Finishing

 There's nothing like a distant deadline to get me to shake off the cobwebs and realize I have a trove of nearly complete work. I can't decide if I want these to be pillows or hangings. I'm also reminded that those finishing stitches, like a quilt binding, are so satisfying. Like finally getting to lick the butter cream icing off a knife after you frost a cake.  You know you do it.

I'm also reminded how much I enjoy stitching text. I won't waste my time with things like FUCK TRUMP or ELON SUCKS. It will have to matter more than shouting into the void. Any suggestions?

"Cooze is cooze, but it's the heart that makes the heat."  From "Prophets Tango".

"Don't be afraid. Love's plans are made." Straight up stolen from "I Dreamed Last Night" by Justin Hayward. I did pay for the record many years ago. Fair use? Somehow I don't think he'd mind a pillow or two.

and ever repeating beginnings that lift the heart and give hope.

This is the patch of garden that I can tend. Wild now, I'm still deciding what will thrive the way these have. A few years back, Jake and I liberated a few clumps of monkey grass from the curbside gardens of a beautiful brick home being demolished to build condos. These were mixed into the clumps. In the fall, I'll divide these and take some to his place.

Perennials would be nice, but I know marigolds like the front row. 

Eyegasm

 It's warmed up here. Dare I say it out loud? Winter is over. 

I ventured out onto the dye deck to survey the mess. At least this year I made sure to up-end the mason jars so they wouldn't break if rainwater froze. 

This was balled up in a clot under the table looking nasty. I was reluctant to pick it up with my bare hands, but I shook it out glad to find it an almost intact vintage damask napkin, not just a shred.

 This is why I call them Dirty Threads. All my dye work happens outside on an uncovered deck. Trees everywhere shedding their skins. Bugs, lizards, frogs, moss, cat hair--if it wasn't for the boards under my feet, I might well be out in the woods. 

A thorough hand wash in the kitchen sink and random, nearly discarded beauty came through.

For now, I'm going to tuck it away because there are many other things on the flightline needing my attention.

There's been quite enough dicking around with test stars on this linen scarf. I have to start thinking about how they'll look on that bloody field. 

My posse

 Some time in the middle of the night, one or two of these invaded my bed with anxious zoomies waking Salem and I from a dead sleep. I got up and looked down the stairs in time to see a foot-long raccoon tail going out the cat door.  

They crowded me the rest of the night. All disapproving as I saddled up to go buy more grub for them.

to extremes

 

The light is cloudy, winter afternoon, so, not optimal but I didn't want to dick around with filters. 

This red feels like a living thing, shifting from warm to cool enough to keep me from turning away. It's not my favorite place on the light spectrum. Is "Easily Incited to Violence"  a color? 

Yes, I believe it's here.

I'm thinking about how to convey and refine the message.

Blue/white stars wandering, lost.

Some stars colored by a prism. 

I'm going to do some sampling before I commit to the linen.

I had a bit of a meltdown yesterday morning. A blend of domestic and external stressors combined to rock me. I let it happen, and turned to the kindest shoulder {Pokemon indeed!}. 

Took a minute, got my shit together and lit out for the country. If it were closer, the magic might wear thin.

We doodled. Listen to records. Played with Nibbler. Played poker. He's better at poker than Scrabble since I don't show him mercy anymore. 

Once the whole family was home, we watched the film "Flow". 

Beautiful, deep, moving. You'll thank me.

my mark

 

Small to great, the work of my hands,

...and the work of my heart. They are all there is to know about me.

Soothe, smooth, & salve

There's nothing like finding a lost tool to right an off-kilter day for me. I had given the little Ginghers up for lost, missing a month or more. 

The post office was busy and the parking lot was cramped. People pulling in and out of tight places, hurrying, but I am the person you curse at when I'm parking. Let's call it deliberate. 

I learned to drive on a huge, 1953 Chevy B210, thankfully, one of the first automatics. During the one or two ride-alongs before my road test, my father stressed smooth moves and signaling. Gas and brake as if the Queen of England was having tea in the back seat. Driving that way, in that old car - old even for the 70's - gave it dignity. Stand back as La Bamba oozes into view! I wish I had pictures of it. 

This day, I had to hit the brakes suddenly for some fuckery behind me and the little scissors slid out from under the driver seat. Glad to be in boots and not barefoot.

After a long, stressful day, and a late cup of coffee, I was looking forward to some writing time. There were clues to run down. Being in the mood for writing is not something to sneer at.

Salem is not a lap cat and will struggle violently if you try to cuddle her. Last night, she climbed onto my lap and lay across the keyboard before I could slide it out from under her. Nothing started, nothing lost.

I had The Bear on in the background and, even though I had strawberry shortcake for dinner, it made me hungry again.

After the morning from hell trying to book some last minute travel plans for Colin, an intriguing call took up another chunk of the day.

I hate to be coy here, but there may be an opportunity for a show with room for some of my major pieces in the future. A big space for some big work.

I spent the rest of the afternoon wondering what was where?

I loved Jude's birthday portrait. I'm finding that when one spends a lot of time alone, this is not a bad way to remember who you are. 

the open door

Sorry about locking the door on everyone. A few of my sites had a flood of traffic originating in Singapore and if you drill down into the IP addresses, China. Fuck 'em. 

They can't steal what I've been sharing freely all these years. So, open doors and windows.

~~~~~~👹~~~~~~~~

I found the right cloth for the lining. More of that mottled, pink commercial batik. The cloth itself is a very tightly woven cotton with a sheen that reminds me of chintz. Smooth and strong. 

Just what you need so stuff will obey gravity and not snag on the way down. And the piece is just big enough. A sign to break out the Singer 99K and get on with it. 

Distracting myself? It's the work of my day. This and churning words. 

I didn't trust myself to call anyone today. Screamed curses are easy to ignore.

Whispered threats, now......

 

working cloth never rests

 It's raw cold and raining. The lawn is alive with little brown birds so tiny you can't see them until they move. Forget taking pictures. All of them bossed by a gang of cardinals. I really need to hire a landscaper. It's gotten away from us.

From the River Basket, a stack of mostly finished and a few never will be. 

And this, reborn from a false, unsatisfying start. The last remnant of Jim's jeans. Real tools hung from that loop once. This is front and back. So far.

A woman can't have too many pockets. This will be a pocket with two or three pockets.

Somewhere in my closet, there's a pair of jeans that will be sacrificed for the strap of just the right length. There will be beads.

Now that I have the heavy hauler with room for overnight stuff, books, and my Chromebook, I want something just for my wallet, keys, and cell. 

And a knife. Glasses. Some paper. A pen. A damask napkin. Lip stuff. Gum. Aspirin. A lighter. Some lotion. My Tarot. Loose change. PENNIES!

What do you always carry? 

Now I have to find the right fabric to line it with. Slowly.

And writing. For hours. 

Lost in the delicious now. Clean, warm, dry, fed and grateful. 

Taking a stand

I don't care for football at all. Even watching the Superbowl for the (maybe) clever commercials has become more than I'll tolerate. You can usually find all of them online even before they air. Half-time shows? Prince took it with him, never to return. 

Poor New Orleans. When I heard that the Shitweasel was planning on making an appearance, that sealed the deal. That petty putz ruined a lot of watch parties.

 Instead, I sat with this and re-watched the Saturday Night Movie.  

When I've decided that there are enough stitches, I'll sew it to the back of my Dixie Mink. 

We are a messy nation. 

Nowhere near under any god. 

I have a feeling that Karma is feeling a little put out and is about to tap Kali on the shoulder for backup.

Meanwhile, as my northern friends shovel fresh snow, the creek folk have opened Froggy Club Med in my pool. It feels really early for the season. 

Passings

The Elders are leaving us to figure shit out on our own. Handing off the keys.

Wednesday dawn, there was a repeat of last week's call for EMS only this time, there was no return trip.

My friend and neighbor passed away around 3 in the morning. Ninety-one years old this past January, Joyce was fiercely independent. Lived alone and took her '93 Cadillac out almost daily. 

She despised the rancid clown currently despoiling the White House and we'd start each day with a phone call relaying what we'd heard or read and have a cackle about what we'd do to him, given half a chance.

Also this week, Mary McBride left us. Mary was the founder and director of Focus On Fiber, Florida Style. FOF was a retreat for textile artists held at the Atlantic Center for the Arts in New Smyrna Beach FL. 

Over the years, I was fortunate to attend several of these retreats where the core of most my major textile pieces began and the first 35K of my novel fell into place. The time, space, and pampering that Mary coordinated made all the difference for my creative trajectory. The Bronx ever in her heart, she was a bold original.

I will miss them both.