Solutions

Woke up from a false dawn dream. Usually, these are the best, but this one was complex, cinematic, and disorienting. A nightmare in disguise. 

I couldn't open my eyes. I stretched out my left hand and found Bailey's paw as an anchor. His solid, furred head then covered the back of my hand, and he heaved a sigh. 

A calm moved through me. Brought me back to the safety of the here and now. I don't wonder whether or not they know how their gestures affect us. I'm just glad of it.

I've struggled to find the right fabric to cobble into a few summer shifts. The last two were made from scraps of this cotton marked "Provence" on the selvage edges. 

Before the two long gowns, I made this 80x80 bedspread from the same cloth and backed it with one layer of muslin. Soft and warm enough for any AC-induced chill. 

When I moved back into the master suite, I went from a king-sized bed to a queen (a choice I still regret) and had to buy new bed linen. 

I was appalled at the cost of 100% cotton sheet sets so I bit the bullet and bought two sets advertised as "bamboo" for less than half the price of cotton. 

After a year, I've come around to preferring them to cotton. The fabric is soft, light, cool to the touch, and has held up to wear and laundering.  

The plan is to go back to the big box store, pick out a new set, and cut them up for making some skin flings. Knee length this time. 

 

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