The Junes take wing

 

Wrapped, rolled, and ready to rock.

I had maybe half a cone of DMC left and decided the time was ripe. Hot, humid, and no inspiration pouring from my own stash.

Right out of the gate, the fates conspired to mess with me. I messed with them instead. The little tub marked RAVEN was empty. Lesson: is the container empty? Throw it out!

Using what I had, I cooked up my own black, as neutral as my internal color wheel could make it.

When it came time to mix three primary colors, I made a point of taking a left at each turn, NASCAR style instead of my predictable course. Once I made enough of each, I used those to set up three complementary colors  - the weird cousins got to sit in.

They look really good at this stage. Crispy. I ran out of salt and had to add sugar. Remember, the crystals are just a means of carrying the dye to the thread. I've read that a little salt goes a long way in pushing the dye molecules into the thread molecules, but you can't prove it by me one way or the other. Not like I'm standing there with an electron microscope and a stopwatch as sweat drips into my eyes.

They are washed, rinsed, and rinsed again. Now hanging in the herb dryer on the high deck. 

I have to keep an eye on the weather because there's no cover anymore. 

It's still hot and humid, but now overcast and I think we are starting to experience some of the smoke from the Canadian wildfires.

I'll be spending the rest of the morning getting the rest of them out to dry. So, good folks who were expecting me to get to the post office today, I'm sorry. But, you will be reaping the benefits of a fresh lot of dyed cloth and thread in your order if you left the choices to me.

And when all was wet and resting, I took my roasted carcass into the pool to dig even deeper into this terrific novel. 

I finished it this morning and I feel like I've stepped out of an old-time cinema where I watched an extended version of "Casablanca" and now I'm blinking in the hot sunshine wondering what year it is. 

A while back, one of my readers commented that Prophets Tango made her feel like she had just discovered the work of author Amy Harmon for the first time. I made a mental note and promptly lost it. 

Last week I was in the library and this was propped up with the librarian's summer picks and I took a chance. Looking forward to reading more of her work.

If anyone has read my book and reads this one, let me know what you think. Colin called it a "Cosmic Coincidence"

A cycle

 

When you can look it right in the face and not call it by its name, it will own you.

So, depression...fuck you. 

Workarounds work. Although I did finish up the last quarter of this right-handed. What is the proper tool or treatment for the backside of something like this? Some kind of iron-on shit? If I decide to sell it, the back will need to be properly finished off, and protected. Then again, I might just save it for my Dixie mink come the cooler weather. 

There will be more in time. Making them is like eating potato chips.

Sunday I met with one of my oldest friends. 

Once a season, we invade a favorite Mexican restaurant and take up a booth for two or three hours. It's a big place. Management doesn't seem to mind.

 It's good to have common ground to chew over with a smart, pragmatic woman. She said (something like) all the world leaders need to drop dead and their wives or daughters take up the jobs. Shit will get fixed properly, quickly, and equitably. We are team Jack Smith.

She reminded me of Gratitude and how it is the best antidote for any brand or level of self-pity. 

This bit of linen got into the writer's bag as a towel for drying my fingers before I handle the phone or paper. It seems to have a story, but for now, it's just going to serve. 

I feel a little bad mocking Salem when she is in the throes of catnip intoxication. Dignity to the wind! Also jealous. When I'm this stoned, I need to be on the carpet and stay there for the duration. 

Another fabulous sunset by my firstborn who is about to turn 43.  My first, and biggest gratitude is for both of my sons. 

Lefty to the rescue

 

I always wanted to do my hair in a French braid, but had no clue how to go about it. Then, one day, I was at the doctor's office waiting to get blood drawn for something forgotten and the technician had to kneel down to get supplies from a low cabinet drawer. 

Her hair was a rusty brown. Sleek, shiny, and braided to her head from the crown to the ends well past her shoulders. I studied that braid intently. That night, I dreamed about how it was done. 

I can't remember the specifics of the dream, but the next morning I hung my head over the side of the bed, brushed out all the knots, and did the thing. 

The first time I did it so tight, my eyes tipped up at the corners. My sister is a hair professional and told me that I've done is called an inverted fishtail braid. It wasn't like I could see what my fingers were doing. 

Today I gave Lefty a shot at the needle and thread. Give Righty a rest and flex the part of the brain that learns new tricks.

Just the stabbing pavers stitch for now. Slow motion eases the way. It was surprisingly easy enough to be satisfying. I'll save the wrapped rope and knots for Righty.

I have misplaced words during conversations more than I like lately, so I'm pushing the gray matter into new and different situations to keep the grooves from smoothing out. 

I've written a Tarot Spread to be included in the new novel. Haven't named it yet. That will come after I use it for a while.

Meanwhile, slackers abound!

open heart

 

The shape is ubiquitous, but I never cared for the flat, two-dimensional version. The shape inside the stamped paper lace cut-outs. 

The engine of life is so much more complex. The actual, fist-shaped, meat version is unpretty. Brutal looking. 

I shouldn't have even started this one, but there's the nature of compulsion. 

Some over-use/abuse of my right shoulder (probably pool cleaning related) is causing a distracting level of pain in my right shoulder to fingertips. Stitching, even a few minutes at a time is suspended.

I can talk my keyboard through the motions of getting words on paper. There's that for now.

It's Father's Day. My sons learned from the best. 

A very fine friday

 Except for the nasturtium seeds, everything here came from the big box dead wagon or trash can (I can't dumpster dive anymore. It requires a partner and I don't know anyone willing to do time for stealing dead geraniums.) But if you become a regular, even a browser, the cashier is more likely to cut a deal with you rather than see plants with a little hope thrown in the garbage. 

Sometimes, if I'm real quiet, I hear them humming. and grunting. and complaining. 

During odd hours this week, this audacious little heart demanded to be manifest. I obliged and immediately put it to work on the side of the writing tote that I drag around. Usually, it's Just In Case (a spirit moves me). 

Over these last few days a large chunk of the work in progress, book four, fell into place. I wrote out notecards for all the scenes I have that are half-baked. gooey still and flexible.

Being able to put them in some kind of order gives the book a beating heart. It's quite thrilling when the smoke clears.

I'm also seeing a way forward for another book that's been on the back burner for several years. 

And today I got my happy place back. Thirty minutes of work brushing and siphoning, then an hour surveying my domain from the floaty. (Deep gratitude for Samantha providing an electric air pump) . We have a few anoles, I hear the tree frogs at night. Dragonflies came in low and slow to inspect me then flitted off for discussions.