refuge

 
Everyone who was sick has bounced back. I'm fine, but

it was a fraught weekend for many people and there's little relief in sight. If anyone is interested, email me.  I have an action plan.

 This afternoon, it's going to be near 70 and I will be outside getting my vitamin D and calling elected representative who need to be shitting their pants over the level of fury and anxiety their constituents are experiencing.

For those of you whose income hinges on the stock market, I'm sorry, but I'm worrying about whether or not I'll be able to pay my mortgage if musk decides that I don't deserve the money that I contributed to Social Security since 1968.

As an aside, I despise the word deserve. It hinges on someone's estimation of another's worth. 

I also have been spending too much time imagining the kind of punishment I'd like to wreak on those who have put us in fear and anger. I revisited a passage from Prophets Tango and found it to be unsatisfying. Like Anna said, "It wasn't fair. His lack of suffering."

I wasn't raised in any physical violence aside from a rare passing swat with a spaghetti sauce-covered wooden spoon. There was a fair amount of emotional violence until I learned what that was worth. Now I daydream of swinging a cutlass. One in each hand.

I'm seriously considering getting chickens as soon as I can get a proper coop built and I won't be making pets of them. I like chicken and chicken shit is very good for the dirt. 

Potatoes are easy too. 

For the morning I'm going to just breathe, remember how to fly, and spend time with some untroubled beings.

 

Friday with a twist

 

I usually pick him up from school on Friday, timing the drive to get me there in time to get in the line of cars, set an alarm, and catch a nap. Not today. Jake called at 6:30. 

He woke up sick enough with fever and cold symptoms to be kept home so I pushed up my schedule by half a day and saw sunrise on the highway for the first time in many years.

Not sick enough for him to stay in bed, we chatted and gamed and watched cartoons. The kitten medicine was potent for both of us. 

He was back in bed by lunchtime so I brought him a dish of Ritz crackers and a cut-up apple, always a hit. Only this time he said, "Why do these crackers taste like dust?"

Hmmm.

 As the day wore on and the Motrin wore off, body aches and fever set in and sleep took charge. 

They've all had Covid before. I haven't had anything but a flu shot for two years and had a bout of Covid myself back in September. Que sera, sera. 

Oblivious to all our concerns, Nibbler chased her tail and fetched her feather toys for us to throw. Like a good little labrador, she's all mouth and curiosity. She nearly made off with Temperance and was not about to let me do a reading then. I'll do one in a bit. 

On my way home this morning Red perked up her ears and stood by the fence to say hello. I've been giving her a double tap on the horn for two years. Her people recently removed the aggressively jingoistic political banner from the street gate. I hope they choke to death on buyers remorse, but then who will feed Red?

In a moment of mayhem

This was happening simultaneously with the TV coverage of the crash in DC.  

The TV was on in the "I'm not really watching" mode, sounds off, when I got a call from the neighbor across the street. 

Our elderly neighbor had called her because she was having trouble breathing. Smart gal, she called the closest neighbor who could respond the quickest. They called me for input and we concurred that EMS was needed. The lights were enough. No sirens. I need a window cleaner. 

 I won't tell you the awful thoughts I had when I learned the crash was in DC, but here, have one. Like, maybe the Shitweasel decided he could fly Airforce 1 himself and laid off the crew. 

 I've been through that airport and had forced layovers there in the past. The congestion on the ground and in the air. Hellish. Crazed. Luggage losing, no matter what airline you flew. I wonder if they still have the People Movers? When I saw one wallowing across the tarmac to the plane I thought it was a joke.

The immediate sadness is for the families of the lost. Those who perished are out of the game. Grief will ripple. 

creatures past and present

Karma VI has a provenance, but I'll drop this here in case you are tired of link-chasing.

"Our lives are not our own. We are bound to

 others, past and present, and by each crime

 and every kindness, we birth our future.” 

― David Mitchell, Cloud Atlas

From the B&W series from 2013, this was the last. 

November and December of that year did their best to kill me, and yet, when I look back, there was so much good work. 

I started writing in January, 2014. But I never stopped writing here. My life took some radical turns that year.

I remember being tormented with finding the correct orientation for this piece. Still am. This happens a lot when I work on small pieces. Weakness or lack is addressed during the build phase. Stitching brings language.

By the time KarmaVI wrapped up, I was thirsting for color. 

I'm done with the hearts. There are about a dozen I need to post and get on their way into the world.

Now I have Charlie's Monsters to work on.  The last evening I was there he got into a cartooning groove. We bound them into a folder and I'll stitch when the spirit moves me to pick up a needle instead of a pen. I had to go out and BUY black embroidery thread. Scandalous.
 

life notes ~ 

the phantom plumbers were here and gone in twenty minutes. A new pressure reduction valve was installed under the house in hopes this will allow the hot water heater to soldier on. 

sanctuary

They had remote classes most of the week because of the winter weather, but I drove up late Thursday just in case Friday washed out too. It didn't. There was a fractions test to take and a haircut to show off. His choice.

This morning he invented blueberry waffles & fresh strawberry burritos. One for me, four for him. 

We haven't been talking politics lately. I don't want to scare him, but his social studies class is just finishing up with the Great Depression, and will be taking up World War Two. I will be interested to see how the school handles it. 

We talked about Fascism vs Democracy and I showed him Elon Musk's nazi salute and then we dredged up some historical nazis. 

"That is the WORST mustache I've ever seen." 

I gave him a quick overview of what to expect in class. How does one briefly touch on the Holocaust with a sensitive child that you don't want to rush into adult awareness? You can't. 

A new devotee of the Marvel Universe (Captain America & Ironman are favorites) he's too young for Band of Brothers or Saving Private Ryan. I will rewatch the filmed version of the Diary of Anne Frank first.

He has to know that people gave their lives to conquer the kind of hate we will face in the coming days.

He busied himself turning potential nightmares into manageable cartoons. This one will be stitched if I can find enough yellow. 

Tomorrow, I'll dig this piece out of the closet and see how the new camera treats it. Good shots of textiles-- black and white and color--are difficult. I'm still learning the editing tools too. This image came from one of my earliest digital cameras. A dinosaur now. Still working!

.

Further difficulties capturing black cats. 3:44am Nibbler climbed up on the high bed looking to play. One by one, she brought her favorite toys up with her. Wrestled with stick feathers, my feet, and this stuffed kitten until almost sunrise. Then tucked up behind me to sleep. Me too. Finally.

Of course, I dragged the writer's bag with me. Loaded down with scraps, notes, notebooks, pens, the tablet, its power cord, "The Demon of Unrest" by Erik Larson, etc. 

What did I get done? Not much, but--after watching The Avengers Endgame (we both wept bitterly at Ironman's funeral) I realized that the tension missing in the current work in progress has to come from something going dangerously wrong between the two main characters. 

What is life without risk? Not best-seller material.

 

the writer, take 1

 

This is what 13 degrees looks like in Gwinnett County, Georgia. It really was too cold to snow much more than this but whatever got frosted froze and the roads were deadly. 

Perfect weather to lock oneself in and get some work done, you say? This was the cold that gripped my heart when I booted up Scrivener and the file for PT4 was empty. Gone. Vanished. 

Scrivener is complex and the learning curve was too steep for me, so from day one, I learned only the bare essentials which included a nifty thing called COMPILE. 

A backup that delivers a file of everything you've done so far in whatever format you need it in. 

The developers prefer you connect the app to some cloud - I have a dim view of my hard work fizzing around in the ether -  so I compiled after each work session, named the file with the date, and emailed it to myself. Backups galore. It only took a few minutes to calm myself and find the latest iteration. 

But my filing system is a disaster. I have shit and icons spewed all over the desktop each with cryptic little names that are cut off just because icons are tiny. Grr. 

All of this and a lagging, aging laptop conspiring to snuff the creative spark that had my ass in the proper chair for the first time in ages. Meanwhile, my new phone is trying to convince me that I'm on the spectrum, depressed, have ankylosing spondylitis, and need to buy Bitcoin. 

Really guys, I only have a new-found appreciation for rugby players. 

Well, eff all that. I'll wade in.

~Unsolved disappearances, like gossip, will fade into local color. Stains, even blood, wash away with time unless there is one person, one broken heart, to keep the memory of loss alive.~

excerpt from "Slash & Burn" 

PS. I read that since most social media platforms have become infested with despair and cooties,  blogging is making a comeback. I've always felt like I was publishing my own daily paper. Been slingin' it at your porch since 2005. 

Welcome Heather Cameron of True Stitches back to the fold.

Sequestered

 

Here's to a second cup of coffee and getting a pot of meat sauce into the slow cooker.

I tried logging out of all things Meta early this morning, but then I remembered that my co-pirate now texts me from his Dick Tracy (no internet) watch. He can send and receive texts and make calls to only a list of numbers his parents have pre-set. 

And here I was upset that the vintage Mickey Mouse watch I was going to gift him was ruined when the battery leaked into the works. 

The non-stop, all-media Shitweasel Shitshow is everywhere so that alone is making it easier to put the phone face down and turn the tabs elsewhere. 

We are having a spell of New England-style weather (temps in the teens in Georgia is exceptional) with some snow predicted for tomorrow. The cat posse blames me. 

I'm making the Real a workaround to take the place of the mostly useless ephemera of the web as I wean myself away from all things that Zuck. I'll stay informed by a few trusted sources --Bluesky will take some getting used to. 

Remember the squeal-snarl-snap of dialing up to the web, then falling down the rabbit hole of AOL? Or the Well if you are older. 

BBS anyone? It took some doing to recover from all that, but I did it before and will do it again. 

Later, I'm going to tinker Jake's photo into a new header here. 

It's a sunrise on a nation more than half full of decent people who know right from wrong.

Who will call out shit when they smell it and do the right thing when they can.

 I see our country just climbing out of its pimply teenage self-absorption. The sobering and maturing is taking root right now. 

Meanwhile, there are stories to tell. 

Biscuits to make. 

Books to write and stitches to take. 

The sparks of my wheel

 

Our resident professor of all things David Lynch is saddened by his passing. 

Personally, I have a hard time connecting Eraserhead with The Elephant Man, but such is the nature of genius. 

I don't know who is growing faster- Charlie or Nibbler who remains Little Devil to me.

The mystical Playlist is at the helm.

refuge

my sandbox

"We takes it where we can gets it." I might be quoting some hobbit. Not sure.

These days comfort comes from stitching, music, movies, and small acts of domesticity and neighborliness. The lure of putting words on paper is right at the edge of all this. Close, just out of reach. 

The best way to describe writing fiction to non-writers is to imagine a thousand-piece jig-saw puzzle in your head with images that keep changing as you try to organize them. When the pieces fall into place and fit. Zing!

Last night, I could write a book about the pleasure of fresh sheets, but I fell asleep. Long luxurious showers are on hold. Our hot water heater is being temperamental and rather than pay a pro to come in and give me bad news, the rule is "Get in, get clean, get out". 

The monthly discretionary fund was supposed to go for a vet visit for Ms. Salem but when the time came to load her into the new carrier, she chose some astounding violence. We backed off and she took refuge under my stitching chair for most of the day. I left the open carried on the floor in the bedroom last night with cat cookies tucked in the back. Each one, even Salem, took turns investigating. 

 

Ways of seeing ~ moonlight

 

We are a family of night creatures. Jake took this shot by moonlight while he was on his daily walk. His first miles come before the sun is even up.

I am still learning what the new phone/camera is capable of.  

The full moon woke me blazing through the windows. It's been a while so I spread my Tarot out for a blessing. 

Bailey remains unaffiliated.

It's a good thing the neighborhood doesn't really blaze this bright, but this is how the camera saw it. Just to the left of the streetlight, the moon was just coming through the trees. Looking down on the scene, lordly Jupiter. 

The solar Christmas light wrapped through the gardenia will stay until warmer weather. The plan is to prune it back harshly and substitute some other kind of solar lighting that's not so firmly seasonal. Maybe by then Colin will have taken the skeletons off the crape myrtles. We still haven't undressed our Christmas tree.