In the wind

 

~truth~

 This bundle arrived late yesterday. Thank you A!

I waited until first light to open it. Each piece is a treasure. There's even a huck towel. Those are always problematic because I love them so much that I have trouble using them once the colors come alive.

But this one and only shot made me face the fact that there won't be another dyefest this year. I ran out of summer. The itch has gone into hibernation. 

There were lots of wild boasts and good intentions. I even bought a new tub of soda ash the other day. There's a two thousand-yard cone of white DMC cotton safe in its plastic shroud. I know there's a shortfall in the dye inventory. I'm just not moved to dig in and make a list. The biggest, most important lack is the will to do it. 

My comfort cushion is that I have all the raw materials I need to make a thing, should that spirit move me. 

And there's plenty to go around. 

Recovery

Last night from my front stoop. I wanted to cross the street and ask the neighbor if she would turn off the lights inside her garage, but I didn't want to get shot. The cat posse was outside with me larking around in the grass chasing nightbugs and each other in the warm breezes. The skeeters took a pass and left me alone. Maybe I taste bad. 

 This is my third confirmed go-round with COVID-19. Each has been markedly different which stands to reason as the virus evolves. Comparatively, this one was lightweight. A solid week of juicy head cold and loss of taste and smell. But, as the days passed I realized that I might be experiencing a degree of brain fog. A quite useful state if you intend on meditating. Reaching nothingness is not easy for a normally busy, creative mind.

These days, it's been all too easy to slip into a state of too-stoned-to-move, staring off into space. I got mad about it yesterday and busied myself. Routine chores were the easiest. Laundry, dishes. Then I settled in to try pushing colors and shapes around. 

I went to ridiculous lengths with this. Pinning, basting, needle-turning - all rote activity. Without focusing on composition, a waste of time and energy. 

Nothing wasted cloth-wise, thank goodness. This has been dismembered and the bits stowed together for future consideration when my brain wanders back. 

Solid rest

 

I spent the entire day yesterday reading. At first, it was just a matter of not getting sucked into the TV news. Then, this book grabbed me like a sticky burr.

At first, it was a quirky and beautiful use of language. Then the characters grew flesh on their bones and the bow of the story they had been pulling back on launched.  Short, short chapters. One or two full pages and half of the flipside.

An unknown and compelling trajectory. 

Reading something this good raises hell with my writing.

    About 830 I decided I wasn't going to watch the debate. Live TV makes me anxious in history rooted ways. I was watching the live broadcast of Lee Harvey Oswald being brought somewhere when the man in the hat stuck a gun in his gut. 

    "Dad. Is this real?"

    "I'll be a son of a bitch if it ain't." I had become an old fourteen two days prior.

I was watching the Today show, live, when the second plane flew over Katie Couric's shoulder to smash into the tower where I still felt that I had neighbors. 

Then my sister called from the beach and said she was going to watch. Now I had to watch. And I'm so glad I did.

 I heard a pundit say that you could really learn about people by watching a televised debate with the sound off. Since I have to rely on closed captioning most of the time, it wasn't a stretch. 

I saw him, lurching. Rancid looking. Trying to puff himself bigger like a poisonous toad. 

Then I saw her, sleek and chic, the lead lioness of her pride, stride across the stage corner him, and mark him. I hope she wears hand lotion. Something slimey like Curel. And she was brilliantly sharp and sly. 

I sat on the edge of the bed just feet from the big screen with a hand towel that I thwacked the back of the desk chair with each time she burned him. If it was a drinking game, I'd be dead. The cats hid, bless them. When he spouted that pet eating nonsense I howled like a wild thing.

I wanted to see her leap to the top of her podium, heft a glittering spear and...I have a very violent turn of mind. 

When it was over, I couldn't find the remote so I saw something that many didn't Watching him wandering around in the Spin room looking for some MAGA hatted geeks to shout "USA" at him. 

There were none. He had no mic so he moved from one place to another seeking comfort. He looked like an old potzer angry because there was a long line for the Early Bird Special at Golden Corral and they made him stand outside. 

The men with their backs to him were security, but the ones facing him, eyes only half on their phones, wore looks of pity. Disgust. When a microphone could finally be found, he just kept making it worse. 

My sense of smell and taste came back. While I watched and raved, I ate a big piece of red velvet cake from Publix and licked the lid. I slept great. 

Also did a new reading for 9.11

The heal

 

First light in the studio is the best for stitching but it still hurts to wear my 2.50 cheaters for more than ten or fifteen minutes. 

I spent more time reexamining this silk trying to recall its provenance. 

I got Nothing, but that 'Wind Between the Ears' seems to be the hallmark of this particular brand of 'vid. 

Putting on shoes? Where do you think you are going?

Not far. Just the front yard for a little fresh air and sunshine. 

With high hopes, I dragged my writing bag and Chromebook along. Reread a few of my handwritten fever dreams and shut down any thoughts of getting any writing done. 

The cats patrolled the lawn. I closed my eyes and soaked up the vitamin D. 

With COVID, it's a pain how much home healing focuses on food and drink. 

Tea. Honey. Whiskey. Chicken soup. General Tso's. 

Colin made a batch of chili yesterday. 

I made a small burrito with some 'cause you gotta eat.

When I was a kid, I took a bite of a mud pie to trick my sister into doing the same. 

That's what the burrito tasted like. Dirt.

Make plans...

...and the 'Verse chuckles. 

Jumping Jack Flash was gassed, greased, aired-up, and cleaner than he's been since forever.

I knew the route. Where the first rest stop would be. They might have real maps there. The timing, the weather, the playlist - all in order. I'm a traveler even with a sneezing runny nose.

There was (and is) a story trajectory solid enough to make me itch to hold a pen, but notes in my phone would work. 

I was packed. Arrival time was adjusted based on a quick conversation with my sister about what they planned to do once they landed in Myrtle Beach. Rental car, shopping. My sisters love to shop as much as I hate it.

I was packed. 

At the last moment, I remembered a chicken breast in the fridge, defrosted and needing to be braised with the Blend - salt, black pepper, and garlic. Quick and dirty in a pan with butter, I was lucky I didn't cut myself razoring up that flesh. Second and third applications of spices. Why couldn't I smell it even though my head was open to the air like a drafty barn? So strange. 

Then I remembered. A quick trip to CVS and the test was positive for covid. 

My sisters are probably in the air right now. I hope everyone on their plane is well. I will see everyone in October. 

 

The week that wasn't

Jake sent me this the other morning. He leaves for work well before sunrise. Next time I stay over there, I need to stay up a lot later. Still, it warms my heart that my son looks up, sees this glory, and takes the time to share it. 

The second image was my view for most of Monday and Tuesday as I wallowed with a head cold. I listened to the noise from the TV when I wasn't sleeping.

Wednesday I was able to go about my business, not 100%, but well enough to start working down the list of Things To Do before a road trip. 

I was at the Grease Monkey getting an oil change when one of the techs took a phone call, then told his boss, "Gotta go. Something at the school." 

He pulled on his helmet and roared off on his rice rocket not knowing if his loved ones or neighbors' kids were dead, wounded, or alive. Jake works in Winder. The insanity nudges closer. 

                                                        ***

Later, I parked in the shade and was in the back seat getting a little misty-eyed as I wiped away pre-school-sized handprints from the windows. Jack Flash is a 2010 Honda Accord Coupe. There is barely room to hang my ass on the slippery leather back seat. Years worth of crummified McDonald's fries hid in the corners. 

The front passenger seat unlatches and rolls well forward, both doors were open to the fresh breezes. Music played from my phone through the hefty car speakers. I turned to consider my exit and somehow slipped off the seat onto the floor, ass first, my legs sticking out the door. 

    

I looked around for handholds and found nothing. I could see the blue sky and crossed my legs nonchalantly. Waggled my sandal in case anyone passing by might see me and be concerned that I was dead. 

Tried again to heave myself out of the hole. Not happening. Upper body strength (as opposed to lower body weight) has never been my forte. When the PE teacher showed us the rope that we were to climb, I walked out of the class and took a detention. Trees I could climb, ropes? Bitch, please. 

 

I took a moment to wipe sweat from my eyes with a Windex and grime-sodden paper towel. My personal terror, Claustrophobia, tried to make noise but I refused it any play. Panic is as self-indulgent as it is unproductive. 

I was able to reach my phone in its fancy new cup-holder cradle. Called Colin, who did not pick up even though I knew he was in the house. Messaged him, "Come out to the car. I need help." The worst-case scenario was calling 911. Firehouse 25 is five minutes away and only hires the hunkiest guys. I gathered my strength for a legit try at the new Olympic sport of hauling one's bacon out of the back seat of a Honda.

Before I could go for the gold, Colin appeared,  hand extended, a grim look on his face, shaking his head, almost ready to laugh. 

Both of them, their father's sons. 

Working updated

 

Labor Day. What else would I be doing? Most of my working life, I've worked for companies that offered their customers 24/7 service. 

Ma Bell, AT&T, and the whine mine I quit two years ago all paid double time for anyone stuck with or willing to work on major federal holidays. I thanked the union for that and jumped at the chance to make extra money. Did they think I was working for the fun of it?

This morning I worked in my own shop, posting all the rest of the Dirty Threads from the last big dyefest. All the cloth is in the scrap bin and a SALE is underway.

If you order by this Thursday, I will make the post office my last stop before I head to the beach for a week. 

These two cussposts--now stuffed fat with hand-dyed scraps-- are also on the block. I hope they don't start crying when I separate them. $30 each includes postage inside the US.

Ragweed pollen was wishful thinking. I have a first class head cold. 

Maggie May

Reluctance to commit to an orientation is a good sign. 

And these wrinkles! The silk has shed little shadow ghosts of dye in places. I'm thinking about amplifying them in some way other than stitch. 

I actually have to go buy some black embroidery thread. 

The morning sun when it's in your face really shows your age. 

A pop song from ages past (1971!) that still gets too much play. I never understood the connection (there is none) between the intro and the song itself.

Rod's singing about the problems of being with an older woman. 

 I was with a guy who would have been a whole two years behind me in high school if he had graduated. He seemed to think that skipping that part gave him some kind of special status. Whenever this song came on the car radio, he took perverse delight in turning it up and making something of our age difference. I used to look out the car window and think, What an asshole. But then, he was the asshole who told Jimmy he could come sleep on my couch...

There is SO much cloth in the scrap bin I'm having a sale.

Reaction

 

Silk shreds dating back to 2010 experiments with ColorHue dyes. I don't recall the source of the silk. I can't imagine what cloth like this would be used for other than the kind of negligee that was made to be torn off. There are tiny scraps of it wandering all through my private stash.

The base is the trimmings of that handkerchief linen shift that I hand stitched together, again, because I have no white thread for the sewing machine. I sat with the shapes as they came from the bag, with no cutting or tearing. I prodded, pinned, and unpinned through a couple episodes of "Homicide: Life in the Streets".

The show was recently released on Peacock TV.  I didn't get to watch it much when it was first aired. I was still a nightbird for AT&T and was never one for slavishly needing to have a show taped for viewing at my leisure. I had kids. It won awards and a cult following for good reason. 

Balance. Up, down, crime, justice, left, right, life and death. 

The cloth is wet because I didn't want to iron away all the nooks and crannies to blend away the holes from a false stitching start. 

I'm not even sure there's going to be any visible stitching. Tomorrow may tell.

Addendum 

Around sunset a storm flickered by.