Celebrate Sun

1980

2026

Happy birthday, son.

With a mixture of awe and angst, I don't know what I'd do without him. It wouldn't be here, in this house, that's for sure, and I am deeply grateful.

A huge turnaround is in store for the Crabs this year. I had planned for a Gemini, but he had to be evicted ten days late. Willful and self-confident as ever.

I've settled into this UFO as a clutch piece. Often things that I fiddle with long enough pass a mark where they are either dismembered or gain a soul. 

This one languished a long time. The startling blue ground was a slap to the eyes. I may still move or trim some of the characters on the stage, make them more organic, but the stitching has become lines of dialogue. Tales of woe, incantations of vengeance and protection.

This one will keep my hands out of the fire for some time.

 

The strawberry moon

 In anticipation of cloud cover, I worked a strawberry moon into a soggy ufo. 

I should have taken a picture. Around sunset, Colin was out on the freshly cut lawn looking up. Over his head in the Big Tree, a red tailed hawk was counting squirrels. Behind the houses across the street, thunderheads piled up like pink and gold whipped cream, a Maxfield Parrish extravaganza that would block the moonrise. Heat lighting in the clouds, lighting bugs cruising the yards. 

I didn't take a picture because I left my phone upstairs. Earlier, I left it at the pharmacy in Publix. I think it wants a divorce.

Saturday, I left it in the car after shopping. When I finally forced myself out into the heat  to retrieve it, I stopped on the walkway to straighten a tipsy solar light.A little too much momentum and the post snapped and I fell, leading with my chin, and assorted other body parts by the bruises that are now surfacing. 

Grateful that I missed the concrete walk, but baked Georgia clay with a little grass is nearly as hard. 

I have lived in terror of falling since I topped out at a sturdy 5'8". Gravity is cruel and it's a long way down. 

Five seconds, ten. Picture a grumpy camel rising from the sand.  I got my elbows and knees in position to get...myself...up, because I was alone. Eiffel would be proud. Jaw worked, teeth okay. Knees, shoulders...keep moving. They shoot racehorses.

I got the phone from the car, then up steps and stairs to my bed. The monkey mind would not shut up. 

I fell. I fell. The old woman had a fall. I fell.

Shut UP, already. You lived. 

A few scraps of weary damask fancied up with a little discharging. Now I have find some AquaSafe to put a stop to that bleach.

Into the mystic

 

Two worlds

 

I came into a clutch of this strange and wonderful cloth. It's a rare day when I run across a fabric for the first time but, this is contemporary cloth and most of my time is spent with rags from the olden days.

It has an interesting hand. Almost a tiny waffle.

I love that expression. The hand of the cloth. That something as inanimate as a piece of cloth could communicate so much by how it feels slipping through our fingers, sight unseen.

By the way it takes the dye, it's all natural, but it acts like it has a touch of Lycra. There a nice give on the diagonal that would make it great for garments. 

I just remembered I have a magnifying app on my phone that lets me save the images. 

Does anyone know what it's name is?

As soon as Baily clears off my work space, I'll flip over the crocheted throw to the non-cat-hair side, take some pictures and post them to the new cloth page.

Content scrapers have returned, but I hardly care. In a way, they've given me a gift. 

My stat counter tells me where casual and returning readers are world wide. It's quite sobering to see searches for "that stitch" from countries that are both bombing and being bombed. Someone in a war zone looking for an embroidery tutorial.

The data miners are scattered all over the world in places I wouldn't take an all-expense paid vacation to. They are probably bots, but if not, I hope they earn enough to feed a family maybe. 

Their search strings also bring me to old posts that I haven't thought of in years. That's me the day I picked up Jumpin'Jack Flash from the dealer who was annoyed that I didn't finance with them. Pirates. 

I'm still rolling back and forth 61 niles each way to spend the middles of the week with Charlie. Suffer the doldrums of summer like I was still 12, but with a drivers licence and some spare change. I have given up getting any of my stuff done while I'm there and that's fine. 

Keep the Change

Father's day and the Solstice all at once? The weekend was wrapped in a strong sense of melancholy. To push that back I busied myself with the side hustles.  

I'm a bit smug for NOT ordering cardboard bobbins from "Zon. There's a habit I'm working hard to break. "Time to  Reorder" is very seductive, but I have to do the real math and find local options. I needed chlorine pills for the pool and there is only one place locally and Michaels is on the way. My takeaway from the oil crisis of the 70's was never drive for just one thing. Make the trip count.

I marched in, went straight to the embroidery stuff, found the bobbins and a single skein of black and went straight to checkout. No wandering around consumerizing. That's where things got weird. 

There was a crowd of youngish people milling around the self-checkout. I made eye contact with a young woman at the front desk and said, "I'll save your job, thanks." and put my stuff on the counter. She beckoned me around to the other side and asked if I was paying in cash or using a card. 

I happened to have enough cash and slapped a fiver and a dime on the counter. She keyed the drawer open and asked if I needed a receipt and I shrugged. The purchase was 5.03 total. And me standing there looking simpleminded, expecting change. "Oh, we don't have any pennies."  I nodded and stuffed the goods in my bag.

The crowd of teens(?) around the self-checkout was getting noisy. I made a small face that she didn't seem to register. There was an older woman employee with her behind the counter who seemed preoccupied. I had the distinct feeling that I had walked into something hinky going on and that the parking lot was the place to be. I didn't ask about their supply of nickels.

I watched the front door from the far side of the parking lot and no one came out after I did for the ten minutes I dithered around out there. No police cars or helicopters descended and I decided that I had a case of Writer's Willies. Imagining shit happening when nothing is going on. 

I got the pool pills and headed back. There was a Braves game on the radio so I stopped at the park and found a patch of shade.

The Braves were sucking and the announcers knew it, so I switched over to music from my phone and opened up the file with the last scene I worked on, not expecting much.

Out of over 1400 audio files, the first thing from the speakers was Jim's message. "This is Jim. Please leave a message."  Charlies has heard it once or twice and told me he didn't know whether to laugh or cry.

I broke into a grin, "Gotcha Babe," and proceeded to find that the bones of the scene were strong. It needed a little descriptive hair, some quality fattening and a solid trajectory. 

Later that afternoon, the long-dead refrigerator light decided to start working. 

He died here and here he remains.

The Solstice

 

I snagged a little piece of campfire linen for myself, and while I was putting together thread sets for the store, I got greedy. 

This dyefest turned out to be a marathon. 

Nothing like a well-stocked palette to spark a project or two even if I am out of cardboard bobbins.

There's a new tab just for the cloth that a few folks asked for. There will be more but, today, I'm catching a break.

Feels like Sunday

 

 It looks like the lifeguards are concerned about my water skills. I so wish that the youngsters could come out and join them. Bong might even prove to be a swimmer based on how excited he gets when I run water in the bathtub. 

These two were bored and asleep in no time. My routine is tedious. I spent an hour brushing down the post-rainstorm algae and netting tree trash. I walk in circles to set up a current that gathers small stuff and crud into the center. Then I siphon that out with a garden hose. Did I mention the sand filter is as old as the pool ('98) and doesn't filter much at all.  The pump keeps the water moving and the three ducks keep just enough chlorine going to keep it blue and fresh. 

I could have given pool maintenance lectures to the park service in DC, but nobody asked. Do you wonder how much of that 14 million was a kickback into the Shitweasel's pocket? 

This cloth, and the large one below, were left out on the deck after I used up the dregs of the dyes on them. They've been out there steeping in the heat and humidity. I'll get them washed and rinsed tomorrow. 

This is two feet by the width of a full sheet - that Cuddledown linen, thanks to JS.

The mother lavender made it through the winter and is putting on a show. 

What sttange cat is this who has no interest in anything string? 

I started the day by picking a handful for myself. Now, for a worthy project. 

Home from the weekly away

 

After a night of flood and tornado warnings, a bright, humid day is spawning. I'm home from a visit with Charlie and we had a great time.

This is that large piece of linen I hemmed and used to wipe my hands and mop spills during the last dye fest. It has a lot of interesting patches of color here and there, but there's a lot of white space still going on. I'm going to keep it considering some soy way resist and more dye in the coming weeks. 

I'm tired in a way that sleep doesn't seem to remedy. My mind still prone to wars of anger and self pity. 

Spending time with Charlie helps as did the celebrations for the Knicks and the opening of the Obama center yesterday. Every speech brought tears to my eyes.

It was the perfect antidote to the 14 million dollar paint job sloughing off the bottom of the refecting pool. A perfect metaphor for the rot and dissolution of the current regime. His deranged antics at the G7 has the whole world snickering at the rotting carcass that doesn't know enough to lay down. 

Together, we delighted in an animated series called "Among Us" based on a video game which, in turn, ripped its entire premise off the film The Thing with a nod to another film Alien. Both of them mirroring Agatha Christie's Ten Little Indians. 

There were cut-throat UNO matches and lots of wide ranging conversations that started with "Ask me anything". His questions dig deep.

The pool is calling me.

Later I will get some thread sets and cloth posted. 

They serve

 

These pieces are the Carriers. 

I fold squares or rectangles of dry cloth in half and lay the wet skeins out, then apply the colors. You can see their ghosts. 

Sometimes, I leave the skeins in place and roll them up in the Carriers and leave them to stew for a few hours. Days, if I forget.

I'm going to photograph, measure and post the best of this batch and post them for sale, whole. They usually get ripped down to hand size and dropped in the scrap bin, but a few people have requested larger chunks.

a hot bunch~update

This one is a bit special. It's probably closer to twenty yards rather than the twelve yards skeins that I sell. A keeper.

When I'm winding the thread onto the glass I count off the turns to keep an honest measure. But when I see that the cone is dwindling down to the end, I keep going. Then I mark it by using a colored thread to tie it off instead of more white.

In an effort to get over myself, right myself, (there's an interesting expression) I stayed away from social media last night except to check on the weather radar.

A good bit of the finishing process happens under water so murky that you can't see what's in there. Imagine handling a lot of overcooked lasagna being careful not to break any or it get tossed in the compost heap. 

Today I'm washing out a LOT of excess dye and the skeins are proving that chemistry and matter don't give a fuck about your emotions, attitude, or situation. Molecules will do what they do. 

The sun came up, hot and gorgeous and I'm grateful for every moment. 

 

Here's  a sneak preview..

High Summer

 I have hopes and fears in equal measure for this lot. Preperations, materials, and weather were all optimal. (I've been watching Star City and my prose is feeling Soviet.)

Rather than work with a smaller set of blended colors, I used as many colors as I had shakers and was heavy handed with the dye powder. There's a shadow whispering "How many more days like this?"

Like everything else, the cost of thread has gone up. Soda ash is almost twice what it was the last time I bought it. I was heavy handed with this, too. Is more better? I've been looking for reasons behind weak results. Is it the dye powder? My too casual measures?  I haven't looked at dye prices. 

Don't get me started about the post office. I may run screaming, a machete in each hand. 

It was humid and hot--94 degrees in the shade. Last years tent collapsed under an unexpected rain storm, but Colin set up my old market umbrella, more than enough shade when I started. 

What was off--really off--was my state of mind. Unfocused. 

Anger, sorrow, self-pity. These things at war with the Buddhist concepts of compassion and empathy. Even having the feelings, judgements, and opinions at odds with Stoic philosophy. 

I am neither Buddhist nor Stoic. They just have some useful lessons and, for the sake of my own well-being, I need to go back to study.

It's easy to say that we should control how we respond to situations that we have no control over. Talk is cheap. The body really does keep the score. 

I woke up with a sinus headache at 4:30 in the morning and wasted an hour fretting before I got up and took something for it. Fell back to sleep and woke to some unhappy felines wondering why breakfast was two hours delayed. I didn't even start the work until noon. No breakfast, just coffee.

Instead of scraps to wipe my hands, I chose a full yard of new linen. Hand hemmed on all four sides. What else was it doing? Nothing. 

Usually, there are one or two jars of color that dissappoint me from the start. I set them aside. Dump them even. Not this time. I also didn't survey my own collection of threads to see what colors may be missing. 

I used a few new handling techniques for the first time and didn't fuss over whatever music the algo of my playlist handed me. Double gloving makes handling the phone difficult. Taking pictures was pesky enough.

It's creepy that AI has inserted several hours worth of AI generated jazz and classical music pieces in my favorites. I have over fifteen hundred songs marked favorites over a wide variety of genres. When the AI pieces come up they go on and on almost hypnotically. I have to weed that list.

There was a break for a nap and more meds and some watermelon. I have no appetite. The sun was still strong but coming at me on a slant when I resumed the work. 

Historically, I'm rinsing out juicy looking threads over coffee the next morning. Not today. I let everything just lay there while I shopped for lunch and had pool time with a friend. We had an good hour in the water when the skies opened up. Rained out of my first swim of the year.

Rain rinsed thread and cloth is always a good thing. 

Now I have the rest of today and all day tomorrow to get these and the cloths washed and rinsed. Friday before I get anything posted for sale. 

I'm excited about the cloths. I used a premium, if vintage, white sheet manufactured by a company that went out of business in the sixties. A thick, heavy plain weave cotton with deep, precision hems, I was going to make myself a robe, but the fact that I could tear it by hand tells me that it's time for function is over. 

Time to become art. 

That is a shitpot of thread!

I hope I can drum up some excitement about them in the coming days. 

reconnecting with me

 

I'm not dead or in prison and some might suspect.

Like many, I'm feeling the burden of my years and the burn of the times. 

But the NY Knicks have lifted New Yorker's hearts out of the gutter, and they are taking his name off the Kennedy Center as I watch. The rain interfering with those precedings is really going to make that 8647 in the grass show up more intensely. Salt or herbicide, it doesn't matter.    I'm Spartacus.

I've been spending a chunk of each week with Charlie. 

I never knew what a gerund was until I started cutting  flash cards out of a workbook they want him to look at. Dungeon Crawler Carl has overtaken the whole family, but I don't think I'm going to dive in. It's only been two weeks and I am over saturated with Futurama and the Simpsons.

I sneak latin prefix and suffixes into the conversation while we are driving to the math tutoring that will go on most of the summer. No backsliding.

I should have gotten into our pool today, the sunshine window is shorter than ever as those trees get taller. Someone may get a chain saw for Christmas this year. 

And I may have referred to a basement troll in the past. 

For the better part of three years, a guest, who was in desperate straights, became an unwelcome squatter. For a while the situation got on my last nerve. With the help of the walking Monks and some Stoic reading I did my best to ignore the situation. 

The troll has decamped, taking most, but not all of her crap with her to some other sucker's basement. If she tries to return without appointment, the monks and the Stoics will have to write a new chapter about an over-the-top response to aggression. Basta!

My house is deliciously quiet. You can hear cats fart. And if I want to, I can put NPR up loud while I have coffee. Park my car casually. Run the vacuum whenever I want. Use the downstairs bathroom if I need to. The list is longer than I realized.

Again, Basta!

We move through life in delight.

Remember that horse? The other day we pulled up to offer an apple and she was on the far side of her pasture in the shade. I've never seen this horse do much more than plod about grazing. Charlie called to her and held up the fat Fuji. She pricked up her ears and ran to us. A trot became a brisk canter. For half a second I though she might take the five foot fence but she pulled up short at the wire and made short work of the gift. It was amazing to see. 

He takes my elbow when we go from the car through the parking lot. Real manners handed down from his grampa through his father. There's a summer haircut happening as I type this.

Jim would have been 71. His sister called and we burned up the afternoon catching up. 

And tomorrow? A dye fest!

Still in the works

Thanks for your patience for the words on this post. The piece itself has finally pushed me to silence. Because of the irregular edges, I'm considering hard mounting this one to a canvas. Like these.  I might have a blank canvas in the closet. I know there's plenty of gel medium. The many layers of this one will give me the option of protecting the hand here and there.