Not spring

 

On second thought, I keep forgetting where I am and that the seasons aren't what I grew up with.

 The grove is filled with robins, bluejays, a flicker, a host of little brown I-don't-know-whats, and a couple of crows who look like battleships compared to the others. I don't bother with pictures because my phone/camera isn't up to the distance and, no giraffes in sight.

I'll put out the last bag of feed on my way to the country in a bit.

Dee called this Insta description a poem. I guess. For all I know about poetry.

We swell, break, and still.
Are cursed, given, or stolen.
Sworn on, pine, and leap.
Race and burn, full.
Holding you. Keeping time.

one more wandering heart

 

The last for a while.

My thread stash is uninspiring. I'll work this one in the stone colors that I have left.

The rest are here on sale for that heart holiday.

This is also the last bit of linen chopped from a favorite blouse that accidentally became part of a dyefest. 

Summer seems far away, but we have clear blue skies today so I'll get out as it warms up and gather some vitamin D and perhaps, some inspiration.

Arcs

 

Because I was actively watching a show while stitching, I can't tell you how many times I backed out a dozen or more stitches on this one because I didn't like the curve. Thank the goddess for the forgiving nature of linen.

I'm watching a British limited series called "The Stranger" on Netflix. It only has eight episodes, praise Jeebus. There are too many characters and storylines going on at odds but it's based on a book by Harlan Coben, who has 80 million books in print so I guess he knows what he's doing. I'll suffer through the end of it, but being dragged through a story just to find out who dunnit grinds my gears. I won't give a printed book this much grace.

And I am fed to the teeth with TV shows and movies that lean so heavily on technology--people staring dumbly at their cells for every significant revelation. 

The last time I remember the deus ex machina being used effectively was at the end of The Usual Suspects with the faxed image of Keyser Soze that crawled to life seconds too late. 

Watching people have their lives turned upside down by a text message has become a boring trope. Imagine being from a time when such problems didn't exist? Bless the aficionados of historical fiction.

Because of my hearing deficit and the piss-poor sound quality of many productions, I rely on closed captioning to follow a  TV story. When an actor stares dumbly at a cell phone you're lucky if they flash the message on the screen long enough to read it. And if they don't show the message, the actors seem hard-pressed to convey it to the audience, if their faces are shown at all. 

All my kvetching aside (that's for you, Dee), the book I'm writing (and the ones I've already written) tend to get spaghetti-ish, plot-wise, but I promise myself and my readers that resolutions don't wait for the last chapter.

I've had a plot problem recently and, as always, if I look at it properly and take it with me to sleep, the answers come by dream.

Of course, there will be different flavors of magic and I'll make you believe all of them.

Casting about

 I met a writer/editor friend for lunch at a new-to-me Mexican joint. Em was one of the first people to offer some tough constructive criticism of my writing. We could do that for each other when needed. So, we talked about her upcoming publications. I had long-hand notes scribbled on junk mail while I waited in the parking lot for her.

 Freshly cooked (by anyone but me) food is such a novelty, I'm ashamed to say. Lately making a few baked potatoes to decorate is a big kitchen adventure. I ruined a batch of brownies by not checking to see if the oil had expired until after I used it. Very.   

In the afternoon, I discovered a new and delightful way to fritter away time. Casting your novel. Never a good idea, but I'm in the mood for running bad ones.  

I put the rest of this post where it belongs. Here

Dirty thread in the sun

 Filling an order this morning required a hard inventory. Instead of coming up short, I found a set that had never been named or photographed. It happens.

Which will become its name, "It Happens" and if someone doesn't snap it up in the next few days, my stash is seriously low on greens and blues. And that mystery color on the right might have a future in a stitch spell sooner than later.

This is the glorious view from the Birthday Sewing chair. It's no wonder the cats gather here. I need plants to increase the oxygen for all of us. 

All that clutter on the table will be finding other places over the next few days. That dresser on the left is mostly empty, so sorting, trashing, and stowing.

The first project at the machine will be a couple of summer schmattas if I can find enough garment-appropriate cloth in the closet. I'm not building acres of cloth from scraps for dressmaking this time. 

I treated myself to a new bag. Been hauling the Black Hole of Calcutta around forever and was getting tired of the deflated motorcycle jacket look. It held up, so I'm retiring it to the closet for a well-earned vacation. I'm thinking the latest heart patch will go perfectly on the rather blank backside of this new one. Give it some pizzazz.