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Wish I could recall where I first saw this mending technique. It's always been fixing holes or covering stains on knitted things and always a beautiful "save" of something beloved. 

Here I'm covering up places where the warp or weft is worn away. The generally good condition of this vest made me suspect these few odd places were sanded to mimic wear and tear like the jeans with the thighs rubbed pale. Stupidest fashion take ever, in my opinion. Always made everyone look like they were wearing salami skins. 

I made a point of not sewing the pockets shut. How annoying would that be? 

And somehow, none of this repair is in keeping (beyond the colorways) with the flying eye on the center back. 

Thanks to everyone who ordered thread sets today...I'm off to the post office with them now. 

Nightscape

With all the web willies going on about drones, I thought I would grab a quick shot of the almost full moon because the clouds are due to smother it all. If I didn't tell you that it's the moon, a streetlight and the road illuminated, plus my neighbors homes, you might see a massive mother ship landing. 

Back in the 80's there was always local gossip about the Hudson Valley UFOs flying in slow, silent formations. Witness here. A v-shaped wedge of lighted, radio controlled models, low and slow enough to sound like a distant flotilla of lawn mowers. There are a lot of people in the NE with more money than sense. Drones are the latest toy and they are playing at will. What amazes me is that some yahoo hasn't yet shot one down. Any minute now. 

Then again, if it's drug dealers making deliveries, could be word has been passed that intercepting their coke might be frowned upon. Again, a case of more money that is good for a person.

 

On a much finer note, the Cativerse has decided that House Lacativa NE should be blessed with this little bundle of energy and love. Lady Nibbler Lacativa, 8 weeks old. They decided she and I should share a birthday. I'm honored.

the hoard to the front lines!

Years ago, before I became a dyer, I hoarded commercial prints. A friend and I used to drive three hours one way to a fabric store where we would make the trip worthwhile. 

There was another place, more local, that actually pushed piles of surplus cloth around with a bobcat. Nothing that a good washing machine couldn't fix.

Once I started dyeing, I also started torturing some of those prints with discharging, overdyeing, and adding textile paints. Batiks and Timeless Treasure prints were favorites.

I've hauled them out of the cloth closet and am busy putting them to work. Something about the shrieks of ripping cloth sends the cats flying from the room. Too bad they leave so much of their hair behind.

Once I uncovered the work table (thanks for the shove, Kitty) the Janome was up and ready from the small lingerie projects of the summer. Batting is on the way.

There will be free-motion text here and there. 

 

inner life

I finally convinced last year's gift, the turntable, to hook up to a wireless speaker adequate for the guest bedroom's size.

We spent some time listening to his records. He reads the covers for the copyright year and the liner notes for the lyrics. We searched for the science behind making and listening to records. 

Artie Shaw's "Begin the Beguine" sparked a discussion on the years before WW2. This was my mother's music that I probably heard in utero. According to him, that makes me a time traveler. 

Later he showed me a documentary on Disney+ titled "Beatles 64". It opened with a reminder to me that the Beatles first came to the US only four months after the JFK assassination punched the nation in the heart.

Before they plunged into Beatlemania, there was a brief overview of JFK's presidency (he'd heard his speech about going to the moon in school) and the assassination and funeral. Even though I knew he was watching my reaction, I could not keep from tearing up seeing the riderless horse and the little boy saluting the passing coffin. I was fourteen that year. 

The documentary interviewed several women my age trying to get an explanation for the screaming. Even the Beatles didn't seem to know.  One woman said something like, "We needed to be joyful over something." I think she was onto something. 

 I remember being ten, the year I read Hiroshima - the year that humanity revealed its cruel and dangerous side. He's ten now and you can see that he's gotten a glimpse of that since the election. 

 I take some joy in that he knows that one person at a time, we can do good. Be better. 

death dealers

 

both of them. 

I've misplaced my tiniest Ginghers. Slippery devils, they are probably wandering around in my car since the sewing tote has an open top and always has too much in it. I'll check later when the sun's been out a while. Below-freezing temps in Georgia are a shock. 

I'm switching over to these for now. If they ever had any kind of point guard, it's long gone, so they are just going to stay on the table beside the stitching chair.

I bet the characters read: Watch out, stupid. They're sharp as hell!

What do you think about when you are stitching alone? 

What do you talk about if you are stitching in company?

My mind wanders. Oddly, some say.

And have you read "All the Colors of the Dark" by Chris Whitaker? If you liked the True Detective TV series, you'll love it. I did. 

the OG selfie

 

Grace started it wonderfully.

My hat was bright yellow felt. The dress was a simple rayon A-line with long bell sleeves. Pink, turquoise, and yellow print on white. 

Getting four instant pictures for a dollar was such a deal. The making ready in the usually greasy mirror. Hold your breath...or not. Laughing out loud and spoiling two out of the four. Then standing outside and waiting for the grumbling grind to spit the strip into the slot. Don't put your fingers on it!

The photo booth was in Grand Central Station, NYC. Spring 1967. I was on my way with my portfolio for my first interview at the School of Visual Arts. Alone. I got in. At the time, the school was uncredited. They needed my money.

I remember her well. She had no illusions, no goals, and no expectations. Every day was new and wide open to whatever happened next.

Many years later, I discovered that I had gone to classes right around the corner from where our friend Michelle had lived for several years. We probably passed each other on the sidewalk and nodded, friendly-like. I was never much of a New York City girl. Ever the tourist from the country.

Saved

 

It was a fluke burst of energy that got me to bring all the plants inside before I went away last week. Frosty here this morning.

My motley crew. I draw the line at naming them (as it dawns on her that this is a lie)

The tall, gangly things are a forest of diffenbachia; the scions of the OG plant, Louie, a wedding gift from Donald Theall, one of Jim's bachelor friends who thought he had lost his damn mind.

Two scabrous Christmas cactii who bloom when they are not playing dead.

The center top photo is a descendent of a hoya plant my mother smuggled home from Hawaii in the late 60s. 

A strangely healthy-looking jade plant. Grocery rescue I think.

A tub of black hollyhocks I started from seed this year. Struggling to keep them from getting rust. Kind of plant acne.

The New York Moss is doing nicely. Has me thinking about having fish again. Neither of the boys remember my tall 20 gallon tank in the kitchen with big, black and white angel fish. They were a murderous lot. Each week the smallest fish would disappear until there was only one big bastard left. 

And last but not least, Swedish Ivy, Mr.&Mrs. Wilson (more downstairs) grown from cuttings snipped from the home of the founder of AA, Bill Wilson.  I have celebrity plants. My care is negligible. Much more attention and stuff starts to die.

All this green diddling has me looking forward to some horticultural wizardry next season. Now I will spend an hour at Seed Supreme revelling in the descriptions of their offerings. 

I've been in a funk since I cut the bird. The annual forgetting that rich, brown gravy raises hell with me. Two days in a row. Every year.

Social media is sickening. Well-trodden paths are as much as I can stand. Your place, mine. Little else has any integrity. Taking care of the plants is good. Planning for Spring helps the head. 

Maybe soup for dinner.

And for dessert, a favorite. Reminding me that words can turn worlds. 

"This is not life, Will. This is a stolen season."

Even without the gorgeous visual feast, the music and the writing--the story telling--always rights me.

"No...not the artful postures of love, but love that overthrows life. Unbiddable, ungovernable, like a riot in the heart, and nothing to be done, come ruin or rapture."      

                   by Marc Norman & Tom Stoppard

Leftovers

Heart of Joy

 But, these are fresh.

There are a lot of leftovers because I ate alone. I'm grateful the "bird's done" thing popped in time for Colin to gobble a leg and mashed potatoes before dashing to work. 

Gratitude to myself, because I took the time to clean as I went. Leftovers, which we love, were stowed and the kitchen was nearly spotless.

Regrets? No dessert. I forgot to buy apples.

As relief for the previous entry and the ongoing work of hatching evil, I'm spending the morning restocking the thread store. The sun is just right for pictures. 

I don't shop on Black Friday in person, and this year, not even online. 

For those who do, remember to be good to yourself. You deserve it. 

good intentions

...paved a murderer's garden walk.

I've been working on a story and, to date, have only had a sketchy one-name placeholder for an antagonist and needed to build one from scratch. 

At this point, he's been just a watcher. No spoilers, but he needed to be evil. Deep and wide. I had to make him guilty of something heinous. Several somethings. Give him a taste for it. Amp up the horror to warrant some sublime justice.

The prime crime revealed itself. I jotted down a few notes, shot the scene in my head, and tripped right over a personal phobia to the point that I couldn't go to sleep. Getting it on paper is going to be difficult. 

Now, even the Spirits fear him.

The series "The Crown" should be bottled and sold as a cure for insomnia. I longed for bourbon but made do with turgid TV.

 

the men at work