the abandoned

 

This one was started under other, more hopeful stars.

Pretty sure I abandoned it because of that rust color. The old damask is so fragile and I put it through the tortures of the damned the first time around the dye deck.

I'll keep plugging away on it this time. There's a clock ticking silently in my life and passing time needs to be fruitful.

In the Great Closet Toss, a small box of sharp things turned up. Dee, they are still a wonder.

That thread appears to have been dyed just for this cloth.  Happenstance, I assure you and that's the last of it. Another yard, maybe. My thread box is getting pretty bare.

Update

She just strolled into the studio and climbed onto the ottoman where I set this down for a moment.

This is very unusual behavior for Sweetie. I put it down to upset over the insane level of fireworks in the neighborhood. It's as if she knows it's far from over.

Maybe she thinks it should be a cat pillow.

Contracting

 

These past few days s have taken a toll on all decent people. 

Myself, swinging between the horror show of the less than supreme court trying to shove us all back to Mayberry and the vengeful glee of watching the Jan.6 hearings has me so outside of myself. As it should be. These matters concern all of us. Fuck anyone who would put their heads in the sand.

So, some large batches of self-care and a contracting of concerns for me. 

Readying unfinished pieces for possible inclusion in a gallery show in August had me digging through the closet. Missing tools and materials were found. A degree of order was restored. 

The River Basket purged of wishful thinking and stocked with real work. 

Finding works so disconnected from my psyche that I left them untitled.  What was going on in my head?

I'll have to dig into the archives and figure that one out.

"Night Gardener" is so close to my heart that, if it's chosen,  I am going to put a ridiculous price on it. It wants a sleeve and signature.

That kind of handwork is good for me.

And first thing this morning, a trip to day surgery for injections in my back that I hope will put me back upright and on two feet. Nightwalking would be so sweet.

Starting tomorrow, ferrying Charlie to day camp. A little time together that I've missed. 

Valium is everything I remembered it to be and wrote for Anna in Prophets Tango.  

A downy cradle. A softening of all sharp edges. A sweetener of anything delightful. Protection. 

I also know it to be a deceiver.

My firstborn will be 42 tomorrow. It was 100 degrees daily when he finally arrived three weeks late. A Cancer rather than the Gemini I plotted. Ever and eternally the tenderhearted contrarian. I'm so grateful for his good humor, decency and artist's heart.

 

Thank you, Colin, for everything.

Finding a gear

 

The grove is in bloom. They are cinnamon bark crape myrtles. Planted on the four points of the compass, white North has always been the most vigorous, pushy member of the group. We haven't topped them in three years, but come January, it's going to get a serious pruning in hopes of giving the other three a chance to catch up. 

I have resolved to stop taking poison, knowing how I plan to help those who need camping gear or assistance. 

Also, I've been invited to participate in a local gallery event! Time to see what's still in the closet.

Charlie is home! And I swear he grew two inches in two weeks. While he was away, his Mom and Dad spent every free moment redoing his room from ceiling fan to flooring. This room had the dark green walls and carpet that Jake chose as a teenager. Change was past due.

He's a bit overwhelmed.

the decision

I have been mostly lost for words this past twenty-four hours. Lots of cursing. A fury that would frighten civilized people if I were to describe the details. My right hand has been aching; the two knuckles that I broke on a man’s forehead when he put his hand up under my dress as I climbed the stairs in the subway. There are other things I can’t speak of. Statute of limitations stuff.

 I have ongoing heartburn, headaches, and something I can only describe as the ghost of monthly cramps. But underlying all of these is anxiety. Dread. A feeling of being penned in with a clock ticking in the background. The fear peaks, the fury returns, I want to break things, and again, I remind myself that the Buddha said holding on to hate is like taking poison and expecting the other person to die.

All of this adds up to what I suspect is a kind of PTSD that women who have had abortions might be experiencing now in light of what that orange shitbag has bought and paid for - “his” puppet supreme court judges. He’ll be bragging about it any second now. 

It was hard enough to make those choices so many years ago when it was legal.

Now, all I can do is vote the bastards out and drive. I will drive Georgia campers to the nearest camping-friendly state. No praying. I’ve never been more sure that there is no god running things. The only godlike thing there is  - is the energy, the fire we have inside to make sure this gets corrected. That women have autonomy over their bodies and their health. 

Solstice

 

Until now, summer has been moderate, kind even, for Georgia. So many other places have been scorched, drenched, or parched. I promised I'll never bitch again about the weather here being dull.  

Of course, the green folk are loving it. Everything growing on the dye deck is lush, as long as I'm bringing water.

The Old Mother Thyme (or is it Rosemary?) gets a whack whenever I get close just for the spice of she flings into the air.  This year she's sharing her pot with some morning glories, nasturtiums, and a stray sunflower.

For the first time, I've successfully gotten some hollyhocks past the seed stage. I'll keep them here and bring them in come winter. The plan is to get them out between the new blueberry bushes under the kitchen windows. First-year and there are berries! I'm leaving them for Charlie to pick when he gets home on Saturday.  He has been dearly missed.

Big changes are on the horizon.