A decade

 Proof to me that time is not linear. Jim's been gone ten years now. For me, ever-present. Sometimes, I still feel he's just gone to the store and should be home soon. 

Although he was almost always smiling or clowning around, this is a good look at a smart, serious guy staring down some big picture. Making a plan and a backup. He took care and let me be a goofy butterfly. 

Treading time

 

Thinking ahead to the holidays, but I have to work harder at it these days. The festivities, that is. Gratitude comes easier.

I've just come off a three-day struggle with one scene. The one that strikes the match to much of what comes after. I closed the laptop on it well after midnight and have not yet reread it. 

But I will. Words are much more forgiving than cloth or stitch. 

Two completely different stories are coming into focus at the same time...I need a walk. 

    I moved the story excerpt here

Wither

There's a conspiracy brewing out on the Island. It got away from me early this year. All the perennial seeds I tossed around so casually didn't stand much of a chance against the unchecked weeds. A few brave zinnias, cosmos, and marigolds made statements here and there. For the most part, it's a jungle. Still, there was a lot of flowering stuff that attracted pollinators so I didn't do anything drastic. Like, set it all on fire. 

For now, the rotting pumpkins, some squishy potatoes, sprouted onions, and garlic will languish until I call a pro to plow it all under so I can start fresh in the spring. The gardenias up in the mailbox garden continue to bloom. I'll pick some more today and cut the mildewed peony leaves and butterfly bush back down to the ground. Easy pickin's.

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.