The Next to the Last Waltz

 As long as I've been doing this you would think there wouldn't be so much trial and error. It took a refresher course at Paula Burch's venerable website to get my mind right about the importance of optimal temperatures.

It's a little gray out right now, but if the sun breaks through, I'll get these shot and posted. There might be one more batch this year if the heat holds. Stand by if Dirty Thread winds your watch.

fall feels like a cliff

There's no smell to it here. No leaves burning. No back to school sweaters or shoes. The stench of cinnamon brooms in the foyers of all the grocery stores isn't cutting it. I haven't yet dipped a toe in the pumpkin spice river. Anticipation for the coming holidays seems inappropriate. I even missed smelling the moonflowers blooming on the deck last night. It was the first time I've had a full night's sleep in a week. I'll try again tonight.

I'm making stuff mindlessly. There will be regrets. There will be a lot of dyed thread and cloth too.

I'm supposed to writing. The best I could do is come up with a fresh look at an old short story, A Taste of Justice. Please feel free to comment there.

Justice seems to be so out of reach these days that I spend way too much time entertaining really ugly thoughts about getting it by myself. 

He knew and he didn't act. He lied, his fools bought into his bullshit, and there will be over two hundred thousand dead by the end of the year. 

All I can think about are the thousands of people walking around with the never-ending nightmare of having watched and listened to a loved one die alone in an ICU, a phone or tablet held by a PPE swathed nurse their only connection. I would not have survived that.

My sorrow and fury turn, in a flash, to a wave of anger that I'm sure will lead to cancer if I keep letting it roll. The minutes tick by and I check the news praying that someone close to him will pump his jacket full of lighter fluid and strike a match. Stab a fork deep into his eye. Shove him into a jet engine. The list goes on. 

But the real horror? The people who think he's what our country needs. Those fucking boat paraders,  bikers of Sturgis, and all the shadowy scumbags of Washington frantically checking their net worth. Knowing how many of them there are makes it seem like he's what our country deserves. 

Will they ever have the courage to ask themselves "why" five times and give completely honest answers each time. Can they face their truth? Their fears. Then what? For them, for our country. 

I've taken a few slow drives through my neighborhood. There are no political signs of any color out on the lawns. In this red state, I'm taking some heart that the Blues are keeping their cards close to the vest and some of the Reds might be starting to realize how deeply they've been played by this terrible, self-serving con man and everyone who supports him.

As soon as I can get some decent pictures, Blue Wave will be raffled off. ALL proceeds divided between BIDEN/HARRIS and the BLUE campaigns here in Georgia. Details in a few days when I figure it out.

Blue Wave wrap-up

Sometimes a piece just takes you over. Makes demands.

You don't fall in love with it. It never charms you. Every moment you handle it there's a risk of it getting tossed into the UFO box or worse.

Back somewhere around Y2K, one of the first pieces I ever sold, Parking Magic, came within minutes of getting fed into an industrial shredder at AT&T where I was working because I was sick of fooling with it.

The ones you fall in love with can become problematic. I've got too many of those and need to adjust my attitude. Clean house. Update the gallery and get things gone.

This one was wise to stop talking to me a while ago. We got along well enough to reach a satisfactory conclusion. I backed it with that lovely vintage silk jacquard and even stitched it with the last of Jude's silk/cotton thread. The few yards that didn't get cat damaged or dyed.

All that's left for Blue Wave is to add my mark, like the one below.  Title, year, etc. I'll wait to attach it until it's sold because I'm going to let the new owner choose which orientation they prefer. I can't decide.

And that new owner business? Stand by for an announcement.

backlit

 

the shift is on

 

An unexpected week away from daily care, plus a few days of heavy rain, and this is what Fall looks like in Georgia. 

If the sun is strong enough and I have the time, I'll get into the soup and see if I can set things blue one last time. It's mostly manual labor and a little kitchen table chemistry, pH balancing, etc. I'm holding onto summer as long as I can amid a degree of personal chaos.

The reason for the chaos? COVID, of course. Charlie's school resumed in-person sessions last Wednesday and the kids were sent home from school on Monday due to someone they had contact with turning up positive. So, back to virtual school. 

They were all testy the first day back. Charlie gotten a taste of the real thing and had made a friend. Now we are back to square one. Everyone remains well.

That's me with the bat on her head trying to keep the class in line. As if. 

That reference to "One Last Time"? We've started watching "Hamilton" together in bits and pieces. Much of it way beyond him getting.

 He loved King George and the cabinet meeting battle between Jefferson and Hamilton. These kids understand the mic drop! 

He was enjoying the music and the stage work, but he's always interested in the motivations of the characters. "Are they fighting? What was the fight about? What's HIS problem?" and "That's not George Washington!" 

I paused it and set up the scene for him with a brief recap on the American Revolution. No easy task to boil down, I gave explanations about what was happening in this scene. George Washington's farewell.  He was intensely focused on the actors faces and gestures. 

At the end of Christopher Jackson's astonishing performance Charlie was standing within a foot of the giant screen. He zeroed in on the catch in Jackson's voice like a shark to blood. "He's crying!' He turned to me for an explanation and caught me in middle of the same complex set of feelings that can only be expressed through tears. 

"Nana. Why are you all crying? He was anxious, solicitous, clutching my arm, trying to perceive my pain. I could only say, "It's feeling all feelings at the same time. Happiness, sadness and others all at once. I'm okay. Don't worry. Happiness wins this one." 

I lied, sort of. I wonder if he will catch me in that lie someday? I also reminded him that the star of the show, Alexander Hamilton, was a writer.