We have these intercoms installed in our house, kind of like the ones in grade school which allowed the principal to scream through the classroom speakers at mischievous little children. There is a system installed in every room. Sometimes I wait until it's late at night, when the family is just about to drift into sleep. Then I crawl out of my bed, press the "talk" button and grumble in a booming voice, "This is God speaking..."
Jade, my younger sister, pressed the "talk" button just yesterday. After an obnoxious "beep" her voice exclaimed, "Noooo!" I ran downstairs. She wailed, "A 76, a 76! I'm never going to pass the exam with a 76!" This was her second failed attempt at her online math exam. She must receive an 80 percent within four tries so that she will "never have to take another math course again in her college career". "Jade" I coo in my worldly big sister voice, "Well, you lost a battle, but you can still win the war."
"Nooo!" This time it's me screaming through the intercom (As you may have figured out, we are very aware of each others' daily failures and triumphs in this house) I had just chopped off My "Stupendous Chandler's" head with my wax carving knife. I had spent the entire afternoon and evening scraping away tiny particles of wax dust off of this block of wax, and then suddenly...wack! I carried Stupendous Chandler's mangled tiny body down the stairs in my trembling fingers. A funeral procession somberly trailed behind me. After explaining the situation to my sympathetic family, Jade didn't hesitate a moment to comment, " Well, you lost a battle, but you..." "Jade!" I interrupted.
I slowly retreated back up the stairs to my bedroom/workspace, accepting my defeat. I fell onto my soft polka dotted bed spread in a slump, put headphones into my ears and attempted to bring up my spirits by listening to my favorite radio talk show host. (I won't mention her here because it is embarrassing.)
During her introduction, she mentioned a little jewelry supply shop she had visited during a vacation to the east coast. She spoke of this relatively new artist' medium called Polymer Clay.
Hmmmmm. Polymer clay. Polymer clay. My teacher in Austin mentioned this substance to me. I decided to do some research. After only a few minutes of google inquiry, I began to develop a cold sweat. This is what I have been looking for for years! This is the answer! If you just keep your eyes and ears open all the time, the answer will come to you.
For hours and late into the night, I poured into articles, blogs, pictures, wikipedia, anything I could get my hands on explaining this glorious clay and its' capabilities. Just think. No more hours spent on brittle wax models for my designs, complete freedom of form, vibrancy of color, and on and on...
I explained it to my sister like this: I felt like my whole adventure into jewelry felt like me sitting in this giant sling shot. The huge piece of rubber pressed against my back. With every new attempt, each new demonstration and method explained to me, my frustration and improvement felt like another stretch back in my sling shot, until I'm stretched further and further, and the rubber feels like it's just about to snap. Polymer clay is my explosive release into the future! There's no turning back:)
P.S. I've been constantly doing the dishes for my mothers' home. I just feel like, since I'm 25 and have moved back in, I ought to "pay" my way somehow. O.K. I did kind of get obsessed about the dishes though. It's kind of like when I was in college, I developed this habit of cleaning off my car windshield everyday, about three or four times a day. One day, this guy that I'd seen wandering around my dorm straight up asked me. "You're out here ever day doing this aren't you?" Then, I realized the extent of my insanity. OCD? No. I just like things CLEAN. My mom told me this morning matter-of-factly, "I'd like to reward you for doing the dishes all the time. I scheduled a massage for you at the gym." "But..." I began to stammer. I wanted to help her without anything in return. Oh well, I just got back from the massage. It felt glorious. The tiny girl who gave me the massage, was surprisingly firm and her perfume smelled nice. So the moral to this blog is: Good things come to people who wash dishes!