Nightscape

With all the web willies going on about drones, I thought I would grab a quick shot of the almost full moon because the clouds are due to smother it all. If I didn't tell you that it's the moon, a streetlight and the road illuminated, plus my neighbors homes, you might see a massive mother ship landing. 

Back in the 80's there was always local gossip about the Hudson Valley UFOs flying in slow, silent formations. Witness here. A v-shaped wedge of lighted, radio controlled models, low and slow enough to sound like a distant flotilla of lawn mowers. There are a lot of people in the NE with more money than sense. Drones are the latest toy and they are playing at will. What amazes me is that some yahoo hasn't yet shot one down. Any minute now. 

Then again, if it's drug dealers making deliveries, could be word has been passed that intercepting their coke might be frowned upon. Again, a case of more money that is good for a person.

 

On a much finer note, the Cativerse has decided that House Lacativa NE should be blessed with this little bundle of energy and love. Lady Nibbler Lacativa, 8 weeks old. They decided she and I should share a birthday. I'm honored.

the hoard to the front lines!

Years ago, before I became a dyer, I hoarded commercial prints. A friend and I used to drive three hours one way to a fabric store where we would make the trip worthwhile. 

There was another place, more local, that actually pushed piles of surplus cloth around with a bobcat. Nothing that a good washing machine couldn't fix.

Once I started dyeing, I also started torturing some of those prints with discharging, overdyeing, and adding textile paints. Batiks and Timeless Treasure prints were favorites.

I've hauled them out of the cloth closet and am busy putting them to work. Something about the shrieks of ripping cloth sends the cats flying from the room. Too bad they leave so much of their hair behind.

Once I uncovered the work table (thanks for the shove, Kitty) the Janome was up and ready from the small lingerie projects of the summer. Batting is on the way.

There will be free-motion text here and there. 

 

inner life

I finally convinced last year's gift, the turntable, to hook up to a wireless speaker adequate for the guest bedroom's size.

We spent some time listening to his records. He reads the covers for the copyright year and the liner notes for the lyrics. We searched for the science behind making and listening to records. 

Artie Shaw's "Begin the Beguine" sparked a discussion on the years before WW2. This was my mother's music that I probably heard in utero. According to him, that makes me a time traveler. 

Later he showed me a documentary on Disney+ titled "Beatles 64". It opened with a reminder to me that the Beatles first came to the US only four months after the JFK assassination punched the nation in the heart.

Before they plunged into Beatlemania, there was a brief overview of JFK's presidency (he'd heard his speech about going to the moon in school) and the assassination and funeral. Even though I knew he was watching my reaction, I could not keep from tearing up seeing the riderless horse and the little boy saluting the passing coffin. I was fourteen that year. 

The documentary interviewed several women my age trying to get an explanation for the screaming. Even the Beatles didn't seem to know.  One woman said something like, "We needed to be joyful over something." I think she was onto something. 

 I remember being ten, the year I read Hiroshima - the year that humanity revealed its cruel and dangerous side. He's ten now and you can see that he's gotten a glimpse of that since the election. 

 I take some joy in that he knows that one person at a time, we can do good. Be better. 

death dealers

 

both of them. 

I've misplaced my tiniest Ginghers. Slippery devils, they are probably wandering around in my car since the sewing tote has an open top and always has too much in it. I'll check later when the sun's been out a while. Below-freezing temps in Georgia are a shock. 

I'm switching over to these for now. If they ever had any kind of point guard, it's long gone, so they are just going to stay on the table beside the stitching chair.

I bet the characters read: Watch out, stupid. They're sharp as hell!

What do you think about when you are stitching alone? 

What do you talk about if you are stitching in company?

My mind wanders. Oddly, some say.

And have you read "All the Colors of the Dark" by Chris Whitaker? If you liked the True Detective TV series, you'll love it. I did. 

the OG selfie

 

Grace started it wonderfully.

My hat was bright yellow felt. The dress was a simple rayon A-line with long bell sleeves. Pink, turquoise, and yellow print on white. 

Getting four instant pictures for a dollar was such a deal. The making ready in the usually greasy mirror. Hold your breath...or not. Laughing out loud and spoiling two out of the four. Then standing outside and waiting for the grumbling grind to spit the strip into the slot. Don't put your fingers on it!

The photo booth was in Grand Central Station, NYC. Spring 1967. I was on my way with my portfolio for my first interview at the School of Visual Arts. Alone. I got in. At the time, the school was uncredited. They needed my money.

I remember her well. She had no illusions, no goals, and no expectations. Every day was new and wide open to whatever happened next.

Many years later, I discovered that I had gone to classes right around the corner from where our friend Michelle had lived for several years. We probably passed each other on the sidewalk and nodded, friendly-like. I was never much of a New York City girl. Ever the tourist from the country.