Self-abuse

I've always found the Victorian term "self-abuse" so funny and antiquated, right up there with "hysteria of the womb." Lately, I've been overdoing it with my hands. No, not that way. Unlike all those self-abusers, I don't have hair growing on the palms or anything, but I have been hand-sewing a corset, rushing an applique block, knitting a sock, and making origami cranes.

Last week, on a trip to Kirkwood Knittery, I leaned on my hand to get up off the floor and felt a little pop at the base of my wrist. Not good.

Let's talk about junking instead. Last week, the truck rolled 209,000 miles. I made three out-of-town gigs, but not in a row. Each was an out-and-back deal. The finds:

• a pair of early Indian clubs, each weighing 1 lb. These often get mis-labeled as juggling clubs, but they were really weights. The CDV to the right shows them on display and you can see them in action here.
• two early, pre-linen postcards of St. Louis scenes
• one piece of ephemera (a scrap of a Gen. Watson)
• one reward of merit card
• a tiny mother-of-pearl buckle (not shown)


• plus, this lovely gift from my hostess in Urbana:

This weekend is the big Mardi Gras parade, our annual Oscar party, and who knows what else. Let's hear it for self-abuse.