What to do when cornered by a WWI buff:

A few weeks ago I discovered a thing called "stick weaving", where instead of a warped loom you weave the weft through sticks. The warp threads are looped through the bottom of each stick, and you pull them through your woven weft as you go. As I've been moving around a lot lately and don't have space for an actual loom, portable hand-held methods like this are a lot of fun!

Of course, having never done this before, I decided to pair it with kilim-technique pattern weaving, where you wrap the weft threads around the warp, leaving a gap where the different colours meet and creating sharp geometric patterns (which I've also never tried to do before lol). It looks absolutely baller with a high contrast dark base and bright colours, and of course the red-blue-yellow combo is always a winner XD

I ran out of the red before I ran out of warp and switched to purple, but at this point I'm just using this piece for pattern experiments. I've already ordered a medium weight yarn instead of the fingering-weight jumper yarn, which should compress less once off the sticks, and have ideas of doing several long repeating "panels" that can be sewn together at the selvedge to make something bigger.

  ― Elena Ferrante, The Story of a New Name

You know those who are freaks aren't all bad right? Where do all those interesting parts of humanity go when all others cling to what's 'normal' and mediocre? Us.

There is so much more to us than the majority will ever understand. They only care for their entertainment that's carefully curated to their sensitive little palate.

What we are will never be normal. We will always be freaks. They cannot box us so they shun and fear us. It's hard to understand, sure even for us too, but you, and me?

We're phenomenal. Niche. Tailored. You don't need to, nor should you, try to fit into that box they want to cage you in. Be messy in all you are. Let them choke on your taste.

Forgot I never showed my poster designs for this pride month

“December’s wintery breath is already clouding the pond, frosting the pane, obscuring summer’s memory…”