was going to give you a bit of a run down on the hinges but, I'm not feeling quite up to it at the minute & and am sure you are completely over it too.  I will though, so stay tuned.

  

Thank you for getting to the end of this.  And I do apologise for taking up so much of your time.

Take care of each other,
see you soon!
M xx