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. 

Saturday raft, updated.

As ever, I've got mine, but this time, only tentatively. I need to go through my thread box and evict some non-starters who are taking up space. Or maybe think about a secondary thread box? No. I need boundaries and that seems like a good place to start. Out with the old, in with a few new.

The four table moppers were out in the elements for a whole week. It was a very soft, worn damask tablecloth that I cut into quarters to cover the table with nothing hanging over the edges. They have me thinking about flags.

It's been warm. Anything that loves the sun is taking full advantage. There's a box of dirt out there that's bursting with nasturtiums. All summer I couldn't get any to grow. Late bloomers reaching for life.

I'm a little sad right now. Jim's truck is on its way to its next life. I put the story here.

A perspective

 I'm elevating, icing, off it, and taking the cat's ass cure. I've never broken a bone in my life. Guess it shouldn't come as a surprise that structural damage, even this minor, should come with high-intensity pain.

 I'm a thrasher at night if the bedding tells any tales. Every movement seems to involve using that foot for leverage and touching anything with it sets off seismic waves of pain. 

This inability to rest, to escape, sent me on long, violent mental tangents. I'm a writer with a gift for sex and violence and nobody was having any fun, so I'll spare you the details. 

That thought train led me to think about the outliers. Those who have been quiet for a while, the behind-the-scenes players from both camps. I have not watched TV or spent more than seconds on the web since I lit up my phone sometime in the night and that greasy visage filled the screen. It might have been the latest Vanity Fair cover. Without media influence, I thought about:

-- Biden is still president and Harris is still VP. With polling as it was, I believe contingency plans for this bad outcome have been ready since Biden stepped aside. SCOTUS, however unintentionally, has given the sitting president carte blanche to do whatever it takes to prevent the worst of the shitstorm Trump thinks he can whip up. No, he will not be able to shit-can civil servants if they don't kiss the ring. No, he will not be able to use military force against citizens on American soil. There is probably more that never occurred to me. 

Also, the Shitweasel has accomplished the MAGA objective, the syphilitic tool. He is no longer useful, in fact, an embarrassment. All he can do now is cause them problems. 

If he doesn't live to be sworn in, you'll be sure that JD Vance has a solid alibi. Why, Donold might think Melanoma owes him a celebratory BJ and she'll show him how a hat pin enema works. Anything could happen and when it does, I'm rather sick of the word "unprecedented". 

Something I've learned in the past year (unrelated to politics entirely) is that I will make myself physically ill if I dwell on the enemy. Serious hair loss, hives, and pest headaches came from a long spell of "kill the enemy" thinking.   

Don't know if the Buddha actually said it but holding on to anger is like drinking poison and expecting the other person to die couldn't be more apt.

I've gotten that under control (mostly) and have extended it to how I'm handling this latest insult to my mental well-being. 

The dye deck is a perfect embodiment of the mood of half the country. Those table moppers have promise, though. And I still get first dibs. 

the days ahead

I assured him that there were enough good people to keep this shit from happening.

Now, I don't know what I'll say, but you can bet he'll be finding the news and judging those who chose greed, fear and hatred yesterday. 
 

Which liar will hold that book so he can curse it further with his touch? 

It's a long time until January, Karma. What's the holdup? 

And to frost the shit cake of this day, I just broke or dislocated my right little toe. No pictures. A good cry didn't amount to much relief.

 Update, the doctor was glad she did not need to a reduction, closed or surgical. I probably did it myself at the time it happened. But the x-ray revealed that the second bone was broken. The solution as I thought, tape the flapping toe to its neighbor. Elevate. Ice and stay off it for a few days. Not going to pick up the drugs today. Maybe tomorrow.

The wait

And now, we wait.

I am put in mind of a time when I was bringing home a rather shitty report card.

We almost always sat in "our" seats on the Giant Yellow Limos, those few of us peons who didn't have cars. 

Our small-town Slim Shady sat across from me directly behind the bus driver. I think he was trying to learn how to drive a bus. Such would be a pinnacle of achievement for him other than stealing one.

I was slumped in my seat trying to unsee the failing algebra grade. He lifted the flimsy document out of my fingers, found the source of my misery, and handed it back to me.

"Smile. Ain't fuck all you can do about it now."

Harvest

See the watchers? Both of them dangling off the edge of the deck, working my last nerve.

When I was finished, each shelf was filled.

Two thousand yards of thread out there.

Lessons!

-Use more dye. Be profligate. 

-give the threads a head start. Put them in the (warm) sauce, then mix the colors.

-make the sauce stronger. A whole cup to a gallon.

-Nothing goes into the washing machine. 

Handling the skeins after they've batched for a day requires patience and a delicate touch. Cold, hot with Dawn, Cold, Hot, Cold. Small groups of like-ish colors. Very gentle handling underwater. It's like handling cooked pasta and not breaking any noodles. I really need to film this part. It's not brain surgery, but, go hasty and you'll wind up with a nest of snakes.

There are some very eclectic shifts in this lot.

On my way home from Jake's this morning. Red has been watching me come and go almost weekly for two years. I double tap the horn and more and more, she looks up from her munching. 

This morning, I stopped and she came to the fence. I want to bring her some carrots. It bothers me that she looks underfed. A few yards to the left the driveway is guarded by two large flags. One that we salute. The other, a national shame. 

I told him we needed a joint selfie. 

What were you doing?

Looking into your soul. 

And?

He laughed.

It was nice to eat someone else's cooking. 

My ofrenda needs more flowers. And a beer, some chips, and some cat cookies.

I have traded in Halloween for the Day of the Dead. 

I would rather buy flowers for the late Beloved than cheap candy for total strangers.