I've commented in the past about how much gooier I am since 9/11. I've always been a crier - understanding often that I cry out of happiness as well as sorrow. One of the most frustrating aspects of being teary is that I cry when I'm angry. Whoo, boy, that's frustrating. You want to show strength and there you are, tearing up and looking well, not so strong. That sort of response often comes from frustration, I think, or being either misunderstood or diminished in some way. Terrible feeling though, no matter why it's taking place.

What I don't understand as much is a rather annoying and more common reaction of crying and simply not knowing why. Some of it is utter denial, I think. There are days when I'm overwhelmed and I don't realize it until it's past time to shut down. It comes when I'm having an ordinary average every day day. But dammit, my ordinary average everyday days aren't like well, yours. Or even like what I am used to. And the learning curve is apparently very very very steep. Or flat. Or whatever a bad learning curve is (here's where I admit I never figured out exactly what that term meant, isn't it?) My body knows before my brain does, apparently, and I'm stuck in the middle between them. Argh. Welcome to "It sucks, number 873".

Sunday, Stu and I attended Seattle's "Bungalow Fair" , a mostly vendor-oriented event held for people with a strong interest in "the "Arts & Crafts" movement. Or the "Craftsman" movement. The period post-Victoriana, where bungalow homes (often from kits! (we live this) were popping up across America (and elsewhere). Homes which offered handmade, offered clean lines, used wood and glass and showed off the efforts of the craftsmen who made them. Stickley furniture. Rookwood and Weller and Roseville pottery. Tiffany stained glass. Houses by Greene and Greene. I have found an utter passion for the style - the furniture, the accessories, architecture, the whole meaning of the period. The sort of anti-high Victorian style. I only learned I liked it a few years ago and have spent time trying to educate myself. It began as a passion for Frank Lloyd Wright design, then spread when I discovered Scotland's Charles Rennie Mackintosh. "What is this stuff?" I had to know. And every day that I see more of it, I swoon. This is IT for me. I LOVE this stuff. Who knew I had a sort of stuff to love?

The event has been held for years, although I only became aware of it for a couple years, seeing posters in the library (oh and the posters were often works of art that I wanted) but it's not exactly Bungalow Con. It's mostly Bungalow Dealers' room with a couple of panels. Would I just pout because a) we rent and b) we can't afford glass-front display cases, mission style bed frames and a small but fantastic vase?

And it was only about three hours in that I began to cry. We were downstairs, talking to this excellent and nice staffer at the Elliott Bay Books booth, and I had stopped to take a pill but it wasn't high level pain I was dealing with. And i began to cry. Overwhelmed. Did I want everything I had seen? Yeah. Was that why I was crying? Not particularly no. I was okay about that. Was I tired and hurting? Mmmm, maybe. Was that...no. Was I upset because I wanted to spent about $100 on gorgeous coffee table books about bungalows? Okay, well, maybe a little. Maybe i was little envious or put out but I was mostly ok and knew what was what and was just appreciating what we had seen.

We had an amazing time talking to the vendors, often the creators of the art we saw. They were nice, and kind and interesting and shared our passion for this groovy stuff. I was trying not to shop, but just to look and swore that I was going to come away maybe with a few postcards and no more. Hah.

We did come away with some cards - notecards of such loveliness i want to frame them. And Elliott Bay lured me but with mostly little stuff including a Frank Lloyd Wright calendar which contains postcards you can use once that week is gone. And then there is the gift that Stu bought me which i need a separate blog post for. It is a bracelet and one of the most beautiful pieces of jewelry I could ever imagine owning. It's made of wood. You'll have to see it.

But then last night, I suddenly got hit with the weepies again. Was I exhausted? Hell yes. We returned home and I suddenly realized I had not moved, not gotten out of the chair, not even stood up (a smart thing for me to do) from about 11 in the morning until 6:30 at night. I was so stiff, I was so unable to move that it was just ridiculous. I was exhausted. We'd stopped to eat and the weather was really good and everything (except for those screaming babies) was cooperative so I guess i just hadn't well, noticed. What a bozo I can be. I should have noticed how many hours had passed. I didn't. I should have stood up, stretched. I didn't.

But that wasn't set me off. That I know of. I was wiped out and fell asleep when we got home yes, but the tears came as i looked at an order form for something that uses the designs I've learned to love so much. An order form. For something small and affordable and fun. And suddenly I couldn't see and I just sat there and cried and cried. And I have not a remote clue why. Nothing makes sense or explains it. Was I happy to be able to afford something? No. Tired? Yeah, we covered that. But it was a reaction I simply can't understand. And boy, is that annoying.