Fail, give or take

 

A few minutes ago I spent an hour ironing this tablecloth. The intention was to build a winter robe. Long ago I learned the hard way that old damask can harbor weak places that don't bode well for garment making. 

I measured, made my mark, and a small cut in preparation for a big rip across the width. 

In the middle of the tear, that straight line took off in opposing diagonal directions like a bolt of lightning. 

Failed the garment test.

The only way to describe the color that flashes across this cloth is Opalescent.

Opal is my birthstone but I've never had one for very long because they are so fragile. So happy birthday to the stitching world, this opal cloth is now stirred into the scrap bin. 

And Liz ! Now I know where I got the curl I put in so many of the hearts.

Mostly reflexive

 

I'm just the recipient of these two shots. Colin keeps strange hours in wide open spaces. No mention of any drones or UFOs yet. 

He put this nativity set together for the neighbor (who likes the solar Christmas lights still up on my mailbox from last year.) It came with a timer and I was watching when sundown triggered the lights. I thought she was barbecuing Baby Jesus & Co. It's ablaze with lights and has made her so happy. 

I have been spending more time with my main characters. Building them into scenes that have to fit like a good jigsaw puzzle. 

And let us not forget the spectral influencers, Sam and Hope. 

And the other book, the Monkeytown Murders, is growing a plot like moss on a log. 

There will be a lot more writing.

I have just about used up all the cottons - dyed and commercial prints- on a two-sided quilt. I'm guessing it's 60x56. 

Now to find a place with a floor big enough to lay it out, batt & baste it. Hardwood or vinyl. 

When we lived in New York I built a king-sized quilt on the floor of the gym after school hours. Thinking about that makes me tired.

Sometimes the backside is more interesting than the front. That tells me I should try painting again. 

This is all machine pieced, of course. And I plan to free-motion quilt it with a special selection of text... in cursive. I might get it done by Christmas.

Thread ends

 

Wish I could recall where I first saw this mending technique. It's always been fixing holes or covering stains on knitted things and always a beautiful "save" of something beloved. 

Here I'm covering up places where the warp or weft is worn away. The generally good condition of this vest made me suspect these few odd places were sanded to mimic wear and tear like the jeans with the thighs rubbed pale. Stupidest fashion take ever, in my opinion. Always made everyone look like they were wearing salami skins. 

I made a point of not sewing the pockets shut. How annoying would that be? 

And somehow, none of this repair is in keeping (beyond the colorways) with the flying eye on the center back. 

Thanks to everyone who ordered thread sets today...I'm off to the post office with them now. 

Nightscape

With all the web willies going on about drones, I thought I would grab a quick shot of the almost full moon because the clouds are due to smother it all. If I didn't tell you that it's the moon, a streetlight and the road illuminated, plus my neighbors homes, you might see a massive mother ship landing. 

Back in the 80's there was always local gossip about the Hudson Valley UFOs flying in slow, silent formations. Witness here. A v-shaped wedge of lighted, radio controlled models, low and slow enough to sound like a distant flotilla of lawn mowers. There are a lot of people in the NE with more money than sense. Drones are the latest toy and they are playing at will. What amazes me is that some yahoo hasn't yet shot one down. Any minute now. 

Then again, if it's drug dealers making deliveries, could be word has been passed that intercepting their coke might be frowned upon. Again, a case of more money that is good for a person.

 

On a much finer note, the Cativerse has decided that House Lacativa NE should be blessed with this little bundle of energy and love. Lady Nibbler Lacativa, 8 weeks old. They decided she and I should share a birthday. I'm honored.

the hoard to the front lines!

Years ago, before I became a dyer, I hoarded commercial prints. A friend and I used to drive three hours one way to a fabric store where we would make the trip worthwhile. 

There was another place, more local, that actually pushed piles of surplus cloth around with a bobcat. Nothing that a good washing machine couldn't fix.

Once I started dyeing, I also started torturing some of those prints with discharging, overdyeing, and adding textile paints. Batiks and Timeless Treasure prints were favorites.

I've hauled them out of the cloth closet and am busy putting them to work. Something about the shrieks of ripping cloth sends the cats flying from the room. Too bad they leave so much of their hair behind.

Once I uncovered the work table (thanks for the shove, Kitty) the Janome was up and ready from the small lingerie projects of the summer. Batting is on the way.

There will be free-motion text here and there. 

 

inner life

I finally convinced last year's gift, the turntable, to hook up to a wireless speaker adequate for the guest bedroom's size.

We spent some time listening to his records. He reads the covers for the copyright year and the liner notes for the lyrics. We searched for the science behind making and listening to records. 

Artie Shaw's "Begin the Beguine" sparked a discussion on the years before WW2. This was my mother's music that I probably heard in utero. According to him, that makes me a time traveler. 

Later he showed me a documentary on Disney+ titled "Beatles 64". It opened with a reminder to me that the Beatles first came to the US only four months after the JFK assassination punched the nation in the heart.

Before they plunged into Beatlemania, there was a brief overview of JFK's presidency (he'd heard his speech about going to the moon in school) and the assassination and funeral. Even though I knew he was watching my reaction, I could not keep from tearing up seeing the riderless horse and the little boy saluting the passing coffin. I was fourteen that year. 

The documentary interviewed several women my age trying to get an explanation for the screaming. Even the Beatles didn't seem to know.  One woman said something like, "We needed to be joyful over something." I think she was onto something. 

 I remember being ten, the year I read Hiroshima - the year that humanity revealed its cruel and dangerous side. He's ten now and you can see that he's gotten a glimpse of that since the election. 

 I take some joy in that he knows that one person at a time, we can do good. Be better. 

death dealers

 

both of them. 

I've misplaced my tiniest Ginghers. Slippery devils, they are probably wandering around in my car since the sewing tote has an open top and always has too much in it. I'll check later when the sun's been out a while. Below-freezing temps in Georgia are a shock. 

I'm switching over to these for now. If they ever had any kind of point guard, it's long gone, so they are just going to stay on the table beside the stitching chair.

I bet the characters read: Watch out, stupid. They're sharp as hell!

What do you think about when you are stitching alone? 

What do you talk about if you are stitching in company?

My mind wanders. Oddly, some say.

And have you read "All the Colors of the Dark" by Chris Whitaker? If you liked the True Detective TV series, you'll love it. I did. 

the OG selfie

 

Grace started it wonderfully.

My hat was bright yellow felt. The dress was a simple rayon A-line with long bell sleeves. Pink, turquoise, and yellow print on white. 

Getting four instant pictures for a dollar was such a deal. The making ready in the usually greasy mirror. Hold your breath...or not. Laughing out loud and spoiling two out of the four. Then standing outside and waiting for the grumbling grind to spit the strip into the slot. Don't put your fingers on it!

The photo booth was in Grand Central Station, NYC. Spring 1967. I was on my way with my portfolio for my first interview at the School of Visual Arts. Alone. I got in. At the time, the school was uncredited. They needed my money.

I remember her well. She had no illusions, no goals, and no expectations. Every day was new and wide open to whatever happened next.

Many years later, I discovered that I had gone to classes right around the corner from where our friend Michelle had lived for several years. We probably passed each other on the sidewalk and nodded, friendly-like. I was never much of a New York City girl. Ever the tourist from the country.

Saved

 

It was a fluke burst of energy that got me to bring all the plants inside before I went away last week. Frosty here this morning.

My motley crew. I draw the line at naming them (as it dawns on her that this is a lie)

The tall, gangly things are a forest of diffenbachia; the scions of the OG plant, Louie, a wedding gift from Donald Theall, one of Jim's bachelor friends who thought he had lost his damn mind.

Two scabrous Christmas cactii who bloom when they are not playing dead.

The center top photo is a descendent of a hoya plant my mother smuggled home from Hawaii in the late 60s. 

A strangely healthy-looking jade plant. Grocery rescue I think.

A tub of black hollyhocks I started from seed this year. Struggling to keep them from getting rust. Kind of plant acne.

The New York Moss is doing nicely. Has me thinking about having fish again. Neither of the boys remember my tall 20 gallon tank in the kitchen with big, black and white angel fish. They were a murderous lot. Each week the smallest fish would disappear until there was only one big bastard left. 

And last but not least, Swedish Ivy, Mr.&Mrs. Wilson (more downstairs) grown from cuttings snipped from the home of the founder of AA, Bill Wilson.  I have celebrity plants. My care is negligible. Much more attention and stuff starts to die.

All this green diddling has me looking forward to some horticultural wizardry next season. Now I will spend an hour at Seed Supreme revelling in the descriptions of their offerings. 

I've been in a funk since I cut the bird. The annual forgetting that rich, brown gravy raises hell with me. Two days in a row. Every year.

Social media is sickening. Well-trodden paths are as much as I can stand. Your place, mine. Little else has any integrity. Taking care of the plants is good. Planning for Spring helps the head. 

Maybe soup for dinner.

And for dessert, a favorite. Reminding me that words can turn worlds. 

"This is not life, Will. This is a stolen season."

Even without the gorgeous visual feast, the music and the writing--the story telling--always rights me.

"No...not the artful postures of love, but love that overthrows life. Unbiddable, ungovernable, like a riot in the heart, and nothing to be done, come ruin or rapture."      

                   by Marc Norman & Tom Stoppard

Leftovers

Heart of Joy

 But, these are fresh.

There are a lot of leftovers because I ate alone. I'm grateful the "bird's done" thing popped in time for Colin to gobble a leg and mashed potatoes before dashing to work. 

Gratitude to myself, because I took the time to clean as I went. Leftovers, which we love, were stowed and the kitchen was nearly spotless.

Regrets? No dessert. I forgot to buy apples.

As relief for the previous entry and the ongoing work of hatching evil, I'm spending the morning restocking the thread store. The sun is just right for pictures. 

I don't shop on Black Friday in person, and this year, not even online. 

For those who do, remember to be good to yourself. You deserve it. 

good intentions

...paved a murderer's garden walk.

I've been working on a story and, to date, have only had a sketchy one-name placeholder for an antagonist and needed to build one from scratch. 

At this point, he's been just a watcher. No spoilers, but he needed to be evil. Deep and wide. I had to make him guilty of something heinous. Several somethings. Give him a taste for it. Amp up the horror to warrant some sublime justice.

The prime crime revealed itself. I jotted down a few notes, shot the scene in my head, and tripped right over a personal phobia to the point that I couldn't go to sleep. Getting it on paper is going to be difficult. 

Now, even the Spirits fear him.

The series "The Crown" should be bottled and sold as a cure for insomnia. I longed for bourbon but made do with turgid TV.

 

the men at work

        

 

Away

but keeping an eye on things 

 

end it with laughter

With pictures, it's hard to tell a sunrise from a sunset. At this moment, I'm focusing on the time that passes between them. 

Yesterday marked eleven years since Jimmy died. With this hopeful sunrise taken by my son at work, I did not want to choose the option of melancholy. Reflection on all the good that came from being with him was what I needed.

 

The day promised to be clear and warm. I got some sucky admin stuff done early (never mind shopping for cheaper car insurance, just pay the damn bill...for now). There was food in the fridge, new books from the library, and Thriftbooks, and all cats were present and accounted for. A huge personal grievance resolved itself. 

Much to be grateful for. 

I sat outside in the weakening sunshine and worked on the book for almost two hours and never once cared that the lawn needed attention. 

After dark, Colin put the Saturday Night Live movie on TV for me. I haven't laughed (and cried) over a movie in many years. I imagine its appeal will be limited to the lucky ones who experienced the show

when it was "Live, from New York!" or younger cinephiles like my son who appreciated how well the movie was written and cast. How well it reflected the original show. 

Watching (the first season return from hiatus) SNL together was one of the first sort-of date-type things my husband and I did together.  We made it a sacrament. 

The movie brought it all joyfully back and the slice of pizza was delicious communion. 

 

A twist of blue

 

how will we know one another, sister?

a twist of color in our hair?

how will we find one another?

what's the code? 

mismatched earrings or socks?

~o~

were you afraid?

uninformed? 

lied to?

coerced? threatened? 

did he hold your baby in one arm and your toddler's hand in the other as he stood behind you in the voting booth? 

did you think you didn't matter?

were you stupid in your arrogance?

were you looking to please some long-dead daddy who paid you the wrong kind of attention or none at all?

or did you just not care enough to bother?

~o~

none of the reasons matter anymore. 

murderers tattoo blue tears on their faces.

look for a ribbon in her hair. 

Life, condensed

 

All summer, nothing. 

They waited until now to cheer me up. Makes me kind of sad that there's nothing I can do to protect them come first frost. The Swedish Ivy needs to have a haircut and be brought inside. More tiny world gardening today. Focusing on what I can control is helpful. 

And no matter what's going on in the world, there are those waiting for the magic morning word "Eatzees!"

Breakfast of Champions for me. Leftover Publix sandwich from yesterday. Juice just begging for vodka (Cheers, Poppy!) and a very ugly mug of coffee because it holds the most.

.

My toe feels mostly healed. I still tape it up before going out. Stupid since I hurt it barefooted in my own bedroom. Still need to buy a hollow pool noodle (thanks for the idea, Jake) to cut and fit around the steel legs of the bed. 

I've started this embroidery directly on a Levi's vest, size medium. It will be for sale eventually. 

Small worlds.

 Somehow, I have the notion that moss is indestructible.  Now, I'm hoping I haven't murdered it with neglect. Forgotten in its plastic bag for a week and then tucked around some seriously depleted dirt on a diffenbachia that I plan to repot. Stopgap stuff.

I plucked the moss from the woods on the mountain behind our family home in North Salem, NY. I've always thought of the house I grew up in--a modest pre-fab ranch--in relationship to the small lake it crouched beside. My brother was more in tune with the hills behind the house. I knew every cove and fishing spot of the water and never went up the hill that might be a mountain. Who measures these things?

    A very mysterious place, this mountain. We climbed hunting trails in a seemingly invincible golf cart on steroids. It inspired confidence that it didn't seem to notice the weight of two good-sized adults.

Alien meteorite unless someone tells me otherwise.

The Kubota could drag its own weight over obstacles and out of ditches in slow motion. We stopped to inspect some out-of-place boulders, some with carved initials and dates. One of the things I love about New England is that it's old as dirt.

And the elders left a lot of ambiguous information.

Strange things in the middle of nowhere. And now, hitchhiker. If he doesn't leave on his own, I will evict him so he can winter someplace appropriate.