Firsts

 Charlie was delighted with the idea of comics being tucked in with each piece of gum. 

After I commiserated with him (he can't have gum due to some fancy dental work) I showed him the real fun of bubble gum. So glad I kept the camera on him.

Spirits

 ... Ghosts. Souls. 

    There are a lot more names for the Others in English alone. More beautiful names in other languages. Fantasma, esprit, iwin. Every culture in the world acknowledges the existence of the energy that animates us. Shadows that ripple, the scent of magnolias in December, and the feeling that you are not alone when you are the only one in the room. Figures in the cloth. 

Animals know. Why struggle to explain? They just are. 

I've been struggling for a little while with the new story. Not writer's block, but a lack of "why". An internet rabbit hole took me to a British police procedural from 2015 titled "River" starring Stellan Skarsgard. He's a police detective trying to solve the brutal murder of his female partner. 

Her ghost and others will not give him a break. I don't usually binge on TV but the timing was right and I absorbed all six episodes. The writers seemed hell bent on making River seem or feel that he was broken. All of the spirits had various coy axes to grind. 

Would it ever occur to anyone that displaced souls might be mostly clueless as to their purpose? Still and all, I gave the show a solid A. Did not want to sue anyone to recover my afternoon/evening. 

Here I was critiquing an old TV show when I remembered that my two main characters do not have to advance the story all on their own. I had forgotten about the ghosts! I felt like someone just handed over the large handful of pieces that were missing from a thousand piece jigsaw. 

Now to put them to work and, maybe, finally wise them up. 

Moonlight

 

Country comfort

 All Souls in the grove and then a road trip to pick Charlie up from school and stay over.  

A backyard campfire just for the good company and s'mores.

I'm glad the pictures have been telling the story because I have been putting words elsewhere. 

I also find I'm doing more listening than talking these days.

The world often leaves me speechless except for some lackluster swearing. 

The colors of stone

 

Hunter Moon by Colin

Camilla 

I went to the dye table with the colors of New England in my head. What I got turned out like carnival clown barf, except for these. 

This is Raven with a touch of Marigold and Deep Space for balance.

Some are darker, others lighter. I have about twenty skeins close cousins of these two and will post them for sale. The rest? 

Over-dyeing on the kitchen table eventually. 

Queen of Swords for the day

I was up a lot in the night for no reason other than looking for the moon, window to window. I  should have slept in the car. 

At some point, I took my Tarot cards out and turned each one face up in the light.

So, come 7am this was the view from the foot of my bed. I took a few pictures and fell deeply asleep.

I managed to catch Jupiter peeking from behind a tree and the moon gone goofy with branches in the way. One more as the sunrise lit the moonset.

So what does a dyer do while waiting for the coffee to brew? Bring a wet bundle in and unwrap it right on the kitchen table. I doctored Raven just a bit. Love the results. I make quite a few of these. I got all the thread cleaned and laid out to dry, but the cloth will have to wait until tomorrow.

Cleaned up. shopped, cooked even. Cajun sausage baked with red potatoes. 

To frost the cake of this day, I invented a drink (if it has a name don't tell me) a fat ounce of bourbon, over a little ice. A hearty splash of lime and topped the big glass with apple cider. One was plenty.

I put on the movie, "The Two Popes", (I find it strangely compelling). 

Started a new heart made with this moonlight thread and caught a visit from a lap thug every half hour or so.

This Queen of Swords (today) is grateful for all of it. Purple right shoe and all. 

Uncharted lands

 The temperature out on the deck did peak at 80, but the sun's angle was...elsewhere. I usually work much hotter than this, so I'm tempering my expectations. I haven't picked through the archives to confirm it, but this is the latest I've ever had a dyefest. 

There was little to no thought or prep. Just did it.

It's been years since I made liquid dye stock. Measurements? Are you mad? "Looks good" was the watchword. 

When I started throwing wads of wet cloth on the boards, I knew I was running out of steam.

The small, long bundles have six or eight skeins of thread inside. Those all had a brief soak in the magic sauce, and then I started slinging color. Dip, splash, pour, dash. Ruined one of my tan suede clogs. That was a poor choice.

The chemistry is over. The magic, the heart stuff, will come tonight when the full moon beats down on all of this mess and makes it special. 

Speaking of passions

 

Even though the first day was a little dreary, Fall in New England came through with color. I miss color.

The weather wizard wannabes are predicting 80 degrees over the weekend here in GA.

I'll believe because:

-there is some wonderful cloth

-there is undyed thread

-there is still plenty of dye.

Techniques will be new and experimental so results? 

The Good Luck gods have been very kind to me in all the small ways. What's one more go? 

A thank you to them.

Passions

 

A gift from a dear friend. I carried it swaddled in newsprint in my purse on the flight home, much to the stink-eye of the TSA in White Plains. 

Mugs have gotten too gross of late. Drinking a mug of coffee could lead to heart palpitations. This little one might hold three or four ounces. The perfect size for sipping whiskey. I'll have to get some, being a writer and all.

T. and I go back to when we were both stay-at-home moms in Carmel, NY with four little boys between us. Remember the expression "dooryard neighbors"? Our lives spilled out into the common driveway and yard. There were always loving eyes on those kids from one window or another.

.

    I can't remember how or when we revealed that we both had a nearly secret passion for writing, likely over tea or wine depending on the time of day. She was the first to read and support the earliest stages of my novel. She still has a novel on the back burner, but in the past few years has discovered a passion for clay. 

        It was something special to sit across from her in the diner and watch her talk about her art and the joy it brings her every time she returns to it. I will keep this where I can see it with my favorite writing tools in it, I think, instead of whiskey.

My familiars

 

We moved from a small town to the country when I was almost seven. As the oldest, I had free rein to wander at will. Stone walls were not boundaries but a measure of how far I had gone and guides to find my way home if the sun failed me. 

Kids have no appreciation for history, but I knew that these walls were old and served a purpose and an incredible amount of energy and skill went into building them. Enduring well past anything else manmade, they were like the pyramids to me. 

Not this time, but on a recent visit, I had the privilege of watching a crew building a wall mostly reusing an old, tumbled-down one, the senior man from South America. The delighted chatter when several stones were fit back together perfectly as they had a hundred or more years ago. That satisfying "granite kiss".

 

    

He could usually read someone at a few yards, especially in a quiet place when there was no one else around. He got nothing. Like she wasn’t there. Like the deep shade was another planet; he could see her, but that was it. His approach turned stealthy as if he was trying not to spook a wild animal, stopping and squatting down at a distance of respect.

 Anna was staring at the broken stone wall, not moving, quiet as the rocks scattered around her. The sky was a still, hot blue. The air breathless, trees asleep. Deep in those trees, one cicada raised a racket, but no others joined in. Jack didn’t want to startle her and was about to speak when, without turning around, she said,

 “Did you want something?”

 

He was the one who jumped. There was a small, leather box radio murmuring on the ground beside her, a bottle of wine heeled half over in the grass next to it.

 “What are you listening to?”

 “Mets game.” she sighed, “It’s almost over. Losers.”

 “So, what are you doing?”

 “Rebuilding this wall.” She still hadn’t turned to look at him.

 “You need some help?”

 “No. Thanks. I’m trying to put it back the way it was made. Like a puzzle. It takes time.”

 Jack moved to get a better look. 

She warned, “Don’t come any closer. Be very still. The bees are too interested in you. Hear them?” 

Jack could hear something, but he couldn’t tell where it was coming from. 

“There’s a nest in the wall about ten feet that way.” She nodded to the east. “And don’t turn around, he’s watching from the kitchen window.”

 Jack froze. Felt himself flash hot. Angry.

 “He’s like the bees. If you don’t provoke them, they’ll forget you’re around and ignore you. I do it all the time.”

 Just loud enough for her to hear him, Jack said, “Are you in any kind of danger here?”

 “Of course not.” She lied like she breathed.

 He watched her move slowly and deliberately down the wall to where wax and honey oozed out of a joint between the stones. The strong sun filtered through the fidgeting leaves, lighting her and the wall with orbs of light that wandered in slow ovals like the light from the mirror balls in the discos.

 Anna placed her hand on one of the smaller rocks and let it rest, marking time. The breeze sifted through the trees, then stilled. A minute. Two. Jack held his breath. She lifted the rock, a chunk of oozing honeycomb stuck to the grain of the granite. Bees wandered slowly over the rock, the prize, and her hand.

 She broke the comb away and gently refitted the rock back into the wall. The bees had already forgotten the invasion except one which turned in tight circles on her hand. It stung her and she cursed softly, brushed it away, and put her thumb in her mouth.

 Jack felt a pinpoint of fire on the back of his thumb and had trouble pulling his eyes away from her to see if he’d been stung too. There was nothing there. He brought his hand to his mouth and swore he tasted honey with a strange, salt-peppery tang under the sweetness.

 She said, “You should go.” She never turned around.

 He flexed the pain from his hand and got up from his crouch. “Only because you asked.”

excerpt from "Prophets Tango"