Spring

Even here in Georgia, the weather keeps bouncing back and forth between winter and spring. Monday was cold and blustery. When I got to Charlies in the pre-dawn, I thought it was snowing. I don't know what kind of trees they are but they lost all their flowers overnight.

I'm primed to make some more dirty threads, but I have to wait for some warmer weather. In the meantime, I'm going helter-skelter in the house trying to make it...nicer. That's code for 'cleaning'.

Dirty Threads

The Floridians are ready to leave the nest. 

more....

a little more Florida

Nothing visual going on here in the studio. I wanted to get pictures of the new dirty threads up, but the weather went to grizzly shit before dawn this morning. First I had to turn the AC on just to get Saturday's heat and humidity out of the house. When the storm front came through, I had to turn on the heat.

When did I become such a hothouse flower?

This is the same sink that graces my banner up top. I didn't get any actual cloth dyed this time. The threads came out fine but these canvas grocery bags didn't hang on to this much dye once they came out of the washing machine. They have a Monet reject feel to them. All fails will get a second chance once it warms up around here.

I did get to the beach for a few hours, but the water was cold, the wind steady and a few people were hollering "shark! I got wet to the ankles, thanked Yemaya for the blessing, and spent the rest of the time on the sand reading and watching the surf.

I got a lot of writing done - my main reason for going.



"Baghdad Bazaar" has been pressed into service as a beach blanket. Art must serve. That is my concrete yoga bench. There should be a sign - "Lay down for ten minutes & need help getting up"

Baghdad Bazaar, 43x55, born here at ACA,  2007 

the compulsion

Also home with me from Florida, a butt load of cotton print scraps. Just what I need, right?! A full washing machine load of these little darlings. As you can see by the pink roses on the black background of my pjs, I have a tiny print fetish.

When I first saw them piled on the help-yourself table, I thought they were dismembered hospital gowns, but no, the hand is soft and the selvage reads "Made in France 100% cotton". Most of the pieces are less than a fat quarter and way wonkier.

If I sew them all together I might have enough to make myself a djellaba or a mumu or something soft and flowy and not for public display. More pajamas!

home

I left Florida at 8:15. We were supposed to meet at a local eatery at 10 for a farewell breakfast but I was anxious to get on the road.

With some lollygagging and disrespecting the navigator in my phone, I was fed, relaxed and the car was gassed up when I pulled in to my driveway about 5.  I just had to get off the freeway!

Before I did, I passed a huge tractor trailer all done up in a magnificent graphics wrap. I didn't have the wits to drive and snap a picture. It was the equipment transporter for the Stoneman Douglas Band - the Eagle Regiment.

As I passed it, I stuck my fist through the moonroof in solidarity and the driver acknowledged with a blast of the air horn. I was filled with an as-yet-unnamed feeling. I'm sure the French have one perfect word. It lifted me up, away from myself for a while, but then I couldn't help but think about the families, the loved ones left behind.

Then came the tristesse. I rolled with that one and let it take me to tears. Everytime I travel, I have the sudden realization that Jimmy will not be waiting for me when I get home. That's a facet of myself as real and permanent as a tattoo.