Get Ice Out For Good

Honestly, when I got up Sunday morning, I really didn't think I had it in me to go. It was in the mid-thirties with gusting winds. 

But there was nothing I could put my mind or hands to that didn't leave me cold. Scattered, angry, and unfocused.

As I got dressed and laced up my boots, I thought to myself, "Am I going out to get killed?" 

Do you think that's what Renee Good thought when she dressed for a Minnesota winter that morning? 

I was pretty impressed with the turnout. At peak, my guesstimation was 400, give or take. Lawrenceville is the county seat of Gwinnett. All the government you can cram into an old village that's trying to force a Renaissance. The jury is out on that. 

By noon, it was only mid-forties, with still gusty winds. The crowds were engaged, lively, orderly, and well-organized. Hats off to the 50501 group that got the word out.

Chants of "Hey Ho ICE has to go" easily evolved into FUCK TRUMP with fists in the air. The highlight of my day!

Huge tractor-trailers crawled through town on Sunday mornings delivering to the many small businesses. In the first hour, I counted five. Four of those happily supported the protest with joyful blasts of their air horns and waving!   

Four out of five truckers against ICE was my takeaway for the day. 

I also noticed the glaring absence of any kind of police presence. There were several lone individuals whom I noticed doing a lot of vigilant observing. Nothing much to see here, officer. Just Americans doing what they can. 

This from an old woman perched on a low wall set back a bit from the sidewalk, raising a painted stick in the air and shouting "FUCK TRUMP" until she couldn't. 

Doesn't she remind you of our dear friend Michelle Slater?

This location is about ten minutes from my house. Old Town L'ville was the place you had to go for jury duty or other police/official business. They are working to give space back to the people in the heart of town.

A ring of chairs surrounds a lively fountain in the full sun, with a playground and restrooms just beyond it. A couple of restaurants and coffee joints are a walk away.

I plan on going back there when it warms up. Stitching in public in the sun when there is something to celebrate.

 

Other words

"For Renee Nicole Good Killed by I.C.E. on January 7, 2026."

by Amanda Gorman

They say she is no more, 

That there her absence roars, 

Blood-blown like a rose. 

Iced wheels flinched & froze. 

Now, bare riot of candles, 

Dark fury of flowers, 

Pure howling of hymns.  

If for us she arose, 

Somewhere, in the pitched deep of our grief, 

Crouches our power, 

The howl where we begin, 

Straining upon the edge of the crooked crater 

Of the worst of what we’ve been.  

Change is only possible, 

& all the greater, 

When the labour

& bitter anger of our neighbors 

Is moved by the love  

& better angels of our nature.  

What they call death & void, 

We know is breath & voice;  

In the end, gorgeously,  

Endures our enormity.   

You could believe departed to be the dawn 

When the blank night has so long stood. 

But our bright-fled angels will never be fully gone, 

When they forever are so fiercely Good.

 

Variations

 

Halfway through this one, I was tempted to find a shredder for it somewhere. The linen proved to be more loosely woven than I like. The colors were not swarming to my liking. The threads in the stash were unappealing.

The list grew longer, and I put it away. 

Until the other day. I am back in love with the shapes and the colors, and what changed in the few months it was in the closet?

Only me. A little more patience and kindness for myself.

The plan is to mount all three together. Somehow. 

                                ~★~

I have a lot of thoughts on the murder of Renee Good. My first reaction was, "Her poor babies. Her children."

The trajectory of their lives forever changed. 

The second was that his family and friends saw him commit murder. How long will he live with that? And to what lengths will this administration go to garner sympathy and support for other agents? The fact that the FBI has taken over any investigation tells the tale. 

Be ready to bear witness, no matter where you are.

                                ~★~

Sophie, now nine months old, has matured into a loyal studio companion. The others come to play or look out the windows. She still tries to get into the stitching chair beside me, and no matter what I'm working on, she feels the need to bless it. 

Tools timeless

 

Grace. It took a moment, but I spotted your knife.

I don't recall when or where I acquired mine. Rather than punish my brushes, I used my (butter?) knife to scoop acrylic medium out of the tubs it came in.

More a thing of beauty than utility. I don't own any silver polish.

The brush and the wooden burnisher have been in my art arsenal since 1967. I clearly remember my first visit to the art supply store with my list in hand. I think it was Pearl Paint. Jude might be able to confirm that it was a few blocks of SVA. 

I also remember the sinking feeling I got when I found out how expensive everything was. 

The wooden crochet hook was purchased at a convention I was working at in Grand Rapids. It doesn't care for cotton string, so it functions as a hairpin from time to time.

The little ruler was my Dad's. There was also a matching slide rule, which was a complete mystery that mocked my ignorance until it was lost. The ruler has been my perfect straight edge since the late 60s.

salamander

 

amphibians because I wanted to shout FUCKERY and MALFEASANCE!

But it doesn't do anything for me. I called Warnock and Ossoff while it was still dark out. This Wolf moon fostered some violence.

I woke up with a start because I realized my silver cuff bracelet was missing. It has slipped off my arm once or twice recently, but I always noticed. Not this time.

So minor panic, the light flooding in, and cats bumping around rowdy.

I got the Tarot out for a moon bath, and Sofie had to have her say.

Best I could do with my phone and a little tinkering.

The High Priestess represents the mysteries of the unconscious and the Inner Voice, and her appearance is often a sign that your own intuition is trying to send you a message. The unconscious often speaks to us in symbols, so be alert around you for anything that seems out of the ordinary. 

This said, if you have an important decision to make when the Priestess appears, this is often a sign that the answers will be revealed to you, if you are patient and open to the whispers from within. You simply have to wait and be receptive to inner messages. Her lesson is that everything you need to know already exists within you. ~James Rioux

After the blessing and choosing, I went back to sleep. Three hours of the most delicious, deep sleep with cinematic dreams. 

Another new year

 

I've been at a loss for words here lately. There's plenty of thought going on, just nothing share-worthy.

This before-coffee reading on January 1 augers brightly. 

Now to summon up the energy to follow through because the good shit must be earned.

I didn't get to witness the Monks walking for Peace as I wanted to. Timing is everything, and we were ships on a sunny afternoon. They passed close to my house while I was at Charlie's and were on their way north-east by the time I made it home.

For the most part, communities have welcomed and protected them. Local law enforcement have been gracious and low key.

But some crowds following the Monks have been disorderly and disruptive in a few wannabe cities in the Metro Atlanta vicinity. It's no wonder they are altering their path through less populated towns.

 Too many assholes seem to think they are some kind of traveling entertainment. Some others (I call them Jesus Jumpers) are accusing the Monks of proselytizing. Nothing could be further from the truth.

Back in the day, when I still consorted with people who would ask, "What religion are you?" my snark retort was "I'm a Pagan-Buddhist-Jew". Enough to shut them up and not all that far from the mark.

Is this some face? Aloka is only four, but what a life he's led. I worry for him and his crew. 

They are walking because there's a sickness on the land. I worry and wonder when some redneck miscreant notices this band of brown men with foreign ways making their way through the countryside and decides to collect a bounty by involving the Shitweasel's Gestapo. 

My post-Christmas stay with Charlie was brief but rich. 

A little sun, a little stitch. Cards, TV, Lego, and lots of conversation. The good stuff.

And today he spent much of the day here with me getting reacquainted with Sophie and Bong. Our old favorite grub shop, Sonic, has reopened as Chicken & Wok, serving up excellent Sesame chicken at a reasonable price. At least I think it's chicken.

I've been curating the news I read or listen to. Not putting my head in the sand, but soaking up the small victories. 

Jack Smith's testimony was a great start!