75 and climbing

By the time I finished spooling up all the DMC I had, it was in the mid 80's and blazing bright. I really will have to speak to the management about putting up the new tent back there.

Your eyes do not deceive you. That drift of white laid out on the table is a vintage, damask tablecloth. It has a slight scorch mark and so went unloved a long time on eBay until I snatched it up for a song.

Today, it makes its debut as the 2020 dye season Table Mopper. The ground cloth for whatever dye fests may occur at the Lawrenceville Frankenstein Dyeworx in the coming months. At the end of the season, the cloth may become the centerpiece of a larger work, or I might hack it up and sent the bits 'round the world.

Here the innocent spools shiver in the secret sauce, waiting their turn on the table.

Joining them, a handful of strips of muslin from a long-abandoned log cabin project. Color wouldn't hurt. The carrier this time? A box of buggy oatmeal from deep in the pantry. Expiration date? I didn't look.

The victims, born again, all crusty with salt, sugar, dye, oatmeal. The cone carried the last yards into battle because I ran out of winding cards. The color, on the bottom, will be a surprise.

They are out there now, under the stars and a bare sliver of moon, owls serenading.

I'll wash, rinse and dry them tomorrow.

for now, I'm so done.