Jumping Jack Flash was gassed, greased, aired-up, and cleaner than he's been since forever.
I knew the route. Where the first rest stop would be. They might have real maps there. The timing, the weather, the playlist - all in order. I'm a traveler even with a sneezing runny nose.
There was (and is) a story trajectory solid enough to make me itch to hold a pen, but notes in my phone would work.
I was packed. Arrival time was adjusted based on a quick conversation with my sister about what they planned to do once they landed in Myrtle Beach. Rental car, shopping. My sisters love to shop as much as I hate it.
I was packed.
At the last moment, I remembered a chicken breast in the fridge, defrosted and needing to be braised with the Blend - salt, black pepper, and garlic. Quick and dirty in a pan with butter, I was lucky I didn't cut myself razoring up that flesh. Second and third applications of spices. Why couldn't I smell it even though my head was open to the air like a drafty barn? So strange.
Then I remembered. A quick trip to CVS and the test was positive for covid.
My sisters are probably in the air right now. I hope everyone on their plane is well. I will see everyone in October.
Jake sent me this the other morning. He leaves for work well before sunrise. Next time I stay over there, I need to stay up a lot later. Still, it warms my heart that my son looks up, sees this glory, and takes the time to share it.
The second image was my view for most of Monday and Tuesday as I wallowed with a head cold. I listened to the noise from the TV when I wasn't sleeping.
Wednesday I was able to go about my business, not 100%, but well enough to start working down the list of Things To Do before a road trip.
I was at the Grease Monkey getting an oil change when one of the techs took a phone call, then told his boss, "Gotta go. Something at the school."
He pulled on his helmet and roared off on his rice rocket not knowing if his loved ones or neighbors' kids were dead, wounded, or alive. Jake works in Winder. The insanity nudges closer.
***
Later, I parked in the shade and was in the back seat getting a little misty-eyed as I wiped away pre-school-sized handprints from the windows. Jack Flash is a 2010 Honda Accord Coupe. There is barely room to hang my ass on the slippery leather back seat. Years worth of crummified McDonald's fries hid in the corners.
The front passenger seat unlatches and rolls well forward, both doors were open to the fresh breezes. Music played from my phone through the hefty car speakers. I turned to consider my exit and somehow slipped off the seat onto the floor, ass first, my legs sticking out the door.
I looked around for handholds and found nothing. I could see the blue sky and crossed my legs nonchalantly. Waggled my sandal in case anyone passing by might see me and be concerned that I was dead.
Tried again to heave myself out of the hole. Not happening. Upper body strength (as opposed to lower body weight) has never been my forte. When the PE teacher showed us the rope that we were to climb, I walked out of the class and took a detention. Trees I could climb, ropes? Bitch, please.
I took a moment to wipe sweat from my eyes with a Windex and grime-sodden paper towel. My personal terror, Claustrophobia, tried to make noise but I refused it any play. Panic is as self-indulgent as it is unproductive.
I was able to reach my phone in its fancy new cup-holder cradle. Called Colin, who did not pick up even though I knew he was in the house. Messaged him, "Come out to the car. I need help." The worst-case scenario was calling 911. Firehouse 25 is five minutes away and only hires the hunkiest guys. I gathered my strength for a legit try at the new Olympic sport of hauling one's bacon out of the back seat of a Honda.
Before I could go for the gold, Colin appeared, hand extended, a grim look on his face, shaking his head, almost ready to laugh.
Labor Day. What else would I be doing? Most of my working life, I've worked for companies that offered their customers 24/7 service.
Ma Bell, AT&T, and the whine mine I quit two years ago all paid double time for anyone stuck with or willing to work on major federal holidays. I thanked the union for that and jumped at the chance to make extra money. Did they think I was working for the fun of it?
This morning I worked in my own shop, posting all the rest of the Dirty Threads from the last big dyefest. All the cloth is in the scrap bin and a SALE is underway.
If you order by this Thursday, I will make the post office my last stop before I head to the beach for a week.
These two cussposts--now stuffed fat with hand-dyed scraps-- are also on the block. I hope they don't start crying when I separate them. $30 each includes postage inside the US.
Ragweed pollen was wishful thinking. I have a first class head cold.
Reluctance to commit to an orientation is a good sign.
And these wrinkles! The silk has shed little shadow ghosts of dye in places. I'm thinking about amplifying them in some way other than stitch.
I actually have to go buy some black embroidery thread.
The morning sun when it's in your face really shows your age.
A pop song from ages past (1971!) that still gets too much play. I never understood the connection (there is none) between the intro and the song itself.
Rod's singing about the problems of being with an older woman.
I was with a guy who would have been a whole two years behind me in high school if he had graduated. He seemed to think that skipping that part gave him some kind of special status. Whenever this song came on the car radio, he took perverse delight in turning it up and making something of our age difference. I used to look out the car window and think, What an asshole. But then, he was the asshole who told Jimmy he could come sleep on my couch...
There is SO much cloth in the scrap bin I'm having a sale.
Silk shreds dating back to 2010 experiments with ColorHue dyes. I don't recall the source of the silk. I can't imagine what cloth like this would be used for other than the kind of negligee that was made to be torn off. There are tiny scraps of it wandering all through my private stash.
The base is the trimmings of that handkerchief linen shift that I hand stitched together, again, because I have no white thread for the sewing machine. I sat with the shapes as they came from the bag, with no cutting or tearing. I prodded, pinned, and unpinned through a couple episodes of "Homicide: Life in the Streets".
The show was recently released on Peacock TV. I didn't get to watch it much when it was first aired. I was still a nightbird for AT&T and was never one for slavishly needing to have a show taped for viewing at my leisure. I had kids. It won awards and a cult following for good reason.
Balance. Up, down, crime, justice, left, right, life and death.
The cloth is wet because I didn't want to iron away all the nooks and crannies to blend away the holes from a false stitching start.
I'm not even sure there's going to be any visible stitching. Tomorrow may tell.
