#like lanolin from sheep?? i have no idea

[3liza]

one time a vegan (?) sent me a three paragraph screed via the problem glyphs inbox for being an insane animal butcher because I posted about using a Korean facemask that had "horse oil" as an ingredient

[fictiongirl11]

So I had a really funny idea in the middle of my Calc 2 final. Why are the bishops so terrified of sheep? Because you are not the first one and the last one was a MENACE.

In my head cannon for an AU that is due to backstory I don't feel like typing out, Narinder prefers to keep his cult small and manageable, the bare minimum to stay running while he manages the after life almost obsessively. Some of the stuff he's saying about experiments within his domain are...concerning. That and he's a hermit who barely engages with anyone outside his siblings. The other bishops chat and decide they need to find out more, mostly to try to help him. So they grab a scholar from Shamura's ranks, a sheep ,and present them as a consort (maybe he'll enjoy the lanolin and chill out??)/ helper but also a spy under the table.

Jokes on them though, the sheep (who I've named Merrodi) has got ambition and they are TIRED of the disrespect for being small and fluffy. They straight up tell Narinder they're supposed to be a spy but are willing to cut a deal. They'll tell the other bishops some random, harmless narrative IF they can be allowed to fix his disaster of a cult. Narinder, who doesn't care either way was like, "Sure, knock yourself out just don't bother me over stupid stuff," and gives them his blessing and some warrior training. Within a year the other bishops are off his back, he's gaining more power than ever and stuff is getting done. He's pleased with this servant, the whole, 'let them at the problem and wait' is working out spectacularly and they only consult him for stuff that matters. It's a fabulous business partnership and he eventually names Merrodi his Witness, more out of convenience than anything else, so they can now pull rank on his siblings' followers and come with him to meetings and take notes and stuff and mock people behind their backs afterwards.

They are the greatest secretary to ever secretary and Narinder really doesn't want to have to replace them when they die so he creates the skull necklaces to buy him some time till he perfects the golden skull necklace. Unfortunately, this sparks more concern from his siblings *coughShamuracough* and they're no longer taking Merrodi's word for stuff. Confrontation time. As we know, it goes poorly. Both Narinder and Merrodi read the writing on the wall nearly too late but while Narinder is fighting the bishops, Merrodi is evacuating the temple and then, once the fight is over and the bishops are recovering, attempts to finish them off by bringing the upper parts of the temple down on them. Hence, why it's completely destroyed in game.

The bishops live but so does Merrodi as the highest ranking and most powerful follower of death who then organizes the rest of the cult into a resistance that is terrifyingly effective at causing mayhem and inconveniences for the bishops with their long lifetimes and passing down of skull necklaces. Eventually though it's just Merrodi left who's gone a bit crazy and proceeds to massacre cultists, blow up shrines and even the bishop's temples if they aren't careful enough to keep them out. Between recovering from their injuries and this tiny menace who's made it their immortal life's mission to make their lives miserable for killing their friend/boss the Old Faith ain't doin too hot. After about 5-6 hundred years they finally manage to kill the darn sheep for good (they had a propensity for faking their death only to pop up again later) and relax only for two hundred years later to receive the prophecy about a sheep being the one to free Narinder and PANIC because the fluffy menace might be out there somewhere, hiding, waiting. And if it's not them, it'll be another one. So, they all gotta go.

And when another fluffy little sheep with a grudge and a talent for violence shows up at Death's door, he's more than willing to make another deal. Unfortunately, this one isn't quite so willing to lay down their life.

[samobservessonic]

Idea: multiverse nonsense happens and any of the comics can crossover with each other, what characters would you like to see interact with each other?

I know I kinda already asked this before, I just like hearing about interesting character interactions

I'm just incredibly boring and want to see Whispangle, Sallicole and TekAmy all hang out together as the trinity of Sonic Comic wlws...! But also, I feel like Whisper the Wolf in general is such a versatile character who I could see in any other Sonic media. Archie/SatAM? Make her part of the Wolf Pack who went off to defend them in her own way, easy! Fleetway? She could be in the Flock! Imagine how cool it'd be if the Flock had this one wolf member amongst the rest of the sheep, but like... maybe Whisper could be Sab's protégé?? By contrast, imagine having Lanolin the Sheep be someone who was in the Flock, but grew frustrated with their methods and left? That'd have lots of story potential between Whisper & Lanolin right there I feel like I say this every time, but I also think that Tekno the Canary would be easy to put in any other Sonic world. If it was IDW Sonic, just have her as Amy's genius bestie during an Amy solo arc Also, this one feels too easy, but I want Fleetway Super Sonic and Surge the Tenrec to be chaotic BFFs who try to destroy Sonic together. Their plot line could be that Surge hates when he powers down, so tries to get more chao energy to bring him back. While Ebony is like "Dammit, better stop this crazy girl from bothering Super again..." I'm always happy to answer this question btw. I think there's loads of potential there :D

[sinfulzones]

Jewel buzzed her wings and handed Lanolin a shoebox, because she wasn't gonna carry panties around the whole base out in the open! She was brighter then that. " These masked goons idea of a joke is getting to be a handful... i'm pretty sure they stole these from you... "

The beetle sighed, this was more embarrassing for Lanolin then her she guessed.

" Perhaps we need some kind of new Security detail... or perhaps some of repellent..."

"Great, now we're at the point when I can't even tell if their messing with me or telling the truth." Lanolin would take the shoebox. "At this point I don't think I can be embarrassed anymore than they already have." The sheep had honestly just accepted her fate as getting to leave wasn't working since only more popped up.

"At this point I'm tempted to let Surge off the leash and start letting her beat them senseless." Lanolin felt rather ashamed to admitting she was willing to let Surge physically hurt people, though it felt like it would be her only option at this point.

[ghostbox-nostalgia]

Some more miscellaneous facts before bed:

•Eden has a tooth gap cause I think they're cute

•Both Narinder and Eden have fake public laughs that sound suitably noble and fancy, but they're real laughs are more obnoxious. Narinder has a wheeze that slowly goes silent the longer he goes. Eden cackles and snorts a bit

•Narinders more chirpy than most think he is, he just does it quietly. Usually when acknowledging someone's presence or when confused (the prrp sound that cats make for those confused)

•the technology in tgoe is more advanced than what's in the game but not by that much. Printing press type shit ya know?

•less a fact and more something I've been pondering. On one hand making Narinder quite chaste when it comes to swearing and nudity so that there's a more visual building of trust is fun and all but at the same time I quite enjoy when people make him simply Not Give A Fuck about anything. Idk what I'm gonna do with that but food for thought

•Eden was born and raised in a massive underground catacomb beneath the old temple of death. The sheepfolk figured that if there was gonna be one among them who would free TOWW then they might as well be near by. The entrance to it is behind a hidden door within Narinders personal vault beneath his statue in the courtyard. The catacombs go down about 10 floors deep and have entrances and passages going all throughout the lands of the old faith

•Narinder does not know that there were sheep underneath his temple, nor that his predecessor passed the information of the vaults entrance to them

•his predecessor was a sheep only known as The Bellwether, god of peaceful death and dreams. They willingly relinquished the crown when they saw that the rest of the gods were being hunted and killed. Narinder isn't aware that there was anyone before him

•Edens surname is Alder

•Narinder doesn't remember his surname, but he does remember his mother (to a degree)

•I enjoy when people make narinder a well read man so he will be receiving the same courtesy from me :]

•the lead singer in the cults main band is also the gunsmith

•there's a charm that the inner circle of disciples trade amongst themselves that allows for low level mind reading on weaker willed creatures (ie. most followers) that was crafted with the combined efforts of Eden and Chemech. It is usually in Mamers possession so he may deal with dissenters

•Narinder has a golden skull necklace purely because Eden thought it'd be funny. It's often used as an improvised weapon (aka eden said something and pissed him off so now they get a skull to the head)

•I've been playing with the idea that the oil that eden uses to anoint disciples is lanolin but I'm not sure how they would accomplish that really

•the cult is big on freedom. Dissenters are simply told to leave if they are not content and are sent off with the necessary supplies to ensure that they will survive, cultists are by and large allowed to speak freely as long as it doesn't cause harm to someone, and so on. They aren't really allowed to leave freely unless they are deemed capable of defending themselves by either Azalea, Mamer, Narinder, or Eden

And last but not least:

•Aym and Baal are biologically related to Narinder but not in a father and sons way, and the relation is quite distant

Anyway hoped you liked my ramblings. I'm not a writer by any means so this is probably how you guys will learn most of the lore

I bid you adieu o7

[princerevelucide]

I LOVE your monster collecting sheep idea! Can you tell us MORE about it? Like is there a Pokemon Gym/League-type situation? Or badges? Or st6arters, or Legendaries, or anything like that?

thank you very much!!! the pokemon inspiration kind of begins and ends at the idea of collecting a bunch of magical sheep and raising some of them for battle, and maybe finding some ‘shinies’ too.

the focus of the game is some cute little sheep farming stuff, caring for them and shearing them and selling the wool, so on, but instead of buying new kinds of magic sheep (on this island that’s illegal!), you leave your farm and explore the island with at least one little companion sheep for protection, roaming the land and either battling hostile sheep or befriending timid/friendly ones, bringing home any you gain the trust of and caring for them back at your farm.

some sheep would be raised for high quality and useful wool - being magic, they sometimes either have magic properties in their wool (always warm, helps put you to sleep, etc.) or is just unconventional for a sheep to grow from their body (cotton candy, bubbles, steel wool, etc.) and you harvest and sell it to keep buying food and more room and such for your little eepies, and maybe learn how to also harvest their unique lanolin as well. but they would all also have field abilities and such useful for roaming, so some might be better raised and trained to be a strong or useful companion for journeys out into the wild when looking for new sheep or uncovering the legend of the Golden Fleece, the island’s patron deity sheep.

(also, some sheep are rarely born albino, whose wool sells for a little more than an average sheep, and even rarer they’re born melanistic, whose wool sells for a lot more!)

there are no gym battles or anything of the sort, just a home base farm and a sprawling dungeon crawler type overworld to explore, a little bit like how cult of the lamb works with the cult village vs. the roguelike dungeon. you could have a small team of companions all out at once following you as you walk around the wilderness and discover things and befriend new sheep, while meeting a few other people along the way or finding little secrets.

i call my idea Marlila Island, the name of the sheepy island in question as well. i’d really like to make it someday!!!!

[supportivecircle]

what does lanolin do in your refugee au?

If I recall from what I read in SonicFanSince2022's The Refugees of Mobius (its not my fanfic btw for anyone wondering I don't want to get across the wrong idea here), Lanolin was mentioned as existing and feeding or petting an earth sheep at the town faire or something. They also mentioned earlier in the story a sheep that sleeps with a knife under her pillow, which I assume is also her. I don't really have an "AU" for the fanfiction so to speak, I just drew that one comic for a goof, but I like to think she adapted to life on Earth eventually. Maybe she became a tailor. Maybe she also married a nice mobian lad named Taylor, who wasn't a tailor and instead worked in finances or architecture. He's a border collie. Likes Lanolin and her fluffy hair. Here's the two of them together awkwardly as they are photographed just being a couple that exists in the background and now have the spotlight shone on them.

Aren't they sweet? Anyway, thanks for the ask and the follow.

[kamenrideryeets]

Alright.

I will be the first to say it: we're not going to win.

The transfem Metal supporters have shit tons of Neo screencaps and even some propaganda edits stored up. They're backed by tens of times more content than the Lanolin niche is. The first arc of IDW is nothing but a stream of constant Neo swag, while Lanolin has to fight for panel-time in her still-ongoing proper debut arc.

We gender sheep enjoyers are a coughing baby fighting a hydrogen bomb.

HOWEVER.

I WILL THROW IN MY TWO CENTS. OR RATHER, MY HUNDRED DOLLARS.

GET READY FOR IMAGE SPAM.

REASONS LANOLIN DESERVES TO BE SONIC TRANSFEM SWAG CHAMPION:

ONE: Lanolin's existence upgraded Whispangle, an already extremely T4T ship, into a polycule.

TWO: She is equally emotionally damaged as everyone else in IDW, and we didn't even know it. All of her character interactions showcase an empty shell done with the world.

This is a face that has Seen The Horrors.

THREE: The cutesy little cowbell she wears IS A WEAPON. A DEADLY ONE.

Not only can it shoot sonic blasts...

IT CAN TURN INTO A GODDAMN HAMMER. A REGULAR-SIZED, COMICALLY SMALL HAMMER THAT LANOLIN STILL CAN AND WILL BEAT THE SHIT OUT OF SOMEONE WITH.

WOULD A CIS PERSON USE A WEAPON THIS RIDICULOUS YET AWESOME?

FOUR: SONIC acted fruity with her at first sight. That DOES NOT HAPPEN, Sonic DOES NOT DO THAT, unless your T-swag is through the roof.

FIVE: Lanolin is targeted for her identity - by her supposed #1 partner! As these Discord snippets (and ANY facial expressions she makes in the comic to be honest) make clear, MAGGIE IS, IN FACT, NOT TOO FOND OF TRANS (or gay) PEOPLE:

WORKPLACE DISCRIMINATION! LANOLIN DESERVES BETTER!

SIX: Lanolin and (Neo) Metal are DATING. Courtesy of @transgendershadowthehedgehog, the crackship has just infected its first host and is spreading like wildfire as I speak. Here is a piece from Nate's server, by @transgender-battlekukku:

Obviously, Metal knows that without our support, her girlfriend doesn't stand a chance. Metal has had this in the bag for several rounds, but wants her love to be happy (Lanolin needs some happiness in her life.) So voting for Lanolin is actually what Neo Metal Sonic would want you to do.

And yes, Lanolin is dating Metal IN ADDITION TO Tangle and Whisper. And Breezie too, as @whisper-and-tangle can attest!

(Also can I mention that after Sonic got flirty with Lanolin in their first interaction, the idea of Metal cucking him makes the ship 10 times funnier)

And finally, SEVEN, the ultimate power, it worked twice and it will work again, THE POST IN THE HISTORY OF MY BLOG:

She got horns, and she a no-horns-on-girls-breed. And that's because we said so.

And with that... I have exhausted all the T4T Lanolin power I could.

As of present, I know I alone cannot possibly push her to victory, not when the dedicated Neo Metal Girlboss fandom stands together and I stand alone.

But in this coming week, with the reveal of Metolin and Metal's endorsement of her T4T GF, I can see a light. The same cyan-and-magenta light that got Lanolin here to the finals, that let her defeat Blaze, Sally, the lesbian cat from Fleetway, Barry, and the Conductor's Wife.

In no other Sonic tournament would Lanolin have ever gotten this far. Through our swag, we have guided the PTSD sheep to the finals, where she faces an opponent far beyond any of the surprise victories she scored thus far.

An opponent who, as discussed, is rooting for her to beat her.

But in spite of that cheering, Lanolin and me alone cannot leave an impact - not when a million more wonderfully edited Neo propaganda images will be in this post's notes by tomorrow morning.

And if it's not enough, then that's fine! They're a couple, and whoever loses will be very happy for her GF and just have to be the one to pay for the Transfem Queen Cake (baked with estrogen.)

But with all of this effort, this collaboration, as this Davie-versus-Goliathia battle of the swag begins...

I leave it to the rest of you, my mutuals, everyone who liked and reblogged the original This Sheep is Trans post...

TO FIGHT TO THE LAST ESTROGEN CELL!

LANOLIN THE SWEEP!!!

TRANSFEM SWAG FINALE

[lightsandfire]

27 & 28 -11-2023, part three:

I took about 400 grams of the fleece to do a test spin with, I took this from either the neck or the butt area (no idea which side haha).

I filled a large bucket/tub thing with cold water (25 liters?) and soaked the fleece overnight. I put the bucket in the shed to protect it from snow and animals, but also to protect my house from the smell.

Fleece has a lot of dirt, lanolin and suint in it. Suint is dried sweat from the sheep. It is soluble in cold water and acts as a natural soap (it contains potassium salts and soapy organic acids). When soaking the fleece in cold water over night, it dissolves and acts as a cleansing agent, removing dirt and some of the lanolin. This method does not work for very dirty or greasy fleeces, then it might be better to scour with soap. If you want to dye the fiber, you will also want to remove more (if not all) the lanolin. I will check if this soak was enough for my preferences after the wool dries. Otherwise, I will scour it with dishwashing soap. (Waltin, 2019 & McCune, 2022)

In the summer, I would like to experiment with fermenting a piece of fleece. This method also uses the suint to clean the fleece, only you let it ferment for a week or longer. (This smells a lot though, so I'll have to convince my parents hah)

After the fleece soaked overnight, I rinsed it twice with cold water (letting it soak +-10 minutes each time) and squeezed as much of the water out as possible. Then I spread it out on a drying rack. It is currently drying, I expect it to take 2-3 days to dry fully. This should be in time for me to card it in the weekend.

While it looks cleaner than the unwashed fleece, it is not as clean as the scoured wool (which I forgot to take better pictures of...). While spinning I will decide which way I find nicer, in the grease or not. I will then wash/scour the rest of the fleece accordingly.

This wool I want to use for some test spins and swatches, to find out the following:

Combine with alpaca or not

2 or 3 ply (If 2 ply, 100% wool or 50/50 wool/alpaca; if 3 ply, chain ply or 3 wool or with 2 wool 1 alpaca)

Spinning thickness (needle 10, thick but drapey fabirc)

Possibly only adding alpaca in the cuffs and neck? (to lessen the itchiness)

Thanks for following along!

(Part one) (Previous part) (Part four)

(Waltin, J. (2019, June 15). Washing fleece. Josefin Waltin Spinner. Retrieved November 28, 2023, from https://waltin.se/josefinwaltinspinner/washing-fleece/)

(McCune, K. (2022, July 10). How Do You Wash Wool In A Suint Bath? Woolmaven.com. Retrieved November 28, 2023, from https://woolmaven.com/673/how-do-you-wash-wool-in-a-suint-bath/)

[little-homestead-in-the-suburbs]

Using tomorrow's spring storm to test a raw wool process idea. Using rain to do an initial pre-wash of some raw fleeces.

Fleece A is mixed grey-brown with locks 3-4" and gorgeous crimp. I have it set up on my pcv quilting stand between two layers of black deer netting. I think this one will turn out the nicest.

Fleece B is an unknown white wool, possibly from a sheep that missed a shearing as the locks are 6-9" long a very open fluffy wool but absolutely coated in old lanolin. There is also definitely some felting on the cut ends and a break in the wool about 3" from the cut ends. It is laid out on two plastic dog pen panels on top of some scrap wood with the same deer netting staked down over the top. If this wool ends up usable I will likely use it for my first dyeing experiments.

[comfortabletextiles]

So, I used this morning to photograph my stash. Now I am exhausted XD

✨Behold ✨

First the spinning fodder:

The raw wool I washed in the bathtub. It has still a lot of lanolin. Next time I'll try to wash all out! (sadly I didn't wrote down what kind of sheep...)

The raven bat I bought of Etzy. My beloved. I'll Spinn you one day!

Kid mohair (also from Etzy and even some what locally! It's from South Germany) the Grey is hand dyed by the seller and the white is a tryout she got me with it!)

A Buch of rolags from the UK (through Etzy)

Tweed mix I got for my birthday from my brother (it was three rovings, one is all ready yarn)

1kg of South German merino that I want to turn into a sweater for my husband. This is the Projekt I want to do after the raw wool is spun up.

A luxurious silk merino blend that I adore

1kg of lower quality flax. I have an idea for a bag for this!

Some try out flax

A bunch of misery fibers that I acquired over the time. Everything feels like wool, might be still from my first spinning kit :')

I reached my 10 picture limit, so yarn will be an extra post!

[universalzones]

Belle wondered if everyone else could keep their calm when returning to base. Lanolin did have a bit more control on this end since she was physically here, though was sure it'd be harder to properly control them from the other side of GUN's check point. The tinkerer did take noticed to the sheep's expression. "I think it's a good idea. I mean, now GUN will have to worry about being hit from two sides so hopefully it'll make them far less likely to attack us."

"Though it's hard to say for sure as from what I know about GUN they seem pretty all over the place when it comes to things." Belle honestly thought GUN was a complete mess in any situation, though this time they seemed far more organized. The tinkerer could only assume it was because of this mysterious commander which made her wonder just who they were and what they wanted.

"Though maybe we should focus on catching up with Sonic and Surge. I don't like doubting Sonic, though if we're all at the check point it should help him better keep his cool seeing as he wouldn't do anything to endanger anyone." Belle had no doubt Sonic was fine putting his own life in danger, though he always put others above himself. The tinkerer did feel using this logic against him rather dirty.

"I shall, though let us hope the commander doesn't attempt to undermine that choice. I shall leave you to focus on the situation down there." Blaze would stop the connection and then flag the airship to talk to the commander once more. With any luck hopefully the feline could now put some pressure back on him.

One of the Mother Wisp's eyes would look at Maggie, growing softer sensing her worry for her friend so would speak to her directly. "✋︎⧫︎ ♓︎⬧︎ □︎🙵♋︎⍓︎ ●︎♓︎⧫︎⧫︎●︎♏︎ □︎■︎♏︎📪︎ ♑︎□︎ ♍︎♒︎♏︎♍︎🙵 □︎■︎ ⍓︎□︎◆︎❒︎ ♐︎❒︎♓︎♏︎■︎♎︎ ♋︎■︎♎︎ ♒︎♏︎●︎◻︎ ♒︎♏︎❒︎ ♌︎♏︎ ♋︎⧫︎ ♏︎♋︎⬧︎♏︎📬︎ ✋︎ ⬧︎♒︎♋︎●︎●︎ 🙵♏︎♏︎◻︎ ❍︎⍓︎ □︎⬥︎■︎ ♋︎■︎■︎□︎⍓︎♋︎■︎♍︎♏︎ ◆︎■︎♎︎♏︎❒︎ ♍︎□︎■︎⧫︎❒︎□︎●︎📪︎ ⍓︎♏︎⧫︎ ♎︎□︎ ⧫︎♏︎●︎●︎ ⧫︎♒︎♏︎❍︎ ✋︎ ⬧︎♒︎♋︎●︎●︎ ♋︎⧫︎⧫︎♋︎♍︎🙵 ♓︎♐︎ ⧫︎♒︎♏︎⍓︎ ♋︎⧫︎⧫︎♋︎♍︎🙵 ❍︎♏︎📬︎"

The President of GUN? Lanolin's eyes seemed to shift and turn rapidly as her brain was running at high speed. GUN had no president but, then they worked for the United Federation of Nations. They did have a president and they were elected officials with alot of power. Before the war they made plenty of moves to make the world safer, but everyone always suspected that they never knew what GUN was up to. She had no idea that the former president from before the War was still in power--- she thought it all fell apart but it seemed that wasn't the case.

" The President of the United Federation of Nations... before the War they were the head of the ruling body here on Mobius. They were an elected offical, but that all fell apart after the war started. I heard they went into hiding, and supplied alot of support to the Resistance at the time. But no one has heard much since the war ended... if its really the president... that complicates things..."

The sheep felt less inclined to fight back now, she understood that GUN was muscling in but! If the President was indeed making this move, they were the nationally elected leader. How could they stand against them? it didn't feel right to her and yet--- they hadn't fought in the war had they? she was conflicted.

Her thoughts broke as one of the soldiers ran up to her holding out a communications device.

" Commander! Coms is back! we even have access to the outside... i have no idea how or how long it will last..."

Lanolin took the device and paused clearly conflicted on how to move forward. If the president was alive, and well she had no intention of going against them. But until she had proof of that it was best to stay the course until she had further information.

" Attention all Restoration Units! This is Unit Commander Lanolin speaking! all Restoration forces are to return to base, form an active perimeter around HQ! Do not engage with GUN forces! but maintain your position until you receive further orders! To any GUN forces listening to this--- We are Restoration! and until i have orders to stand down from a superior officer i will defend this position! you have been warned! "

She released the button from the side of the device and looked somewhat apprehensive. She didn't know if that was the right call and now questioned her position. Her eyes went to Belle as if asking if she did the right thing.

" Blaze... can you send a message to the GUN airship... Tell them if the United Federation President wants us to stand down. He has only to contact me directly... and Gaia i hope i'm doing the right thing..."

Maggie meanwhile remained close to the Mother Wisp knowing she could better direct her rage if she needed to. Yet she could sense Lanolins Distress and hoped everything was alright down below. Still she remained at her post, like a good solider she knew she had a to be part of this offensive if it came to it.

It seemed things were coming to a head fast... this might all end in an explosive confrontation!

[saltysunflowersugar]

Alright, so you know how people Liv to draw Killer Queen as normal hairless cat? Well I thought, "what if that but crazy diamond?" So I drew Crazy D as a sheep because Lanolin (an oil secreted from sheep's skin) has healing and pain relief properties, plus wool can be styled into a pompadour, plus rhe idea of Josuke riding an angery fookin' sheep and having it headbutt anyone who disses his hair was just hilarious to me!!!!! So, yeah here's a quick doodle, I might draw some more of the Duwang Gang with their stands as pets, maybe The Hand could be a monkey or a raccoon or something, IDK some king of long-tailed turtle for Echoes? Heaven's Door is just a cockatiel who Rohan has trained to spy on people and repeat what they said so he can use it for his Manga, there's like a bazillion possible ways to play with this concept

[ukdamo]

Remembrance of Things Present

One of mine...

The gloryhole in 89 Napier Street was the repository for practical things not necessarily needed immediately to hand: the scorched and rickety ironing board (the iron standing on its heel on the shelf above); left-over rolls of wallpaper; a canopy of coats cascading untidily from too few hooks; the two books (Universal Home Doctor and Family Bible); a bashed brown tea caddy, minus its label, that held buttons, wooden cotton reels, a selection of sewing needles, hair grips, press-studs on their cards, folorn biros with bitten ends; the Ewbank (at an earlier date), the reconditioned Hoover now in its stead. And mum's handbags. Old ones bulged with insurance policies, family snaps, the one £5 Premium Bond and the the three £1 ones, grave papers, mass cards, cast-off compacts with cracked mirrors or broken clasps, and almost-but-not-quite empty jars of Pond's cold cream. And the little cylinders of fake gold that held the stumps of greasy, muted-pinky-maroon lip sticks. It was all illuminated by a bare low-wattage bulb.

The gloryhole was, basically, under-stair storage. It was accessed from a door in the corner of the living room. Once the door was opened, you faced a narrow underdrawn space that sloped upward from left to right, following the contours of the stairs. In front, where the height permitted it, a shelf ran around the space. Under it were the old, two-pronged coat hooks. Mum's discarded handbags dangled by their frayed straps from those Victorian coat hooks, smothered by coats. They made occasional forays out into the light, when documents needed consulting or prayer cards needed re-homing. To the left of the door, down one-step, the space retreated into an increasingly confined wedge, so that the smaller objects had to be shoved into the deepest part of the recess and the taller ones stood immediately adjacent. The gloryhole was seldom decorated: it always lagged behind the rest of the house by at least two or three colour-schemes. Occasionally, when its yellowing paint became too depressing, it was freshened up by left over emulsion. The gloryhole housed the left-over wallpaper from various rooms - but never enjoyed a Polycell make-over of its own.

From the vantage point of 2017, Napier Street as our family home is long-gone. So are my parents; dad in 1995, mum a decade later. Equally long-gone are those old handbags with their stash of yesteryear's oddments. But, as I beetle along towards old age, the inherent power of those distant objects to seems to grow exponentially. The handbags and their associated evocations perhaps most of all.

Pond's cold cream. I don't know if it still exists. When I was a boy, it lived in small, glass, oval jars with bakelite screw lids. It was not gloopy or waxy. It was a reassuringly viscose white fondant, and had always the imprint of mum's last finger-scoop. The texture was cool, smooth and soothing. Its fragrance was of mum. Or maybe it was the other way round. A discreet scent of jasmine with distant lilies. It was soft on the palms and immediately made skin more malleable, less friable, less care-worn, more translucent. I can sympathise with her fondness for it: less a cotton winders' hands, more of a princess's. I used to have occasional dabs of my own: less a scrawly schoolboy's hands, more of an aesthete's?

In one or other of the bags there was a ladies Ronson lighter – it still had a working flint but its petrol-infused lint had long since dried out. I used to enjoy the dry, rasping spark with electric flare. Not so much a burning smell as a mechanical one. And then there were the compacts. They were usually smudged by the old lipsticks, their hinges encrusted with their own pink-blush powder. Indeed, the insurance policies, prayer cards and the faux-satin linings of the handbags were similarly smudged. The dull gold-coloured compact, the one with the cracked mirror, had a thin flat disc in it – satin one side and mildly padded on the other. Practically all the powder was gone from the insert. Little bevels of it remained where the side and bottom of the pan met. But the pad was still redolent of dustings and pattings. The powder was an anhydrous mist, different from the silky puff of Johnson's baby powder. Matt rather than shiny, the pad gave a satisfyingly muted pat when applied to the back of your hand. It had a fragrance, too, different from the cold cream, but complementary. The aroma was a pink carnation.

Mum was a delicate creature in some respects – allergic to anything other than gold jewellery. In this, I am not her son: I can wear any base metal, though my fondness and preference is for silver. Anything other than butter on her bread made her nauseous. Wartime had been a torture for her (the chemical coarseness of margarine, you understand). She had to trade all manner of coupons to secure enough butter. I sympathise with that. Her choice of butter was always Lurpak but she'd tolerate Kerrygold or Anchor if it was demanded of her. Stork – which the adverts claimed was indistinguishable from butter – was relegated to cake-making. Rightly so. Vile. Only desperation would make a person use it on bread.

Mum's repertoire of soaps was as limited as her butter.

Pears (those amber ovals) she liked – but it was too pricey. Imperial Leather (“Simon, Bermuda”) was also valued but equally pricey. I don't recall it featuring anything other than rarely – probably when it was on offer. We were a family of six, with four blokes, you see: that's a lot of soap. So, the mundane soap was a Lever Brothers stand by: Sunlight. With lanolin, even. I had no idea what lanolin was – but mum could use it on that delicate skin. This was in the days before hypoallergenic was a even a word, still less a range of products. Sunlight soap came in fat, cumbersome, rectangular, pale magnolia cakes. Really, it was very unfeminine: great half-charlies that were too big for the hand, unless you were a navvy or a coal miner. They had a wide groove on their upper surface, with a cursive 'Sunlight' stamped in it. I don't know if Sunlight is still going: it had a retro makeover many years ago but I can't recall seeing it in decades. The gradual demise of the C2 working class probably doomed it to extinction. And as for lanolin, people finding out that it was the oil from sheep's fleeces no doubt undermined its appeal, somewhat. Sometimes it's best not to know: when I hear what goes into mum's old Oil of Ulay (now sans oil, and simply Olay for copyright reasons, I think), it is cringeworthy.

But lanolin. I recall coming face to face with it a few years ago on a walk to the Water Meetings and Quaker Bridge in Barrowford. Summer time. No azure flash of kingfishers racing along Pendle Water that trip, but as I forked right and headed up the road into Blacko to follow it homewards, there was the buzz of clippers in a field. A Landrover was pulled up, with trailer uncoupled. The trailer sported on- /off- ramps, a generator, and a tall pole, attached to the top of which was a flexible bendy cord. At the end of the cord was the source of the insistent buzzing – sheep shears. The trailer was adjacent to a sheep pen, in which dozens of ewes jostled half-heartedly for position, and peered blankly out. I stopped to watch proceedings and, after a minute or two, the farmer came over, opened the gate, and invited me in.

And so we stood, the three of us. Me, the farmer, and the sheep shearer. And I learned about shearing, fleeces, and sheep. The shearer travelled from farm to farm (hence the Landrover with its bespoke trailer) making his way through Wales, Lancashire, Yorkshire on a pre-arranged timetable and route. He was netting £2 a fleece – and he had each of those pliable ladies, and some cantankerous ones – nabbed, shaved, and released at no more than 90 second intervals. The farmer penned the sheep ready, so there was no delay, and they contracted for a minimum number, so farmers with smaller holdings rendezvoused at the farm where the shearer was to set up. Prices for fleeces rose and fell – they weren't bad that year, as I recall, but sheep need shearing whatever the price.

The bewildered ladies were unceremoniously up-ended and plonked on their ample bottoms, whilst the young fella planted his muscular legs and gripped them, and set to work with the clippers. Mostly, they were subdued once he had them: perhaps reassured by his evident skill and no-nonsense approach. That always worked with me when I was a boy: the sound of the airplane clippers, the smell of 3-in-1 oil, and the firm purpose of the barber. Short back and sides and sparse conversation. Mind you, I don't think the barber netted £2 a scalp back in the day.

The sun shone, the sheep skittered off once fleeced, and we three chatted. Soon my eye was drawn to the large grease spot on the wooden trailer. Lanolin, live and in-person. Handy for soap making, handier still for shedding the filthiest Lancashire weather: these sheep were well set up for inclemencies. I noted, too, that the shearer was wearing moccasins. As the farmer explained, the best shearers wore moccasins. Their suede nap gave some purchase on the slippery grease and their firm pressure was kinder to sheep. Lots of younger men were sporting trainers now, he said, but he didn't rate them. They were not good. The risk of injury to sheep, and man, was increased. I found myself glad that the shearer stood fully congruent with his occupation – no flirting with any Nike or Adidas innovations. Real sheep shearers do it in moccasins.

After the family home was sold and mum and dad went to live in Lomeshaye Village, in one of the old-folks' flats, mum's predilection for Imperial Leather resurfaced. There was always a bar in the bathroom. With just the two of them (kids all gone) the economies necessary for a family of six, on a wagon driver's income, were less stringent. Imperial Leather as pensioner indulgence! One of the things that most endeared me to those lozenge-shaped bars of buttermilk hue was the little foil label that conjured up the decadence of the Romanovs. It was my understanding that the label was there to prevent the soap leaving a mess on the sink ceramics or soap dish: you stood the bar on its label. As the soap wore down, the label stood proud and the soap was no longer in contact with the sink – hence, no mess. Perhaps because we were very plebeian, the soap was never label down. You announced the fact that you were using it by having the label showing.

For me, nowadays, picking the soap up, lathering it under the tap, releases not so much a fragrance as a wave of nostalgia. Imperial Leather's fragrance has elements of sandalwood and the richness of plant oils – it's mildly exotic and suggestive of luxury. Which is, no doubt, what Cussons were aiming at. But for me, it mostly carries aromas of mum. It's powerfully evocative. Aromas are.

I recall a visit – with mum – to Gawthorpe Hall. It's one of the places we'd scoot off to for an afternoon of cultural noseyness, and cake. The cafe was lodged in the stable block and featured home-baking and pots of tea. Ideal for us. After a leisurely brew and news-swop, we were about to go and explore the lovely Elizabethan pile: I decided to make a visit to the lavatory first. The tea room was above, the toilets below, so I skittered down the stairs and found the Gents. The soap was in an old-school wall dispenser: fingers under, palm operates a rectangular squirter. One squidge was enough: the years receded and I was age six, it was dinner time, I was standing at a child-height sink in St George's RC Primary School, Vaughan Street, Nelson, washing my hands so that Mrs. Ingham (a diminutive tyrant) would not throw me out of the dinner queue. The soap dispensed in the Gawthorpe toilet was the same amber-coloured, antiseptic liquid that Lancashire County Council used in its school thirty years before. The power of scent created a wormhole in space-time and drew me through it, irresistibly. That power can be used to advantage, though. You can elect to make the journey. Fragrance can open the portal, on demand. If liquid coal-tar soap can take me to primary school, other fragrances can take me elsewhere.

4711, for instance. That eau-de-cologne can transport me to Köln, and the year 1976. It's a school exchange trip and I'm in Germany, staying with a family from Mayen: we're on a trip to Cologne. I've been up the cathedral tower and seen the Rhine bridges and I'm looking for a present for mum. On Glockenstrasse, at number 4711, stands an impressive perfume factory and shop – home to 4711. The original eau-de-cologne. Echt Kölnisch Wasser. It's still there – flagship shop of the perfume house, and it still glitters with possibility. I bought mum a bottle of the eponymous 18th CE perfume and she wore it ever after. Generally, she kept it in her current handbag (before they were, successively, relegated to the gloryhole). She'd dab it on her hanky and freshen up with it on car trips. As a perfume, 4711 has had an odd evolution over the 200 plus years of its existence; it was, originally, a men's fragrance for the prestige Houses of Europe. More latterly, it has been a women's fragrance – but 4711 indicate it as unisex. I agree. The scent is of citrus and wood that carries a fresh, sharp finish and has enduring undernotes. For me it's an everyday scent: it lives in my sports bag, for application after swims. It's also my travel fragrance and comes with me on every trip, near or far.

As I age (just clocked 56, Not Out), I seem to be developing a deepening appreciation for my past and how it has shaped who I have become. I heard once that making sense of your life is only possible when you look back over it – I recall an analogy that compared it to running your fingers over a fish's scales: they lie smoothly when stroked in one direction but are likely to tear your flesh if stroked in the wrong one. I can see connections, recognise how events and people shaped my experiences. I know I hold threads together, personally. I weave my own cloth - but on a loom I inherited. More tellingly still, some elements of the pattern, some of the aesthetics that inform the weave, some of the yarns, were given to me. I'm the child of weavers in more ways than one.

I can find, too, there's comfort in the sureties of the past. Like the familiarity of an old pair of slippers (not that I wear slippers), the quiet resonances of childhood are reassuring. I think we like continuity, as a species. We tell stories. We create in our own likeness. We look to where we came from to make sense of where we are and to decide where we want to go.

I'm conscious of my heritage. Not (I think) conditioned or stultified by it, or forever harking back to a mystical Golden Age that exists only in the warm fuzziness of a smug and delusional imagination. But I know I make choices which ensure there are tokens of continuity that I can carry with me into my everyday life. Mostly, they are mundane. And I like that, too. It's too easy to confuse what's important with what's valuable, unless you guard against that possibility. The richer you are, the more imperilled that discernment is: I've safeguarded myself against that risk very well!

My tokens are trivial. It's good that they are.

I think of the tea caddy spoon – it's in my kitchen, as it was in mum's kitchen, and as it was in her mum's kitchen before her (c/o a pre-WW II holiday to the Isle of Man): or there's my 'ice-cream' spoon – courtesy of Margaret Pepper and the Raj (well, the North Western Railway Volunteer Rifles, circa 1920). These tokens are a continuing connection with people now gone. They are stirred (if you'll forgive the pun) by everyday use.

I note, increasingly, that I am becoming my parents. I look like dad. Really: peas in a pod, chip off the old block, and so on. I look in the mirror and he smiles back at me. I look at my physignomy – and his fingerprints are all over it. My driving style evokes his. In some situations, I can sense him near. Curiously, he underpins my confidence in situations from which his natural diffidence would have disbarred him. If I stand tall, it's because he raised me. As for mum, she's around most days. Wimbledon Fortnight, she practically moves in. It was ever ‘our time’ - I’d rock up with whimberry charlottes, or strawberries, and we’d sit on the edges of chairs for hours and hours as Nastase, Connors, Becker, McEnroe, Ivanisovic, Sampras, Federer and Billie Jean King, Martina, Steffi and the Williams sisters thwacked balls back and forth. I miss her acutely then. And we both missed Dan Maskell, together. She’s at my elbow at breakfast when I make a pot of Yorkshire Tea (there's another evocation!); when the Imperial Leather is handled at shower time; twice weekly, in the men's locker room at Crow Wood, after a swim. Perhaps it's fortunate that the evocation is a personal, rather than an universal, one? (Otherwise, explanations might prove difficult).

I don't know if the trivial and potent associations that so flavour my life – 4711, Imperial Leather, and two old spoons – will evoke the same responses among my nephews and nieces and their respective kids once I'm dead. It’s open to doubt. They don't live cheek-by-jowl with them, as I do. It matters not. They will make their own. As things stand, I'm the orphan in the world, now mum and dad are long dead: the comfort blanket offered by fragrances and spoons is mine, and very probably mine alone.

There's quiet comfort in that, too.

© Damian, April 2017

[sodalitefully]

Testing, testing, seven and thirteen. Tumblr, get your shit together. Over. :P

I read you loud and clear, glad tumblr managed to figure its shit out! Thanks for the ask, here’s #13!

This is the intro to an AU I have outlined but may or may not continue: Werewolf!Duff and satyr!Slash unexpectedly develop a rather antagonistic companionship; seems appropriate since we were recently talking about satyrs in gnr AUs!  Duff thinks Slash is a sweet little faun but he gets more and more Dionysian as Duff gets to know him.  Since they don’t really interact in the part I have written, there’s also some highlights from the outline afterwards.

Consider “faun” the more modern word for any bipedal half-goat/-sheep/-deer creature, all of which are descended from the ancient Greek satyrs.  

~~~~~

Even for a werewolf, Duff was… unlucky.  He didn’t have a “true” wolf form like the werewolves of old, who transformed into huge, powerful beasts, beautiful wolves the size of horses, true kings of the forest.  Nor did he have especially good control over his transformations; when his skin itched and his blood burned, he could only hold off the urge to shift for so long, a night or two at most.  

This, unfortunately, meant that he had no choice but to move to the country.  Yuck.  Duff was made for nightlife and sleepless streets, not gravel roads and placid townspeople.  But if he stayed in Los Angeles, it was inevitable that someone would notice the beastly wolf-man prowling the streets of Hollywood, and things would take a sharp turn in the same direction as An American Werewolf In London.

This morning, Duff had woken up in his cozy new country home to the sound of birds chirping, the dappled sunlight streaming through his bedroom window, and the telltale ache of muscles his human body didn’t have.  The weather was gorgeous and the forest beyond his garden fence looked positively serene – it was the perfect day for a hunt.

Truthfully, Duff almost never killed his own prey.  Fresh steaks were enough to keep him fed, but there was something about roaming the forest, tracking its inhabitants, silently stalking a deer or a rabbit from the shadows... Hunting was just about the only thrill Duff could get out here, even if he let his prey escape in the end.

Before the sun even rose above the treetops, Duff was on four paws and enjoying the many scents and sounds of the forest as he trotted deeper into the wild.  He pounced at birds, sniffed at burrows, and allowed tangled deer trails to guide his way... until he stumbled upon something far more interesting: large hoof prints, accompanied by the scent of cut grass and lanolin.  

Duff had become aware of the population of fauns in “his” forest not long after moving in.  The cloven prints, the cropped foliage, and the stray tufts of wool were all dead giveaways.  Based on how close the flock occasionally strayed towards Duff’s home, he suspected that though he was aware of them, the fauns had no idea that a werewolf resided nearby – sheep weren’t so observant as wolves, after all.  Regardless, Duff gave the flock its space.  A lone wolf had no chance taking on a whole flock of fauns... That is, hypothetically, of course.

One lost sheep, however, was a different story.  

Enthralled by the unexpected opportunity, Duff crouched low to the ground and swiftly, silently followed the meandering path though the dense trees, deeper into the forest than he’d ever ventured before.

When Duff caught up to his quarry, the faun had stopped to sit on a felled log and pick a clod of dirt out of his hoof, unaware of the game he had unwittingly become a part of.  Duff was careful to remain hidden from view as he evaluated his prize:  The faun was bare except for the dark brown fleece on his legs and the matching curls on his head, long enough to brush his upper back and studded with dried leaves.  Two ridged black horns protruded through the curls, coiling in on themselves to form a complete spiral and gleaming wickedly when the faun tilted his head.  Those horns and the pair of pointed hooves, each the size of a man's fist, were the weapons that a wolf had to watch out for when dealing with fauns.  Not that Duff was worried – it was in a faun’s nature to run rather than fight, and Duff was eagerly looking forward to the chase.  

Too eagerly, perhaps.  Duff shifted in anticipation, and the faun’s velvet ear flicked in his direction.  The faun went stock-still, frozen like a bronze statue straight out of Ancient Rome, then turned his head and looked Duff dead in the eye.

The stillness shattered, the faun kicked up a spray of dirt as he darted back into the trees and Duff bolted after him like a horse out of the gates.  His heart pounded and his blood burned with the thrill of the hunt, he let out a joyful howl as his paws slammed into the damp soil.  He had the advantage of running on four legs instead of two, but the faun had a marginal head start and Duff’s awkward hybrid physiology wasn’t built for speed.  It was only a matter of time before Duff could no longer follow the dizzying path the faun wound between thick tree trunks, but when he finally lost sight of his prey’s kicking hooves and undocked tail for good, he couldn’t bring himself to be too disappointed.  Following the faun’s trail further could wait for another day; instead he turned around and contentedly trotted back home with his excess energy expended and his predatory instincts satisfied.

~~~~

Duff has a good heart, but he just doesn’t take Slash seriously and he acts like a jerk because of it.  He thinks Slash is just some sweet little woodland creature, so once Slash is reasonably confident that Duff isn’t going to eat him, he takes it upon himself to show Duff that a faun is just a pretty name for a satyr, and satyrs haven’t changed all that much since Ancient Greece.

The first time Slash is in Duff’s house (unwillingly, after an injury) he’s completely convinced that Duff intends to eat him, he’s belligerent all the way there, he refuses to enter the kitchen for any reason, and he’s also afraid of Duff’s perfectly friendly dogs, to the point of scaling the furniture (and possibly Duff himself, being the tallest thing in the room) to get away from them.  After a few hours of not being eaten, he starts to reevaluate the situation and think of ways to assert himself to Duff.

Slash eventually lets Duff see his home in return, and it serves as one of Duff’s first glances at the true nature of his ovine neighbors.  The fauns’ home camp looks like if someone put a hippie commune and a frat house in a blender and dumped the resulting mess in a woodland meadow.  Incense sticks and red solo cups abound in equal measure, and there is little regard for privacy, private property, or clothing in general.  

Once their relationship progresses into something a little more intimate, Duff runs Slash a post-coital bath, he helps wash as Slash uses about a whole bottle of shampoo to lather up his hair and his fleece.  There’s never enough of the stuff back home, and he relishes the luxury of Duff’s cramped, outdated bathroom.  

When they first met, Slash would be livid every time Duff set off his flight response (werewolves being one of his few natural predators). It happens again when Axl, another wolf, pays Duff an unexpected visit and severely misunderstands the reason Slash happens to be in Duff’s living room.  “Duff, I just caught your dinner trying to escape out the back door.”  Slash is furious and also very shaken; for all his lack of sympathy, Duff feels guilty that he didn’t step in in time.

Tbh the thought process here was basically Slash>fluffy hair>sheep>sheep are basically goats>satyrs are associated with sex, drinking, and revelry>and so is slash… and then werewolf Duff just made sense.  

[waldenweave]

Wow. It’s been a while.

Things got really busy with doctor’s appointments and general exhaustion. I am better now! I had a lumpectomy on November 14th and radiation therapy for the entire month of January – my last day of radiation was also W. A. Mozart’s birthday, so there was a lot to celebrate. It wasn’t until about two weeks or so ago that I realized exactly how tired I had been because all of a sudden I wasn’t that tired. I still am tired, and my joints are creaky, but that’s the tamoxifen. But hey, as far as I know I do not have cancer, and that’s a win.

I’ve tried to keep up with practicing and making things, but tendonitis struck again. I’ve had it since about this past September in my left elbow, and I did not do what I was supposed to do (rest, heat, NSAIDs), but kept practicing both cello and gamba. The result was that I stopped cello the end of October until mid January, and I stopped gamba in the first half of December until the very end of January. I couldn’t button my sweater or braid my hair anymore, and I still can’t believe I let it get that bad. It’s sooo much better now, but it’s still there, so I’m being careful and doing what I need to do to make it better.

This also meant that all that hand work I was doing wasn’t possible anymore. Spinning for any huge length of time made it worse. Knitting has been right out for months and months. Combing wool was only possible in about 3 minute chunks. And then my friend Lee started a make-a-thing-daily project and invited everyone to join in. Her process of choice this time was embroidery.

Well!

I have been itching to embroider for some time, and Lee’s rules seemed simple enough: gather all your materials ahead of time, set the bar so low you can roll over it (quick and dirty, Kate, quick. and. dirty.), and do not fret about what you are making. Quantity over quality. Okay, okay, so I naturally fret over quality. Always. But I also recognize this is a thing that I need to maybe let go of now and then. So. A daily thing for February. The Short Month! Yes, I thought, I can do this.

I found all my embroidery floss and hoops and needles. And I began.

Week 1. These are Very Small, which keeps to the quick-and-dirty principle.

I had no patterns – so I just doodled. And doodled. Some I like, some not so much. But I did start to look at embroidery online and got to thinking about flowers.

Week 2, plus one. Moar doodles!

I re-learned how to do French knots, I learned the bullion stitch, and I learned that some of the yarns I spin are perfectly suitable for embroidering with. The purple flower (there’s a bit of charcoal on that one from the frame – the frames were laser cut, and so had carbon on the edges) is a silk/merino blend I spun up, as well as the purple in the octagonal frame. The grey sheep/mouse (it was supposed to be a sheep, but didn’t quite work) is a bit of Gotland I’d spun.

Week 3, plus a bit? Feeesh, flowers, and…more flowers?

I am really enamored of French knots. And embroidered flowers. And in rayon floss! I really wanted silk yarn (because who wouldn’t?), but all I could get quickly and on the cheap was rayon, so I settled (for now). The tree I’m especially happy with – that one is all in cotton floss, but from three colors I kept pulling out and staring hard at. I’d been looking at pictures online of tiny, gorgeous embroidered flowering trees made from satin stitches and French knots. Eventually, I knew I’d get to it. And I did. And I’m happy with it. And I think this particular tree with this particular color scheme will inspire Something Else (stay tuned?). The dandelion was a doodle to see if I could do it. I have a skein of variegated yellow cotton and I thought, “O, that reminds me of dandelions.”

I’m telling you, I have so much appreciation for those professional embroiderers who can create depth with needle and thread just through the use of color and stitch direction.

Late in the game, I ran out of white linen, so reached for a scrap of blue. But you know, it just wasn’t working. I love this shade, but I just wasn’t happy with how the colors of the floss were working with it.

Well. In any case, you’ll notice that there are fewer than 29 embroideries. I framed the last batch (Week 3 and a bit) yesterday, and while trying to start another wee embroidery to catch up on the last day of the month, I realized that the tendonitis really did not like it. I practiced a ridiculous amount of cello yesterday (yay, Vivaldi [except I can’t play it yet]), but the thing that made the tendonitis really painful was holding the embroidery hoop. Argh. The embroidery can wait. There will be other months, and an almost endless supply of floss and handspun yarn.

This is not to say that I did not make nothing prior to February. Spinning did aggravate the tendonitis, but as long as I did it in small chunks and took care, I spun. The spinning also helped with the mental stuff going on – a repetitive task that I don’t have to think overly much about and at the end, I get soft, squishy yarn. That I can squish.

I’ll try to go in order.

  This was a bit of dyed Leicester Longwool and I got from a destash pile at one of the spinning guild meetings that I spun up in late December. I’m pretty happy with it. It was very easy and very mindless to spin, and there was a lot of it. I believe this is 8 ounces – each skein is 4 ounces. The only thing about this project was that the dye still hasn’t finished washing out, and I washed that skein about four times. I had used some cotton weaving yarn as ties on the skeins, and those picked up some of the dye, which leads me to believe the dyer used fiber reactive dyes rather than an acid dye. Which is aggravating. It would explain the lack of luster one would expect in this breed of wool. So, I’ll have to be careful when washing whatever project I use this for. (I’ll likely get a dye magnet or another fresher bottle of Synthropol to remove the rest of the excess dye.)

At some point, I realized I needed to start making progress on the Shetland fleeces. Because I have way too many fleeces and need to get through them! Especially if I want to buy more fleeces to make into more fabulous yarn to weave fabulous cloth. I’d been spinning samples for a bit (pretty sure this was January), and this one was one I was reasonably happy with. It’s got a bit more twist than I think the Shetland really wants, but I would absolutely weave with it. And let me tell you, Shetland is a joy to spin. It almost spins itself, it’s so very soft, and it’s so very lustrous. Can you see the shine?!

FLUFFFFFFY SHETLAND!

I tried another sample of the Shetland, this time with slightly less twist, and look at the difference! It’s much puffier than the stuff in the previous photo, and it’s so, so squishy. I loves it, I do. I want so much to weave with this, but I’ve had two people (experts in weaving and spinning, actually) tell me that this yarn is Really Suitable for Knitting. Sigh. I mean, it’s a sample. I can’t quite knit yet (tendonitis), but I might be able to weave it into a sample. Maybe. A tiny one.

Honestly, I love that yarn. I have never loved yarn I’ve spun so much as I love this one.

At some point in January, I decided to try out R.H. Lindsay Wool Merchants. I follow them on social media, and some of their pictures of wool are just so delicious. They sell wholesale, but they’ll also sell by the pound to whoever wants it. And I did. They’d posted a picture of super bouncy Dorset/Polypay roving from New England sheep. For $8.50/lb. I ordered two pounds. (The shipping was nearly that much, so I did briefly consider getting three pounds – I have no where to put it!) It came lickity-split and I pulled some of that off to spin:

Super springy! Super bouncy!

Yep. That’s pretty springy and bouncy! I gotta say, I really like this. You can’t beat the price, even with the shipping, and the roving is not carbonized. There were bits of VM in there, which I very happily picked out.

And then!

Look at that luster! Look at the color! Ooooh! Aaaaah!

I’m putting in a full size photo of the Gotland. I mean, how could I not?

This was my first attempt at spinning it. It’s not easy to spin. This is from commercially prepared roving that had sat in storage for some time, so was compressed some. There’s no crimp, there’s no wave. It’s a bit like spinning mohair, except it’s a bit less slippery. Getting the right amount of twist was a challenge, but I am pretty happy with this. It’s a two ply and if I can, I’ll weave a tiny sample out of this and full it to see what happens. But, on the other hand, I have more roving, and really what I should do is spin up the rest of it, and weave that into a sample, but cut the sample into three pieces, and go to town with experimental fulling. “Why all the trouble?” I hear you ask. The answer is that I want so much to sew myself a grey wool coat, and, believe it or not, I cannot find the right grey wool. It’s either not the right color, not the right weight, or some combination of wool and synthetic fibers. Or some combination of those three. And it pisses me off. So, I’ll just weave my own cloth, and spin the yarn if I have to. Dammit.

I know this is a huge project. I’d like to get it done in the next three years (before I’m 50).

Here’s another snap of that yarn:

I guess all that practicing spinning really paid off. I seem to be improving!

And then!

My friend Rachel (over at Spotted Sheep Studio) found some Gammelnorsk fleeces. I bet you had no idea there was a breed called Gammelnorsk, did you? Well. There is. And it’s rare. And she found a person in Norway who raises this breed, and got to buy a bag of fleeces from her. And Rachel and I stool around in the Webs parking lot after a spinning meeting opening the bag and smelling the delightful fumes of Norwegian barnyard and lanolin. And, of course, fondling the Gammelnorsk fleeces. The colors are amazing.

This breed is a dual coated breed, which means it has hair and a downy undercoat (tog and thel, respectively). I do not know much more than this, but Rachel is a fount of knowledge and will impart all her wisdom if I ask – also I’m going to be helping to prepare these fleeces for spinning, and then spinning. So I’ll have to know.

And the very last picture I have to show you is a bit of yarn I spun up yesterday. I have been learning about spinning and preparing the fibers via some Interweave videos. And so I tried coming the alpaca batts I have, because who doesn’t want alpaca top? Well. The batts are made from garbage alpaca. Or they were carded into oblivion, I’m not sure. In any case, the batts are only suitable for felting. The fibers are way too short for even spinning yarn. I even tried to card it and spin it. So aggravating. So, then I decided to turn my attention to a red Spelsau batt that Rachel’s husband brought back from a recent trip to Norway for me (and Rachel too, you should have seen her haul!). I tried combing a bit, and I got some top off it, but I think this batt is really suitable for carding. However, the color is AMAZING. Behold:

And lo! The Perfect Red!

And you know what? No dye came out of this when I washed it. None. Not even a little.

I love this red so much I want to roll around in it.

Really, what makes it so gorgeous is that it’s a tan or brown fleece that has been dyed red. The brown deepens the color and brings it over to the orangey side rather than the blue side. I’m thinking about experimenting with dyeing some of that brown Shetland – I have a white fleece too, but man, this red…

  I’m still here. Wow. It's been a while. Things got really busy with doctor's appointments and general exhaustion. I am better now!