Saturday raft, updated.

As ever, I've got mine, but this time, only tentatively. I need to go through my thread box and evict some non-starters who are taking up space. Or maybe think about a secondary thread box? No. I need boundaries and that seems like a good place to start. Out with the old, in with a few new.

The four table moppers were out in the elements for a whole week. It was a very soft, worn damask tablecloth that I cut into quarters to cover the table with nothing hanging over the edges. They have me thinking about flags.

It's been warm. Anything that loves the sun is taking full advantage. There's a box of dirt out there that's bursting with nasturtiums. All summer I couldn't get any to grow. Late bloomers reaching for life.

I'm a little sad right now. Jim's truck is on its way to its next life. I put the story here.

A perspective

 I'm elevating, icing, off it, and taking the cat's ass cure. I've never broken a bone in my life. Guess it shouldn't come as a surprise that structural damage, even this minor, should come with high-intensity pain.

 I'm a thrasher at night if the bedding tells any tales. Every movement seems to involve using that foot for leverage and touching anything with it sets off seismic waves of pain. 

This inability to rest, to escape, sent me on long, violent mental tangents. I'm a writer with a gift for sex and violence and nobody was having any fun, so I'll spare you the details. 

That thought train led me to think about the outliers. Those who have been quiet for a while, the behind-the-scenes players from both camps. I have not watched TV or spent more than seconds on the web since I lit up my phone sometime in the night and that greasy visage filled the screen. It might have been the latest Vanity Fair cover. Without media influence, I thought about:

-- Biden is still president and Harris is still VP. With polling as it was, I believe contingency plans for this bad outcome have been ready since Biden stepped aside. SCOTUS, however unintentionally, has given the sitting president carte blanche to do whatever it takes to prevent the worst of the shitstorm Trump thinks he can whip up. No, he will not be able to shit-can civil servants if they don't kiss the ring. No, he will not be able to use military force against citizens on American soil. There is probably more that never occurred to me. 

Also, the Shitweasel has accomplished the MAGA objective, the syphilitic tool. He is no longer useful, in fact, an embarrassment. All he can do now is cause them problems. 

If he doesn't live to be sworn in, you'll be sure that JD Vance has a solid alibi. Why, Donold might think Melanoma owes him a celebratory BJ and she'll show him how a hat pin enema works. Anything could happen and when it does, I'm rather sick of the word "unprecedented". 

Something I've learned in the past year (unrelated to politics entirely) is that I will make myself physically ill if I dwell on the enemy. Serious hair loss, hives, and pest headaches came from a long spell of "kill the enemy" thinking.   

Don't know if the Buddha actually said it but holding on to anger is like drinking poison and expecting the other person to die couldn't be more apt.

I've gotten that under control (mostly) and have extended it to how I'm handling this latest insult to my mental well-being. 

The dye deck is a perfect embodiment of the mood of half the country. Those table moppers have promise, though. And I still get first dibs. 

the days ahead

I assured him that there were enough good people to keep this shit from happening.

Now, I don't know what I'll say, but you can bet he'll be finding the news and judging those who chose greed, fear and hatred yesterday. 
 

Which liar will hold that book so he can curse it further with his touch? 

It's a long time until January, Karma. What's the holdup? 

And to frost the shit cake of this day, I just broke or dislocated my right little toe. No pictures. A good cry didn't amount to much relief.

 Update, the doctor was glad she did not need to a reduction, closed or surgical. I probably did it myself at the time it happened. But the x-ray revealed that the second bone was broken. The solution as I thought, tape the flapping toe to its neighbor. Elevate. Ice and stay off it for a few days. Not going to pick up the drugs today. Maybe tomorrow.

The wait

And now, we wait.

I am put in mind of a time when I was bringing home a rather shitty report card.

We almost always sat in "our" seats on the Giant Yellow Limos, those few of us peons who didn't have cars. 

Our small-town Slim Shady sat across from me directly behind the bus driver. I think he was trying to learn how to drive a bus. Such would be a pinnacle of achievement for him other than stealing one.

I was slumped in my seat trying to unsee the failing algebra grade. He lifted the flimsy document out of my fingers, found the source of my misery, and handed it back to me.

"Smile. Ain't fuck all you can do about it now."

Harvest

See the watchers? Both of them dangling off the edge of the deck, working my last nerve.

When I was finished, each shelf was filled.

Two thousand yards of thread out there.

Lessons!

-Use more dye. Be profligate. 

-give the threads a head start. Put them in the (warm) sauce, then mix the colors.

-make the sauce stronger. A whole cup to a gallon.

-Nothing goes into the washing machine. 

Handling the skeins after they've batched for a day requires patience and a delicate touch. Cold, hot with Dawn, Cold, Hot, Cold. Small groups of like-ish colors. Very gentle handling underwater. It's like handling cooked pasta and not breaking any noodles. I really need to film this part. It's not brain surgery, but, go hasty and you'll wind up with a nest of snakes.

There are some very eclectic shifts in this lot.

On my way home from Jake's this morning. Red has been watching me come and go almost weekly for two years. I double tap the horn and more and more, she looks up from her munching. 

This morning, I stopped and she came to the fence. I want to bring her some carrots. It bothers me that she looks underfed. A few yards to the left the driveway is guarded by two large flags. One that we salute. The other, a national shame. 

I told him we needed a joint selfie. 

What were you doing?

Looking into your soul. 

And?

He laughed.

It was nice to eat someone else's cooking. 

My ofrenda needs more flowers. And a beer, some chips, and some cat cookies.

I have traded in Halloween for the Day of the Dead. 

I would rather buy flowers for the late Beloved than cheap candy for total strangers.
 

Samhain

 

I love these little ghosts, but more often than not these impressions get swallowed up by the rest of the process. One of these days I'll remember to pick a wet one up and set it aside to perk. All the small cloths -- and they were mostly small -- are in a damp ball in the tub. I washed and rinsed them by hand and tomorrow I'll put them out in the weed dryer.

I had intended to lean as blue as I could, but when faced with the rainbow, I just had to grab onto both ends.

It was so fine out today. Just warm enough to call up a little humidity. I have no science around this but I think it helps the dye dust cling to the salt crystals. Makes for less dye wasted and better distribution when mixing colors. 

I have been doing this for a long time and there are still ways to screw up, but, knock wood this looks like an outstanding batch.

The only variable I didn't have control over was the temperature which was just enough for me to break a sweat.

I had good music on the box. A trio of hairy assistants patrolling the perimeter of the deck.

Soft breezes with the barred owls down in the woods warming up. All in all, a very fine way to spend my time.

I kept stopping to look around and take it all in. I do that a lot lately.

--A green tree frog jumped out from under the canvas lawn chair. I hurried to douse him with fresh water in case he'd picked up some salt from my mess. He hid in the Swedish ivy which, any day now, needs to come in before the first frost.

Even at noon, the sun was so slant, so sly, peeking through the lattice.

The bundles are all linen or damask. Most of it was so worn that when I tried to rip it, it shredded.

Each bundle carries a dozen or so threads. This different handling yields more blended colors. Less heathering. 

I soak this all up the way the cloth soaks up the dye.

Since it began, this my diamond year, I've been looking at things and thinking, "this might be the last time I ..." 

So, rather than just hit "record", I give things my full attention. 

I don't see this as morbid, just mindful. If I'm the least bit careful, I have a good ten years. I plan to live acutely. Make every moment a diamond.

And this piece. I really hope the colors hold, but this cloth is more about the weight and weave.

 It's another of those perfect, lightweight linen tablecloths. I plan on making a winter version of this. Maybe a little longer with some kind of sleeves. I'll wing it with care. This is lifetime cloth.

It was a big, glory filled day. We are tired and will hide from the candy goblins come dark.

My October surprise

 

Tomorrow promises 80 degrees. I'll be spending today prepping for a first. A Halloween dyefest. 

In real life

  New day, real stuff to do. Yesterday, I entrusted a handful of thread orders to the postal service. Hope that wasn't a fool's errand.  Joe just received a fabric bundle that was mailed six weeks ago!

I've been working on a short story for way too long because I know it's really a bridge to the next book. A juicy chunk of that story revealed itself last night. 

I burrowed around in the cloth closet and pulled this UFO out for consideration. 

Nothing is more satisfying than turned-edge applique with two layers of vintage, hand-dyed damask. In the beginning, I stabbed myself a couple of times because there was little to no resistance to the needle. 

This, and a handful of others, is destined to become part of the first bedware I have made in years. 

That furred gladiator in repose freaked us out last night. Bailey met Colin in the driveway, jumped into his lap before he could get out of the car, and followed him inside to reveal that he was covered in gore. Blood all over his white bib, face, and forelegs. After a hasty and ill-received examination--he growled and hissed and lashed his tail--I could find no obvious injuries. This morning, he had cleaned himself thoroughly and it was eatzees as usual followed by a quick dash for the door. We will watch and wait.

Jumping Jack Flash got another bath (I made the mistake of leaving him parked underneath the power line) and later, I'll clean the inside - again. There will be road trips. 
 
A good chunk of Prophets Tango was written while I was driving to and from caring for Charlie when he was very little. Notes jotted down at stoplights. Whole conversations between characters while I kept my hands on the wheel and dictated the gist of those dialogues into my phone. It's a time machine. 

And the other day, Charlie told me I was a time traveler. He often asks me about how it was when I was his age. 

Here, the well-rehearsed and researched preparations for transforming Charlie into Fry from Futurama. 

And a damn fine job.

 Missy felt teary over some of these pictures. She could see his teen years coming. Me too.

~done~

 

                                                  I voted today. I'm done.

A special thanks to Dee Mallon for this excellent post on coping, especially the link to James Carville's article on why Kamala Harris will win.   Take heart.

                                  

Adventures awry

 The day after I got back from New York, there was an email invitation to the Kamala Harris rally in Atlanta. Harris, Obama, Springsteen? Are you kidding me? I spent a half hour checking to see it was a scam. I pounced and rsvp'd. 

After several email exchanges, I almost felt the FBI rifling through my file. Then I got the exact address and the logistics for attending. It was on! Lots of rules including NO bags of any kind. No food or water. Here's me assuming we'd be provided for. A whole separate location for ADA pickup and entry. My walking stick was approved. It was a go! 

I left my car at a MARTA station and joined a long queue waiting for the buses to take us to the venue. The excitement, the solidarity was joyfully palpable. I was about to start meeting the angels.

Angel number One, so appropriately named Angela, my seatmate. Both of us have seen the campaigns of life. Both of us on sticks, our back, and hips trying their best to behave and let us have this day.

The weather was perfect. Small mercy. The bus let us off at the ADA entrance. We stood in another line that moved slower and slower. A staffer made her way down the line to warn us to take everything out of our pockets. It was slowing down security. With no bags, what else was there?  I had my car keys and my ID stashed in my bra. 

Samuel Jackson's limo rolled up and he poked his head out to say hey. 

Then things went sideways. Another staffer made her way back along the line to advise that the west side of the venue was full and the entrance would be closing. Hundreds of people were still in line. Crutches, canes, wheelchairs and caretakers. It looked like a pilgrimage to Lourdes. The only option was to walk back down to the road and hike about a half-mile back to the main gate where we, the halt, lame, and deranged, would be granted special access ahead of the hoi polloi. 

I was already low on gas, but Angela took my arm and said, "We got this." The woman literally saved my life, counting off a dozen steps at a time and then stopping for a breather. If it hadn't been for Angela, I would have lay down in the weeds and watched as the parade went by without me. 

True to the word passed, a young man met us at the gate and shepherded us to the last security checkpoint, airport style, wands and all. Secret service was serious. At this point, I was having trouble getting enough air and my legs were shaking. Another slow line and my vision started darkening around the edges. We were at the last set of stairs. Angela grabbed a cop, who called for EMS and I told her I was in the right hands and to go on without me. She was reluctant, but she pressed on.

I was quickly treated to Fulton County's finest care. EMTs did their thing. Gave me a big blue Gatorade to finish. I was dehydrated. My bad.  I left the house on only a cup of coffee and half a sandwich worried about if and when I'd have access to a bathroom. An EMT said he heard that all the time. Not an unreasonable concern.

I spent the next hour in a Cooling Station, a converted command vehicle. I could hear everything, but I wasn't really taking it in.

Then the second angel, the same young male staffer who got us through security came back to me and told me that the buses would be coming soon. 

I sat outside the cooler and watched the human parade oddly detached from the whole point of being there. There were hundreds of people just milling around outside. Apparently fire marshall put a cap on how many people could actually be admitted to the stadium which holds fifteen thousand. I was surprised to find that most of the people outside hadn't bothered to register. 

Young angel returned, took me by the arm, and whispered, "Let's get you a ride." He walked me down to the road where the buses were lumbering like elephants in a circus parade, pounded on the door of the first one sporting a Kensington Station sign, and asked the driver to let me board there instead of a half-mile down the road.  Goodbye, young angel. Thank you.

I climbed aboard and settled in for the long slow ride back to the station. Traffic was nearly frozen, blue lights strobing everywhere just to keep order. Another angel, our bus driver, cruised a full-sized school bus through a crowded parking lot dropping us off at our cars, one by one. 

A good time was had by all and I am a bit more cognizant of my limitations.