memories wash up daily

2.15.21 

No writing, no stitching, but I was creeped by a handsome Creeper. We ate dreck (thanks, Uncle Josh), watched Pinky Malinky, and renamed the funny bone "The Brutal Bone".

I love how this Hail Mary selfie captured Charlie's attempt to appear menacing despite the giggling. 

Low rails of process

 

Of course, I had a list- never numbered.

First I had to improvise an ironing board. I can't remember ever owning one. Long ago I bought two yards of padded heat-resistant stuff and stapled it to the top of an old dresser. Long gone now. 

Then to select a supporting cloth for the dyed contemporary linen which is lightweight. I still have yards of that 1940's vintage mid-weight linen my brother rescued from a real estate clean out. Perfect support. Weighty, stable yet easy to needle through both. The last image is some test stitching I did right after typing that wishful thinking. Wishes came true. It's a pleasure to stitch.

I really dallied over the ironing. It was emotionally evocative. The same grandmother who gave me the maple embroidery hoops and taught me to cross stitch also taught me to iron. For her, it was a living and a task taken seriously. 

I polished both sides of each cloth, then married them together with steam and pressure. There was much (mostly unnecessary) pinning and basting before measuring and basting on guidelines.

 

All of this a commitment to an outcome. 

Spell casting takes work. 

Then came the fun part. I lost myself and my carers for hours sketching the letterforms. The ampersands will be the death of me, but not the project. 

When the words "and the" wouldn't fit, I couldn't remember what a proper ampersand looked like and had to google some examples. 

I'm still not sure I want to deviate from the original. That would mean starting over with an adjustment to scale and placement. 

Slow and thoughtful steps will keep me from abandoning the whole thing.

This sketch was done on a large drawing pad. What I really needed I knew to be buried deep in the bedroom closet. Tracing paper and the T-square I bought in art school tucked away in the dusty portfolio. 

Not in the same portfolio was an 18"x24" painting I was hoping to find. Nothing more than a large section of type (Times New Roman, if memory serves) meticulously reproduced in acrylics with what I remember as a watercolor brush with about ten hairs. Sable. Black letters on a dark teal background. THE lettering about two inches high. I'm sorry it's gone as it was strangely beautiful.

I also wonder why the actual text had zero significance.

Other things from a typical 60s art portfolio. Some hard-earned psychedelia, the drawing assignment "Don't lift your pen from the page" and a surprisingly effective dab at watercolor - something I love looking at but never studied. 

And yes, the two layers of linen needle very nicely, otherwise I might just take the cloth out in the yard and hang it in the crepe myrtle grove and watch it slip back into nature.

The circle IS cast. 

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.