Nes's bloggy babble
- My name is Nes - short for Agnes. Im Scottish living in South Wales for thirteen and a half years now. I have been forced into getting a blog cos everyone else I know has one and I felt left out. I'm pretty rubbish with computer stuff so often rely on my poor boffy mates to sort me out when I need help. Im not sure how well maintained this blog thingy will be but hey-ho I'll have a go! I am a member of a couple of different forums to do with crafting and also music festivals. I like people who are hunourous and who generally just make me laugh.
Monday, 6 April 2009
Thursday, 8 January 2009
For the wings I coloured with alcohol inks and attached with a glue gun on the back and added a little heart shape button in the center of the wings. I added an old found metal loop, some ribbon, some beaded ribbon round the bottom and that was it finished on time for once.
My friend was probably shocked - not at the gift but that I actually managed to get it made and to her on time!!
Wednesday, 19 November 2008
Sunday, 16 September 2007
No,no! go not to Lethe, neither twist
Wolf’s-bane, tight-rooted, for its poisonous wine ;
Nor suffer thy pale forehead to be kiss’d
By nightshade, ruby grape of Prosperpine ;
Make not your rosary of yew berries,
Nor let the beetle, nor the death-moth be
Your mournful Psyche, nor the downy owl
A partner in your sorrow’s mysteries ;
For shade to shade will come3 too drowsily,
And drown the wakeful anguish of the soul.
But when the melancholy fit shall fall
Sudden from heaven like a weeping cloud,
That fosters the droop-headed flowers all,
And hides the green hill in an April shroud ;
Then glut thy sorrow on a morning rose,
Or on the rainbow of the salt sand-wave,
Or on the wealth of globed peonies ;
Or if thy mistress some rich anger shows,
Emprison her soft hand, and let her rave,
And feed deep,deep upon her peerless eyes.
She dwells with Beauty---Beauty that must die ;
And Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips
Bidding adieu ; and aching Pleasure nigh,
Turning to poison while the bee-mouth sips :
Ay, in the very temple of Delight
Veil’d Melancholy has her Sovran shrine,
Though seen of none save him whose strenuous tongue
Can burst Joy’s grape against his palate fine ;
His soul shall taste the sadness of her might,
And be among her cloudy trophies hung.
The box and poem probably doesn't make much sense together as its just a bit of a collage piece really but its done and ready to be sent. Its a bit weird how things can emerge as something that you haven't planned for and even when its not what you have intended it somehow wont be what you want it to be. If you get me?????