Plum – Deborah Makarios

Three packets of dye, that is.

Some of you may remember the hemming escapade I went on nearly a year ago. Amazingly, it’s taken me this long to realize that the colours of the dress didn’t really suit me. I looked ok, but just ok. I decided… to dye.

After quite some time (a whole evening, if I recall correctly), doing research on what was available where, what people thought of it, and what colour it came out, I ordered a four-pack of Dylon Burlesque Red. Which isn’t red, in case you were wondering. In fact, I’m pretty sure it is also known as Plum, which makes a lot more sense.

After a bit of hassle (ordered 4x50g, got 1x50g, returned the one, reordered the four, followed by a supply issue, followed by some clever person realizing that four ones is the same as one four), I received the dye and set to work.

Each packet dyes up to 250g of fabric (dry weight) to the full colour, or more to a paler shade. I didn’t want a paler shade, so for my 700g of fabric I used three packets. I wasn’t sure about whether the required 250g of salt or the 6L dye bath also needed to be tripled, and I couldn’t find any definite advice online, so I didn’t triple the salt, and I only tripled the 500mL for dissolving each packet of dye.

I quite like the colour it came out – a sort of ripe plum. Or at least, what I would call ripe, which is what everyone else would likely call not quite ripe yet. It’s not too bluey, and not too pink; and I really hope it doesn’t fade. As you can probably see, the triangles are still darker (“colour mixing rules apply,” as the packet notes).

The kerchief/Super-Bandanna came out a slightly different shade, being made of tea-dyed calico; but the triangle on the kerchief is the same fabric as the triangle on the dress, and thus came out the same colour as that. (Confused?) The lack of complete match doesn’t really bother me as I don’t often wear the Super-Bandanna: it’s too big for convenience, and doesn’t produce the line I was hoping for. Maybe one day I will alter it, but so far I haven’t got round to it.

The one downside in all this is the fact that the thread and zip didn’t take the dye. The thread is likely polyester (unlike the dress, which is linen/rayon blend) and the zip is metal. So the seams clearly stand out, outlining the neck, triangles etc.

zip

But overall, I’m happy with it. Plenty of dye came out during the rinsing process, and I’m just hoping that what’s left stays fast, because I like the deep tones and I don’t want to lose them!

The last thing I need is a chamber-pot of burning coals dumped on my head every time I get a bright idea.

There are two broad schools of thought when it comes to muses, which one might call the Pooh and Rabbit Schools. (See this quote post for the difference.) Which do you belong to? Do you wait for the muse to descend, or do you go out and hunt the fickle wench down?

Some creatives swear by the former (“I’m not in control of my muse. My muse does all the work” – Ray Bradbury) and some by the latter (“I don’t wait on the muse, I summon it at need” – Piers Anthony). Some just don’t believe in muses at all (the Eeyore School of Thought?).

Earlier this year I went to see Plum at the Court Theatre in Christchurch. P.G. Wodehouse’s muse appears as a dapper if dissolute young lady in waistcoat and trousers, and she is, as one would expect, as much fun as a barrelful of monkeys.

Naturally, being a writer myself, I started to wonder whether I had a muse, and if so what she/he/it looked like. Of course, writing isn’t the only muse-related area. The Greeks had Muses for everything from history to dance to astronomy. Perhaps one could have a Muse of Housework, who frolics about the house with a frilly cap and feather duster, singing forbidden songs.

But what exactly are we talking about when we say “muse”? Someone who inspires us? An anthropomorphic representation of inspiration? Our own self or variant thereof when the creative juices start to flow? Well, judging by classical depictions, the only qualification for being a muse is an ability to look classy while leaning on something, wearing nothing but a sheet.

See what I mean? Anyone could do it! Sheet, piece of furniture – voila.

Not all muses are the lady-in-a-sheet sort, though. Kerry Greenwood (author of the Phryne Fisher mysteries, among others) says “If I ever saw my muse she would be an old woman with a tight bun and spectacles poking me in the middle of the back and growling, ‘Wake up and write the book!’” Like this, perhaps:

Stephen King seems to have a male muse, judging by this description: “There is a muse, but he’s not going to come fluttering down into your writing room and scatter creative fairy-dust all over your typewriter or computer station. He lives in the ground. He’s a basement guy. You have to descend to his level, and once you get down there you have to furnish an apartment for him to live in. You have to do all the grunt labor, in other words, while the muse sits and smokes cigars and admires his bowling trophies and pretends to ignore you.”

Definitely not as cute as Jubilare’s fuzzy little muse, despite the pointy teeth.

I like the idea of a chic waistcoated muse, or a savage little fluffy one, or even a plain old draped version. But having thought about it, I’m afraid my muse is kind of a cross between Hamlet and Cookie Monster.
“Words, words, words – om nom nom nom!”

Difficult to illustrate, particularly without running into copyright or trademark issues. Something googly-eyed and berserk with a mouthful of sentences and the occasional stray crumb of a letter dropping to its furry tum? With inky paws, I suspect.

What’s your muse? I’d love to hear!

Tag: Plum

Dye, Dye, Dye!