Quick changes

 

For the second weekend in a row, we are getting a little taste of winter. I wasn't planning on going to Jake's this weekend but somebody woke up with a fever on Friday morning. He only had one day of in person school this week and he picks up cooties.

And depending on how much snow comes down, school could likely be closed again Monday and Tuesday. This part of the country many of the roads are narrow, barely blacktopped and shaded by old growth. If the temps stay near freezing nothing melts and they are treacherous, especially for school buses.

In my haste to pack, I forgot the book I was reading and the stitching bag. But the notebooks are with me so...no excuses for a couple of days. 

Catch the scribbled thoughts and make some order.

Whatever germ was bothering him succumbed to the Cannoli cure by lunchtime.

We Have Eyes

We had a little time together just before the storm. I kept my sore heart under wraps.  Some games, some gossip,  a family movie night, the Michael Keaton/Jack Nicholson "Batman"

almost held up. Almost.

I made it home before the storm. Charlie got to have a little snow and ice fun as school was closed Monday and today they are having remote learning. Jake gets to proctor.

 

Reading HCR's nightly letter got me the first good night's sleep in ages.  Will the tide turn faster than the Titanic of American Democracy? I think, yes.

I'm grateful for the least little bit of silliness to keep me from

swinging from tears to rage. Harry's costume reminded me how much I enjoyed my B&W series. The new music, not so much.

Watermelon Sugar and Boyfriends will be tough to top.

The quilts (and others)  are all rolled up in the closet, begging me to find a venue.

Someone (many of them) are using AI to riff on the Resistance logo from Star Wars. Each state bird fitting into the design. This is the Georgia Brown Thrasher. Pretty impressive birds IRL. When they land on the lawn looking for food, all the other birds head for the trees. Songbirds with a strong hint of raptor to them.

I tuned in but was a little disappointed when I realized that the pukes were just taking the opportunity to reiterate their lies and horseshit, desperately shrill. Speaking over him and cutting off his answers.

 I wanted him to come out swinging and swearing. Spitting flames. Instead, he gave quite, measured confidence. He has the evidence and that's what matters. He will be a player.

I struggle between these two paths. If I were twenty, I might already be locked up. 

This should be a contender for the Pulitzer prize.

As if Renee Good wasn't enough.

This image taken moments before Alex Pretti was killed stops my heart because this could so easily have been Colin. 

You've seen his camera work. He is always the first to help a stranger should the need arise. Old-fashioned manners, good humor and heart - his father's son. 

My 5 Calls might get me investigated because I really unload on those congressional answering machines. No threats, just my unadulterated venom and a mother's/grandmother's fears.

Under storm threat

Yes, the Christmas tree is finally getting undressed.

The governor has declared a state of emergency for the whole state of Georgia based on winter weather that looks like it will only be the northern parts of the state. Maybe some snow. More likely rain with freezing temperatures which inevitably leads to trees bringing down power lines. 

I sympathize with the folks who may be affected. But I'm also keeping my eye on the fact that car haulers full of new SUVs with ICE markings and colors were delivered to locations in Atlanta a few days ago. 

Now, under some internal memo, ICE is saying that they don't need a judicial warrent to enter homes and kidnap people. I think they are forgetting where they are. There will be people excercising their second and fourth amendment rights in this open carry state. ICE be damned.

                                                                                ~★~

 "Night Gardener" has a rather prophetic tone about it, but I don't want to see it that way.

It's been sold and I want to revisit it in person before the show comes down next month. Take more photos and make sure I put my mark on it somewhere. If not, I'm going to add a label on the back. It will be nice to sit in the sun in one of those rocking chairs in the sanctuary and stitch a while.

There was a village where everyone still kept small kitchen gardens. A few chickens. There were hedges instead of fences. Footpaths everywhere. 

A stream meandered through town ponding up in some of the lower places of the village green. 

There were trees standing sentinal since the Revolutionary war providing shade and a highway for wildlife, their roots cracking the paved sidewalks all over town and no one held it against them.

It's midnight deep in July. Half the day's humidity has settled as blessed dew, the other half rising up to join a still-distant thunderstorm. Close enough for thunder. Too far away for rain. Still, all the laundry came in from the ropes at sunset. The something in the air was a lullaby. Peace.

                                                                            ~★~

Did you ever make a piece and not like it all that much for unknown reasons? Even when you know the Art is Good?

"The All Seeing Eye" has also sold. Despite the title and whatever the view gleaned from the imagery, it has no story. I worked on it rather obsessively during my first weeks of being a telecommuter. 

We were set up to work from home. Lines and software all working according to company instructions. But someone in the office forgot to send up the traffic, the customers calling in their reports or complaints. For eight hours a night for a week, I was paid to do whatever I wanted. That included an experiment with some bits of strange synthetic fabrics that I cannot recall the provenance of. Everything about this piece was experimental. The title was a late addition too, so digging up the provenance is going to be time consuming. 

Finishing

 

There will be a slight delay before I post this. 

After a lull to normalcy, the content scrapers are back. 

On the one hand, I have no fucks to waste. 

On the other, I can stop making this journal public and imagine all those swarming hordes smashing full speed into a wall that only I control.  What a cheap thrill! 

In the meantime I can still write as the mood moves me.

But lately, it's just as well I don't communicate. I imagine I have developed a venomous public persona. It might be true. We have a lot to be pissed off about.

I've stopped having imaginary conversations. They never turn out well. 

Update! Statcounter notified me that they are trialing some kind of Bot repellent. I prefer to visualize thousands of cell phones exploding in bot pockets. 

Sometime, at this portal, I give the stitches names. Secret names. 

Tomorrow I'll find the other two and see how they get along. Is three enough?

I hope so. It's been a lovely bit of lollygagging, but I have to move on. 

Close some circles. 

mixed feelings~ update

 We weren't told what pieces to bring to this cattle call. Our choices, whatever we could carry. We only knew that the exhibit space was limited.

I knew in advance that this one would have a space all to itself, because, I guess, Big and Splashy.

We were asked to lay our pieces out wherever. I chose to drape the folding chairs in the sun. I love how harsh, direct light picks out the textures. 

Then the curator walked around silently, reminding me of the judges in the TV dog shows, careful to not reveal his deliberations. One by one, he carried pieces to the available spaces, making unexpected pairs and trios. Traditional and contemporary.

The first two pieces he chose were a shock because I came to close to NOT bringing them.

I packed everything yesterday and checked my list twice. Not sure if there would be help loading the car, it was a matter of what I could carry. 

But Colin was home and carried the big bundle of folded pieces and rods to the car, and I found myself with one empty hand. I had just decided to NOT include two pieces that were hard-mounted to canvas. Mummified. 

But, I grabbed them as I walked out of the studio. "As Yet Unbaptized" and "The Bruised Heart" were chosen first.  All in all, ten of the twelve pieces I brought will be in the exhibit. The opening is tonight.

All four of these will be in the show. Yes, Turquoise seems to be my totem color. 

I have a strong emotional bond with both of these. 

"The Bruised Heart" is connected with a scene from my novel.

And "As Yet Unbaptized" with a strong memory of Jimmy's observation while I was still working on it. 

Word pushing

I've gone back to scribbling longhand on paper. 

LOTS of it. 

Now, pages will get transcribed to the raw online writing place with lots of edits happening in real-time.

 

This is what works best for me. I'll take a piece of today for that task. 

Outliers

 I spent most of yesterday doing the ick part of getting ready for an exhibit. Paperwork.  Titles. What year? Dimensions? and the ever-deadly "Price?"  I still haven't settled that last part.  I fiddled around with the calculator for a while, and the results were unsatisfactory.  You swing between "I'd really like to get rid of some of these" to "NFS for sentimental reasons."

    Dragging things from the depths of the closet. See what holds up and what doesn't.

Finding UFOs that still confound me.

This one has bothered me since day one, going back to 2013, before Jim passed away.  Then I took it out again almost a year later.

Chances are, this one is going to be hanging on a fence in the park. Free art.

I have twelve pieces ready to drop off on Thursday morning. The opening is Friday night. Then I have to go looking for another venue. This stuff has to get out of the closet

Get Ice Out For Good

Honestly, when I got up Sunday morning, I really didn't think I had it in me to go. It was in the mid-thirties with gusting winds. 

But there was nothing I could put my mind or hands to that didn't leave me cold. Scattered, angry, and unfocused.

As I got dressed and laced up my boots, I thought to myself, "Am I going out to get killed?" 

Do you think that's what Renee Good thought when she dressed for a Minnesota winter that morning? 

I was pretty impressed with the turnout. At peak, my guesstimation was 400, give or take. Lawrenceville is the county seat of Gwinnett. All the government you can cram into an old village that's trying to force a Renaissance. The jury is out on that. 

By noon, it was only mid-forties, with still gusty winds. The crowds were engaged, lively, orderly, and well-organized. Hats off to the 50501 group that got the word out.

Chants of "Hey Ho ICE has to go" easily evolved into FUCK TRUMP with fists in the air. The highlight of my day!

Huge tractor-trailers crawled through town on Sunday mornings delivering to the many small businesses. In the first hour, I counted five. Four of those happily supported the protest with joyful blasts of their air horns and waving!   

Four out of five truckers against ICE was my takeaway for the day. 

I also noticed the glaring absence of any kind of police presence. There were several lone individuals whom I noticed doing a lot of vigilant observing. Nothing much to see here, officer. Just Americans doing what they can. 

This from an old woman perched on a low wall set back a bit from the sidewalk, raising a painted stick in the air and shouting "FUCK TRUMP" until she couldn't. 

Doesn't she remind you of our dear friend Michelle Slater?

This location is about ten minutes from my house. Old Town L'ville was the place you had to go for jury duty or other police/official business. They are working to give space back to the people in the heart of town.

A ring of chairs surrounds a lively fountain in the full sun, with a playground and restrooms just beyond it. A couple of restaurants and coffee joints are a walk away.

I plan on going back there when it warms up. Stitching in public in the sun when there is something to celebrate.

 

Other words

"For Renee Nicole Good Killed by I.C.E. on January 7, 2026."

by Amanda Gorman

They say she is no more, 

That there her absence roars, 

Blood-blown like a rose. 

Iced wheels flinched & froze. 

Now, bare riot of candles, 

Dark fury of flowers, 

Pure howling of hymns.  

If for us she arose, 

Somewhere, in the pitched deep of our grief, 

Crouches our power, 

The howl where we begin, 

Straining upon the edge of the crooked crater 

Of the worst of what we’ve been.  

Change is only possible, 

& all the greater, 

When the labour

& bitter anger of our neighbors 

Is moved by the love  

& better angels of our nature.  

What they call death & void, 

We know is breath & voice;  

In the end, gorgeously,  

Endures our enormity.   

You could believe departed to be the dawn 

When the blank night has so long stood. 

But our bright-fled angels will never be fully gone, 

When they forever are so fiercely Good.

 

Variations

 

Halfway through this one, I was tempted to find a shredder for it somewhere. The linen proved to be more loosely woven than I like. The colors were not swarming to my liking. The threads in the stash were unappealing.

The list grew longer, and I put it away. 

Until the other day. I am back in love with the shapes and the colors, and what changed in the few months it was in the closet?

Only me. A little more patience and kindness for myself.

The plan is to mount all three together. Somehow. 

                                ~★~

I have a lot of thoughts on the murder of Renee Good. My first reaction was, "Her poor babies. Her children."

The trajectory of their lives forever changed. 

The second was that his family and friends saw him commit murder. How long will he live with that? And to what lengths will this administration go to garner sympathy and support for other agents? The fact that the FBI has taken over any investigation tells the tale. 

Be ready to bear witness, no matter where you are.

                                ~★~

Sophie, now nine months old, has matured into a loyal studio companion. The others come to play or look out the windows. She still tries to get into the stitching chair beside me, and no matter what I'm working on, she feels the need to bless it. 

Tools timeless

 

Grace. It took a moment, but I spotted your knife.

I don't recall when or where I acquired mine. Rather than punish my brushes, I used my (butter?) knife to scoop acrylic medium out of the tubs it came in.

More a thing of beauty than utility. I don't own any silver polish.

The brush and the wooden burnisher have been in my art arsenal since 1967. I clearly remember my first visit to the art supply store with my list in hand. I think it was Pearl Paint. Jude might be able to confirm that it was a few blocks of SVA. 

I also remember the sinking feeling I got when I found out how expensive everything was. 

The wooden crochet hook was purchased at a convention I was working at in Grand Rapids. It doesn't care for cotton string, so it functions as a hairpin from time to time.

The little ruler was my Dad's. There was also a matching slide rule, which was a complete mystery that mocked my ignorance until it was lost. The ruler has been my perfect straight edge since the late 60s.

salamander

 

amphibians because I wanted to shout FUCKERY and MALFEASANCE!

But it doesn't do anything for me. I called Warnock and Ossoff while it was still dark out. This Wolf moon fostered some violence.

I woke up with a start because I realized my silver cuff bracelet was missing. It has slipped off my arm once or twice recently, but I always noticed. Not this time.

So minor panic, the light flooding in, and cats bumping around rowdy.

I got the Tarot out for a moon bath, and Sofie had to have her say.

Best I could do with my phone and a little tinkering.

The High Priestess represents the mysteries of the unconscious and the Inner Voice, and her appearance is often a sign that your own intuition is trying to send you a message. The unconscious often speaks to us in symbols, so be alert around you for anything that seems out of the ordinary. 

This said, if you have an important decision to make when the Priestess appears, this is often a sign that the answers will be revealed to you, if you are patient and open to the whispers from within. You simply have to wait and be receptive to inner messages. Her lesson is that everything you need to know already exists within you. ~James Rioux

After the blessing and choosing, I went back to sleep. Three hours of the most delicious, deep sleep with cinematic dreams. 

Another new year

 

I've been at a loss for words here lately. There's plenty of thought going on, just nothing share-worthy.

This before-coffee reading on January 1 augers brightly. 

Now to summon up the energy to follow through because the good shit must be earned.

I didn't get to witness the Monks walking for Peace as I wanted to. Timing is everything, and we were ships on a sunny afternoon. They passed close to my house while I was at Charlie's and were on their way north-east by the time I made it home.

For the most part, communities have welcomed and protected them. Local law enforcement have been gracious and low key.

But some crowds following the Monks have been disorderly and disruptive in a few wannabe cities in the Metro Atlanta vicinity. It's no wonder they are altering their path through less populated towns.

 Too many assholes seem to think they are some kind of traveling entertainment. Some others (I call them Jesus Jumpers) are accusing the Monks of proselytizing. Nothing could be further from the truth.

Back in the day, when I still consorted with people who would ask, "What religion are you?" my snark retort was "I'm a Pagan-Buddhist-Jew". Enough to shut them up and not all that far from the mark.

Is this some face? Aloka is only four, but what a life he's led. I worry for him and his crew. 

They are walking because there's a sickness on the land. I worry and wonder when some redneck miscreant notices this band of brown men with foreign ways making their way through the countryside and decides to collect a bounty by involving the Shitweasel's Gestapo. 

My post-Christmas stay with Charlie was brief but rich. 

A little sun, a little stitch. Cards, TV, Lego, and lots of conversation. The good stuff.

And today he spent much of the day here with me getting reacquainted with Sophie and Bong. Our old favorite grub shop, Sonic, has reopened as Chicken & Wok, serving up excellent Sesame chicken at a reasonable price. At least I think it's chicken.

I've been curating the news I read or listen to. Not putting my head in the sand, but soaking up the small victories. 

Jack Smith's testimony was a great start!