Sequestered

 

Here's to a second cup of coffee and getting a pot of meat sauce into the slow cooker.

I tried logging out of all things Meta early this morning, but then I remembered that my co-pirate now texts me from his Dick Tracy (no internet) watch. He can send and receive texts and make calls to only a list of numbers his parents have pre-set. 

And here I was upset that the vintage Mickey Mouse watch I was going to gift him was ruined when the battery leaked into the works. 

The non-stop, all-media Shitweasel Shitshow is everywhere so that alone is making it easier to put the phone face down and turn the tabs elsewhere. 

We are having a spell of New England-style weather (temps in the teens in Georgia is exceptional) with some snow predicted for tomorrow. The cat posse blames me. 

I'm making the Real a workaround to take the place of the mostly useless ephemera of the web as I wean myself away from all things that Zuck. I'll stay informed by a few trusted sources --Bluesky will take some getting used to. 

Remember the squeal-snarl-snap of dialing up to the web, then falling down the rabbit hole of AOL? Or the Well if you are older. 

BBS anyone? It took some doing to recover from all that, but I did it before and will do it again. 

Later, I'm going to tinker Jake's photo into a new header here. 

It's a sunrise on a nation more than half full of decent people who know right from wrong.

Who will call out shit when they smell it and do the right thing when they can.

 I see our country just climbing out of its pimply teenage self-absorption. The sobering and maturing is taking root right now. 

Meanwhile, there are stories to tell. 

Biscuits to make. 

Books to write and stitches to take. 

The sparks of my wheel

 

Our resident professor of all things David Lynch is saddened by his passing. 

Personally, I have a hard time connecting Eraserhead with The Elephant Man, but such is the nature of genius. 

I don't know who is growing faster- Charlie or Nibbler who remains Little Devil to me.

The mystical Playlist is at the helm.

refuge

my sandbox

"We takes it where we can gets it." I might be quoting some hobbit. Not sure.

These days comfort comes from stitching, music, movies, and small acts of domesticity and neighborliness. The lure of putting words on paper is right at the edge of all this. Close, just out of reach. 

The best way to describe writing fiction to non-writers is to imagine a thousand-piece jig-saw puzzle in your head with images that keep changing as you try to organize them. When the pieces fall into place and fit. Zing!

Last night, I could write a book about the pleasure of fresh sheets, but I fell asleep. Long luxurious showers are on hold. Our hot water heater is being temperamental and rather than pay a pro to come in and give me bad news, the rule is "Get in, get clean, get out". 

The monthly discretionary fund was supposed to go for a vet visit for Ms. Salem but when the time came to load her into the new carrier, she chose some astounding violence. We backed off and she took refuge under my stitching chair for most of the day. I left the open carried on the floor in the bedroom last night with cat cookies tucked in the back. Each one, even Salem, took turns investigating. 

 

Ways of seeing ~ moonlight

 

We are a family of night creatures. Jake took this shot by moonlight while he was on his daily walk. His first miles come before the sun is even up.

I am still learning what the new phone/camera is capable of.  

The full moon woke me blazing through the windows. It's been a while so I spread my Tarot out for a blessing. 

Bailey remains unaffiliated.

It's a good thing the neighborhood doesn't really blaze this bright, but this is how the camera saw it. Just to the left of the streetlight, the moon was just coming through the trees. Looking down on the scene, lordly Jupiter. 

The solar Christmas light wrapped through the gardenia will stay until warmer weather. The plan is to prune it back harshly and substitute some other kind of solar lighting that's not so firmly seasonal. Maybe by then Colin will have taken the skeletons off the crape myrtles. We still haven't undressed our Christmas tree. 

A lick of Winter

 

These few brushes with snow make me so nostalgic for the Hudson Valley where I grew up. When I was a kid, I lived in my snowsuit, mittens, and boots imagining life as an Eskimo.

The quality of sound in the winter was so different. Everyone notices the quiet. I listened to the sounds that different kinds of snow made as it fell. The rumble and chain jingling of the town trucks coming through after midnight to plow. An elderly neighbor who pushed himself to ski cross-country blowing and muttering. How my big outdoor voice fell at my feet. I could sing outside and not fear anyone hearing me.

 

 This morning I wanted to go outside so I could hear the snow falling, but it was bitter cold and I'm fairly certain that hearing acuity is long gone. Next time there is snow, I'll stick in the hearing aids and forgo the down comforters. 

He said he missed shoveling snow but did the whole driveway because he had to go to work. 

This was Camilla's first snow. She was not favorably impressed. Even though she had the densest coat I've ever seen on a cat, she's been spending her time hanging out on the heat registers.