Wrapped, rolled, and ready to rock.
And when all was wet and resting, I took my roasted carcass into the pool to dig even deeper into this terrific novel.
Wrapped, rolled, and ready to rock.
When you can look it right in the face and not call it by its name, it will own you.
Her hair was a rusty brown. Sleek, shiny, and braided to her head from the crown to the ends well past her shoulders. I studied that braid intently. That night, I dreamed about how it was done.
I can't remember the specifics of the dream, but the next morning I hung my head over the side of the bed, brushed out all the knots, and did the thing.
The first time I did it so tight, my eyes tipped up at the corners. My sister is a hair professional and told me that I've done is called an inverted fishtail braid. It wasn't like I could see what my fingers were doing.
Just the stabbing pavers stitch for now. Slow motion eases the way. It was surprisingly easy enough to be satisfying. I'll save the wrapped rope and knots for Righty.
I have misplaced words during conversations more than I like lately, so I'm pushing the gray matter into new and different situations to keep the grooves from smoothing out.
I've written a Tarot Spread to be included in the new novel. Haven't named it yet. That will come after I use it for a while.
The engine of life is so much more complex. The actual, fist-shaped, meat version is unpretty. Brutal looking.
I shouldn't have even started this one, but there's the nature of compulsion.
Some over-use/abuse of my right shoulder (probably pool cleaning related) is causing a distracting level of pain in my right shoulder to fingertips. Stitching, even a few minutes at a time is suspended.
I can talk my keyboard through the motions of getting words on paper. There's that for now.
It's Father's Day. My sons learned from the best.
Except for the nasturtium seeds, everything here came from the big box dead wagon or trash can (I can't dumpster dive anymore. It requires a partner and I don't know anyone willing to do time for stealing dead geraniums.) But if you become a regular, even a browser, the cashier is more likely to cut a deal with you rather than see plants with a little hope thrown in the garbage.
Sometimes, if I'm real quiet, I hear them humming. and grunting. and complaining.
I've been making up orders (bless you all) and felt that the scrap basket could use some pizzazz.
(As she congratulates herself on her restraint)
Now to make room in my threadbox. And pesky? I gave away all those cardboard bobbins.
Distant thunder just now. With it, the first rain in weeks! The gardenias have been blooming and dying in one day. I have been carrying gallons to the pumpkins out front and the deck plants. Amen.
I can feel the plants and animals unfurling. Opening. Drinking it in.
Thunder answers. You're welcome.
The day rolled up hot and loud shouting, "Don't waste me!"