Goodbye July

Summer sneaks away here in Georgia because they make the kids go back to school so damn early. It will stay hot and muggy with near-daily thunderstorms, but the buses will be back on the roads. 

We took a ride to find the middle school  he'll be attending. The best I could say about it was that it looks new. Massive, and there are tennis courts. 

I haven't done much stitching or writing this week. We've been spending a lot of time just talking. 

Charlie will turn eleven tomorrow. 

A distant sunset? Or a battle just over the horizon. It must not come to that. Must not.
 

Peace seems small

The water is about 85 degrees. Warm enough that when I go down the ladder, all my muscles and nerves find a way to relax. I wonder what would happen if I stirred in twenty pounds of Epsom salts? 

I have a new brush on a five-foot handle, which makes the daily sweep a piece of cake. A little wireless speaker, a bag of cherries, a pen, and paper. It's the best part of my day in the best part of summer.

I did a thing today. I bit the head off the snake! 

Did some taxes. Fuck you, Forosophobia. 

Somewhere, I saw a meme of Mike (turd) Johnson.

(Because Trump's balls won't lick themselves) You laughed! You know you did. 

I'm digging into the word whipping because books won't write themselves. Thank you, Dee, for reminding me to read like a reader. It's hard. 

Boil it down, but leave a little juice. See it from another angle.

A word about all these Known People shuffling off the mortal coil. They lived the lives they wanted. Creatives, celebrities, known to many...I'm unmoved. Cartoons everywhere of Jesus welcoming Ozzie and the Hulk home. They had their time. 

Each time I hear another name, I think about how the unsung thousands are suffering and dying before they ever had a chance to love life because of a few greedy, power-mad men who should suffer living death for their crimes. The wheel needs to fall on the right names and quickly.

And power to Colbert and the other nighttime wizards of whoopee! It's heartening to see them and SouthPark (which I have always despised) putting hot pokers to his rotting feet. 

 

Square one

 

One should not one-hand a short case of kidney beans from the shelf to your cart on the second day after a back crash. There was a warning twinge but I ignored it. 

By the time I got home, brought the perishables inside, and climbed the stairs, it was all I could do to sit in the desk chair and figure out how I was going to roll it to the sliding glass door. Salem wanted to inspect the high deck. It took a few minutes.

Is there a better word than breathtaking to describe pain? Breathtaking should remain a thing of wonder, but that's what it was. 

I stayed there close to the door because I didn't want to forget her. Even in shade, it was too hot out there. The sun was down behind the trees, and this little pile of crocheted critters was something to focus on between breaths. Each of these shots was accompanied by a splash of pain as I turned in the chair to catch the light. 

I contemplated re-wetting them with soda ash solution and painting dye directly to the pale places, the misses. It will happen. But not for a while. The blue cusspot with the golden belly is done. 

Her Highness came back to the door after a very few minutes, and the two of us made our way back onto the Slab of Rest, where she spent long minutes scraping salty grocery shopping sweat off my hands. 

I won't show you the ceiling I have to stare at. Besides cobwebs and old water stains, like most contemporary, cheaply built houses in the 70's, all the ceilings were finished with a mop of dicks dipped in plaster. I won't show you because you can't unsee it. 

There's too much of that on the internet lately. 

Smug faces thinking they have secrets as layers of rot peel away and drop off, and they start turning on one another, smarling and snapping. 

                                    We abide. 

Even though I have never been able to sit through the entire movie, that one phrase spoke to me. Abide.

I went online, applied, and somewhere, I have a certificate proclaiming me a Dudeist Priest. I should get a CLERGY placard for my car.

Who was that bastard Murphy?

 

And how did he get a law named after him? 

Less than a day after booking a flight for a short week at the beach, something in my back has crashed. If I were to list all the medical jargon, you would slip into a coma of boredom. I have. 

I saw stars and swore profound curses.

Normally, a hot shower fixes almost anything. This time, I was happy to stay on my feet and reach a chair. I took the last one of a bedtime-only medication and sat puzzling over my phone, trying to order refills for everything.  The cops will probably be waiting at the pharmacy.

Common knowledge suggests the cats have it right. Rest. 

I'm pissed that the nerve ablation has been a dismal failure this time. After all the time and expense, there's been little improvement. 

Could someone suggest to AI that we need a way to regrow functional spines?  Strong ones could be passed out to some CEOs, senators, and congresspeople.

I used to be tall. 

This is my summer uniform made from a light linen sheet. Really not much more than a pleated barrel with straps. I need to figure out sleeves for a cool-weather version. 

We the People

To keep my hand in color, cloth, and design, I'm working on a new flag. We are going to need one.

I knew these stars were headed somewhere else.

 

Home from away

I actually got some writing done this week. The feeling is tantalizing. To create another world and get lost in it. I wanted to join the Make Good Trouble protest in Athens, but I was committed elsewhere. 

I'm fascinated with that copse of trees in the center of the field.

What is in there? What kind of trees are they? There's a road just beyond them, and the view is exactly the same from that vantage point. No animals are ever wandering here. It's unfenced. Right after the hay is cut, crows scavenge whatever didn't get out of the way.

The days have been long and deliberate. Chores, meals, two to three hours of math homework for Charlie, closely supervised to keep him on the rails. My own shortcomings in math blare at me from the workbook. 

I read ahead, study the examples, and check the answer key after I do a few problems. It's easy to see how repetition helps him. I understand how it might help me, but I'd rather spend the time learning another language.

It was too hot and humid to go outside. We soaked up an old favorite cartoon series that has held up, with writing, music, and delightful animations. 

I get postcards from home.  And now, I'm back.

He says the best day of his life, so far, is the day they found and adopted Nibbler. She remains tiny and full of feist. 

I'm awake before dawn, and she climbs on the bed and nudges my phone until I find cat videos on Insta. She pounces, purrs, and scrolls, and I can't take a picture of it.

Peak July

Colin's airstrip shots continue to amaze me. I admit to cropping and brightening this one because the composition was so good. The original was dim with atmospheric haze. Smoke, humidity. Ick. 

My Swedish Ivy is in some weird summer frolic mode. The leaves are thick and look like they would be good in a salad. So far, the only thing blooming is morning glories.  I'm worried that I let old Mother Lavender and Thyme go too long, hoping for rain. I gave them a good top dressing of potting soil and a few gallons of water. 

My neighborhood is experiencing a strange turnover. Deaths, displacements? Joyce's house across the street remains empty. Someone stole her flag before I could. The house next door has reverted to its corporate sterility. Keith finally took his bass boat out of the driveway, and Bailey misses his hangout. Poor guy has been through a lot of change. 

As for all the new FOR SALE signs sprouting, I wonder if these families have moved on to someplace safer than Georgia. It's always been a very eclectic community, but it's starting to feel ghosted. 

The water bill for this extravagance arrived. 275$ for the fill in June. 

And finally, we've found a new pizza joint!

Breakfast of champions - leftover deluxe and coffee.

I'm packing to spend a week with Charlie, so if you order anything, I'll get back to you.

my chairside tools

And this little bit of history is when Karma and I discovered the timer button on my Canon Pellix. Selfies from 1994.
 

I'm reveling in the basket of snakes in Washington beginning to bite and devour one another. Something weird and terminal is going to happen soon. He's starting to rot. 

Pushing some limit

 

Blondie

 Time to stop shopkeeping...for today anyway.

Sometimes these web tools just dig in their heels and decide to play stupid. Blogger stopped allowing me to add images to the store page, so I decided to post these three here. 

But the deranged blogger formatting idiot was on an angry tear, spewing images and captions all over this page, unrequested.

So I'll stop while I'm ahead and my fingers are still working nicely. 

(See what I mean?) 

If I listed the steps involved in posting these, you'd call me crazy, but when it's working the way it should, it's the best way I have of sharing these goodies.

Blondie has one of those skeins that I wrapped on a little stainless steel pot that I found hiding in the cupboard. Still 12 yards just a few less wraps for me, but in the end, a little pesky to handle. Back to the old Blue Tumbler in the future.

Catalpa, of course, from Dee Mallon's novel, The Weight of Cloth.  And Carnival from my own book. If you've read Prophets Tango, you'll remember the scene. 

Carnival

Catalpa

Like fireworks

 

Yes, they are and just as ephemeral. 

I doubt I'll be making any more because wet rayon does not like being handled underwater. The final steps of my dye process - removing the carrier and excess dyes - took forever. Worse, my hands hurt. 

I worked this little sample on a very open weave piece of linen. The two strands cannot be separated and even resist the point of the needle. These are all flying to new homes.

Some new sets of the old faithful cotton are up in the store. Patience. There are many more. It may be a while before another dye session. That's how life is working out. All or nothing.

There are storms predicted this afternoon. We need the rain badly. I need the thunder. And to put away stitch and cloth for a while and let the words take me away from this moment. I imagine some of us would like to take up heavy drinking or something like it. 

When I read about those little sisters swept away with their hands locked together, I cried. And I hoped that their fairytale Jesus helped them not be so afraid. Take solace however you can. 

As facts filter in around propaganda bullshit, I'm thinking that a lot of people who live in the Hill Country are waking up to the realization that they have been had. Most brutally. Most tragically. 

Hate and fear are exhausting. May those who wallow in it be consumed by it. 

One of my characters is leaning into dark magic. Even for the purpose of justice, there's a heavy price to pay. 

The two strand twist

This rayon labeled Earth Guild  (from who knows when) is very pesky at the cleanup phase. I'll have to rethink my process if I want to do much more of them. Still, it works up in an interesting way.

There was no threading my favorite needle with this fat fuzzy worm, so I dug a crewel needle out of the roll.  A single strand. 

And I made the conscious challenge of stitching the letters without any guides to see how well I could hold the line. Seeing the letters that aren't there. Knowing them with my eyes closed.

 Help is all I can do.

I just emailed Earth Guild in Asheville to see what sort of cotton threads they carry. See what other kind of trouble I can get up to with dye. Don't tell DMC I'm cheating.

 

I take pictures of myself to remind me of me. 

I'm here.

Do you? 

And here are my tools. Everything in two small bags. One for stitching. One for writing. I haul them with me whenever I'm going to be away from home for more than a few hours. You just never know. 

I need one of those old-fashioned yokes. They weigh about the same.

Tomorrow I'll start getting these into the store.

Another scorcher

 There was a handful of skeins from the Blues batch that needed another chance at glory. Over dyeing is part mystery and part chance. My favorite stuff.

I'm fairly certain this cone of silk and cotton twist was a gift that came all the way from Australia.

All I had to do was look inside the cone. Not so exotic after all. A tiny label reads: Rayon 8/2, Natural... all the way from Earth Guild in Asheville NC. 800-3278448. I have no idea how I came by it.

It sucked up the dye like a vampire and I brought one skein upstairs to wash out and put in the hanging dryer. Tomorrow, we'll see if it liked my process.

The table mopper is going to be fabulous if it hangs on to even half the color.

In the hot zone

The colors were leaning murky, but hot. I didn't use any black this time out. Deep Space standing in for the darkness.

I'm really looking forward to seeing how these two large pieces of linen turn out. 

There was no thunderstorm to help me finish. I'll have these in the store by midweek.

 

Me, icing down because, even with a hat and neck cooler, I got a bit poached. I'll sleep well tonight.

I just remembered a dozen skeins of cotton/silk that were supposed to be cooked today.

Tomorrow, with some overdyeing!

Pressing on

 

I ignored the 4th as best I could. 

My block and neighborhood were quieter than in years past, but the People Through the Trees (as I will now call them) seemed to have lost their damn minds. If there was something to see, I would appreciate it, to a point. There's never anything to see, just hours of noise. I wanted to know what they were celebrating, but I'll wait until the Leopards Eat Their Faces to ask.

I am tempted to start believing in hell because so many deserve to go there.

We are parched here. Later, I'll drag another jug of water up to the grove. 

The day dawned blazing, demanding I get off my ass and conjure up some colors. After a little stalling, I fell into the rhythm of it. But the colors...I won't know until tomorrow, of course. 

Thanks for this, Liz.  Too much for a tattoo, but I'm tempted to find music for it.

Do not forget gratitude. Work to make it shareable.