There is a tradition that predates the official formation of my Tribe and it implies that any time T(im) H(eather) and C(hris) adventure out together, the entire evening will border on disastrous, but result in good fun for most. Yesterday’s journey to see Jesus Christ Superstar fulfilled this ancient pattern.
Imagine if you will two hippies navigating the busy, well dressed crowd of Jesse Auditorium in search of their ticket carrying friends. Imagine them walking, then waiting, then finally see them alone in the empty hall as they listen to the ragged guitar that introduces Judas to the stage. Imagine about thirty minutes of “I wonder where they are?” “I hope everyone’s ok” “Gee, I bet we look out of place” until the tangled head of Hippie Joe appears and it’s all hugs and “good lord, you guys are late!”
Turns out they were caught in a detour and we missed all but two songs of the first act of the play. However, what we saw was beautiful, a stage dominated by a bridge and luminous multi-colored lighting. I loved the way the chorus was always in motion and how they used singular silver spotlights to imply the gaze and presence of God.
To compensate for the scenes we missed, I sang most of them as we walked to our car to get Trista’s hemp. The necklace she chose was a groovy brown single-strand made with beads I’d pulled from one of Loreena’s old macramé’s. I think they were originally a gift from her dad. I gave Tim his hematite piece, because I felt he needed the stone’s protective energy.
Finally, we wandered down to the Saki bar where I waxed furious at Chris for being drunken-monkey and accidentally body slamming a pretty brunette into the wall. Maybe it’s all the times his inattention has caused me to be similarly trampled that sparked my fury on behalf of the poor girl. Maybe it was the simple embarrassment that’d been brewing since we sauntered into JC Superstar a hour late with Chris and Tim each carrying a beer in one hand.
Silly hippies…
This tiny pouch is knotted with 60-some cords. That's four cords per knot, 8 knots per row, per side and 10 rows down, until the pouch starts to narrow. At that point I drop two knots per row until I'm down to one at the very bottom. Then I turn the pouch inside out to knot the two sides together and glue the ends. Madness. Did I mention I tie these crazy things by hand?
Pouches embody the frustration of trying to sell macramé. It's a time consuming hobby and projects like these just don't seem to pay off. I try to price according to the value of a piece, what I feel it's worth. That usually doesn't measure up with the hours spent hunched over a chaos of hemp. However, in the end the time is irrelevant. Aren't we work-at-home mamas living proof that time doesn't equal money? We do our work because the goddess needs us to, be that work raising babies or tying knots.
