From Mensagenda - November 2005

Partly Cloudy

 by Karen Cyson

Roswell. Area 51. Invaders from Mars.

Growing up post WWII, the collective psyche was filled with the possibility that aliens would invade and destroy America As We Know It.

What was "the government" hiding? Fueling this fervor were movies, TV shows (The Twilight Zone), and Joseph McCarthy. "Someone" (aliens, Russians, whatever) was out to get us.

I think Orson Welles started this all with his "War of the Worlds" broadcast in 1938. Following a brief distraction in Europe and the Pacific, Americans were once again ready to believe that someone or something evil was about to pounce.

It wasn’t until 1959, when Plan 9 From Outer Space, the worst movie ever made, turned the tide. Soon we had benevolent, even loveable aliens in our midst. Would My Favorite Martian harm us? Doubtful.

Fast forward a few decades and conspiracy theorists were again in their glory when The X Files debuted. The mantra "Trust no one" was in vogue. I’ll admit I was a fan of the show, but unlike Mulder, I didn’t believe.

Until I started organizing my "projects."

I’ve always done a lot of handwork. I was knitting in kindergarten. I’d embroidered dish towels galore by the age of eight. In 5th grade I took my first formal machine-sewing class. By junior high Home Ec I was bored to tears in class. I already knew all that.

Fast-forward to house, kids, etc. And there was a lot of etc. Somehow my ambition and ability to accumulate materials and projects outstripped the actual number of hours one human being can possibly be awake.

The kitchen curtains were finished, the clever centerpiece packed away. The crib bumper and quilt and curtains got made; the intricate embroidered baby sampler went in a drawer "for later." The Halloween costumes went Trick-or-Treating each October; the quilted wall hanging of orange calico leaves got shoved under the stairs in the laundry room.

Lately I’ve made a point of rounding up all of my unfinished projects. In crafter’s parlance, these are U.F.O.s. Un-Finished Objects.

The sheer quantity of these obligations is frightening. If I retired today, I might finish them in this lifetime. As it is, I’ve had to make some tough decisions.

Anything dated in color, specifically avocado or harvest gold: out.

Anything started for someone I no longer (1)know and/or (2) like: out.

Anything with any other unpleasant association or that no longer suits my decor, my lifestyle, or even my mood as I’m deciding: out.

Anything that is a duplicate (do I need four pairs of size 5 knitting needles? No, I need two pair, one for my knitting case, one for home. I only have two hands. I almost said I was bihandal, a twist on bipedal, but I didn’t want to risk some smart retort about the sexual preferences of deceased composers. And that’s Handel anyway. Yes, I know it’s bimanual, but that just doesn’t have the correct connotation): out.

Anything damaged and funny-smelling from being in the basement back when the stack pipe eroded at its base and boxes got wet: out.

Anything with parts missing that cannot possibly be duplicated at this late date: out.

Anything that I cannot possible envision caring enough to complete: out.

This leaves me with a cubic footage of projects that would fill perhaps 10 copy-paper boxes. And it also leaves me with the certainty that if said objects were placed in copy-paper boxes I’ll need to repeat this entire procedure again in a few years.

Instead, I’ve made a huge heap on the floor in one bedroom. And I pick out one small thing at a time to finish. The sense of accomplishment enables me to continue digging and finishing. Once I get up enough momentum, I may advance to the point where I’ll tackle one of the "biggies." Not too fast, though. I can’t risk burnout.

And if you ask me, "Karen, do you believe in U.F.O.s?" I’ll answer, "Yes. Yes I do."