the conversation

I need this activity to focus on the story the way I used to need walking. Not the best substitute for me, physically, but this is how it's always been in the summer.

Thursday started like this. The plan for a substrate for words already written took the process away from me, in its sharp teeth. I said, "Okay, but not now." It came down off the wall for another day. 

Then it was time to be with Charlie. We spent a careful, long half-hour at the optometrist, selecting replacement glasses. His folks agreed he could have his choice. He had been chattering about Neon

Yellow. I was grateful There was no such option. He didn't dither and chose a rather Captain America look of blue, red, and silver. Pictures when they come in, of course. He very solemnly listened to advice about how very important wearing them and caring for them was. A privilege.

Then there was this. Another attempt the next morning, while he was still asleep, it fell flat but pointed me back in the direction of color. I parked it and started over.

Jackson Pollock would have been proud. My studio looks like a cyclone hit it. If I had tried to make a video of my process like Dee's, people would have been screaming at the screen. 

"What? Again with that damn shape? A quarter-inch to the right? Are you kidding? Put it back. No! " so the dialogue went.

Finally, Saturday morning early, the page is ready for the messages and I'm reminded that every choice- thread, needle, color, shape, line, spacing - have meaning and I want to say so much. 

My thoughts reaching into the future are with the protesters in Portland and in terror for schoolchildren in red states. The GOP only wants strong, stupid cannon fodder. 

Thoughts reaching into the past about a life of consequence. Rest in power, very honorable John Lewis. That bridge should have been renamed in his lifetime, but I can imagine he was not a man to hunger for that kind of acknowledgment.  

ps. this bit of sweetness:

The Spell

 This piece of cloth is from an exquisitely made Brooks Brothers shirt. I used a magnifying glass to examine the stitching around the tiny little buttonholes on the collar and the places where French seams overlapped with no visible gain in thickness. Miraculous. Every seam perfect.

I put it on to see if it could ever be something I would wear. No. Not quite roomy enough for comfort. Perfect if I had to wear a suit and tie to work each day.  It was hard to decide where to start with the scissors. Ripping it was out of the question the cloth is so tight, so strong.

I'm glad I decided to do this post because I can already see that I don't care for the font or the layout. Too studied. Too tight. Too....Brooks Brothers.  I'll look for another piece of cloth and another hand for the lettering. The spell is the thing.

"He watched as she stalked a wide, slow circle that took her all the way around the car. She was wearing something short and black. Magic again? Without taking his eyes off her, he took off his St. Christopher and hung it from the rearview. Gripping the steering wheel, he leaned forward, mesmerized.

She stopped a few paces in front of the car. Her hands reached for the stars, then she crouched low and brushed the wet grass with her fingertips. No candles, no incense. She spoke into the darkness like it was listening.

Hear me sisters, Fire, Wind, Water and Earth, in all your names and guises.

Light the watchtowers for us. Hold back the night.

I ask cover from all quarters.

Bless us this circle and we within."

from "Prophets Tango"

Words later

Be my touchy.

don't text 

don't call 

no tweets

I want face to face

hand to hand

cheek to cheek

back to back.

But sometimes, words are not necessary.

distraction

In an effort to escape real-life turmoil, I'm prepping for a dye fest this weekend.  I have several dismembered linen and silk blouses (thank you, Joanne) and a few garments that will stay whole for now. 

The thread I ordered six weeks ago was finally delivered and, in time, will be carded for dyeing in smaller batches than usual. I need some blues, golds, greens, browns... 

A gift of vintage linen napkins (thank you, Nancy) will be transformed. I can't recall doing this "bundling" thing before.

Each will yield cloth and thread. Still thinking about how the dye should be applied.  Under these bundles, a circle of heavy, supple linen with all the wonderful fringe that I hope I can "creep" color onto.(thank you, Kitty)

Last, this cloth, strange and wonderful (thank you, Mel). A king-sized flat sheet of some unimaginable thread count.

At first, I though that is for my bed, but as I took it from the dryer it turns out to be the noisest cloth, natural or otherwise, I've ever encountered. What is that crackling? It  sounds almost like it's made of kraft paper. I have no idea how it's going to take the dye. Don't you love a mystery?

And what would I do without all my faithful cloth scouts? I really miss the hunt.

back to the garden

Earlier in spring, there were a few puny buds that barely opened before browning and falling off. I gave up getting any gardenias. 

I went to the library for the first time in three overdue notices only because there were also notices that "Varina" and "Regrets" were finally available. 

The new library guy looks just like Justin Trudeau. What I could see over his mask anyway.  

As I pulled back into the driveway a flash of white caught my eye. There they were, three in bloom and more buds waiting. 

 

Gardenia. The sexiest flower in the garden.

Those feathery leaves are Red Cypress Hummingbird vine. I better go back up there tomorrow with some tall sticks to give them and the morning glory something else to climb on before they all choke each other. 

It's a Jungle up there! 

And in keeping with yesterdays post about keeping our eyes on one another, 

How are you doing? 

Where ever you are in the world, what's the thing you cling to for keeping an even keel to your day?

a week away

Not from home, but here. Many things were happening and I just let the days unfold without thinking about documenting them or sharing.  Nothing dire. Most of it beautiful, engaging and pretty mundane. 

Gifted cloth transformed

Then I started thinking about how I feel these fraught days when online friends go "missing". A vague ache that pushes me further away from the imaginary realm.  

The pool is finally open, to the delight of two of us, so far.

A whole day spent stitching to music. High as a kite on last year's harvest was capped in miraculous fashion by Hamilton. 

I hardly have words to describe it. On reflection, I realize part of my intense emotional responses, rivers of tears both bereft and joyful, were about how much Jimmy would have loved it. 

There have been gifts and letters in the mail and I'm frustrated by not being willing/able to go to the post office. I need to find a way. Putting Colin at risk by having him do all the grocery shopping is bad enough. 

Georgia, along with the rest of the South is a pesthole. We circle our wagons, masking and handwashing like starving raccoons. 

Smoke still in the air after the bombardment of the 4th.

Wednesday is my Friday and

....the new anchor of my week. Writing to prompts with Dee Mallon. She who has suffered my manuscript from nearly chapter one.

We give each other a phrase, then we write for 30 minutes. Then share and assess the results. "It's like licking a nine-volt!"  

Yesterday,  the sun called me to the stitching chair for a few minutes.

First, I had to dish out one minute of love. That's all he wants then he springs up and goes about his business.

As I'm still debating whether to shadow the lettering with a brighter color, I started backfilling the openwork with bits of color. 

I did this years ago when I used a whole tablecloth with cutwork to back "Ocean Homes". The minute I started it, I regretted it. Not this time. This piece small and the horizons of "done" are close.

And this from the river basket. Just Juicy! Plain old muslin...not!

duck and cover days are here

That angular object on the right. We are in the red (deep shit.

unsettled

this lasted mere minutes

Sundays used to have a feel to them. Not that we were ever churchers.

 Food shopping. A meal prepared to be shared by two or four at most. Never strangers. The Sunday New York Times, filled mostly with benign entertainment and destined to soak up bacon grease. Cannolis. An old movie on TV. Some laundry. The prosiest stuff.  All of it wisped away. 

I had to move my car today so I wouldn't be blocked in tomorrow morning. When I got out of the car, the sun seemed wrong in the sky. That Saharan dust being brought down by intermittent monsoon-style rain has affected the light, as if the clouds are too thick, too low. 

I dead-headed the marigolds in that hard light. I was having a hard time accepting that this was Sunday now. The heat and humidity were smothering. Back inside, I collected my wits with some stitching and some reading, then stumbled across this breath of fresh air:                       Wheesht by Kate Davies.

                    

a little late day mayhem

The explosion you hear in the opening seconds, that nearly caused me to drop the phone, was a transformer somewhere nearby. Another loud thing was a great tree falling in the woods somewhere to the left. There's a creek down there and the ground is too wet to hold these big trees in heavy winds. Every year a few more fall. The more I listen to this, the more I suspect there was a baby tornado nearby. That weird wailing noise midway through..no clue.

The power was out when I retreated from the deck. Five hours before it was restored. Even at 5:00pm it was too dark for much but napping.

Weeds galore & more

My mailbox garden needs attention. If it would stop raining or roasting for a few minutes. Maybe tomorrow. 

Last night there were horny does yodeling in the front yard. 

There was also a plumbing debacle around 2am that kept us mopping and plunging (to no avail) until 3. 

Professionals were called first thing and because I was so good at describing the issue (the plumber's daughter) we were passed off to a Jetter. 

Perk up your ears, homeowners with septic systems. This is a new thing halfway between getting the sink snaked and digging up the septic tank. They use high-pressure water into the clean-out trap ( I didn't even know there was one) and all was made well and functional in about twenty minutes. And reasonably, compared to the other two options.  

I am left with the majority of my towels befouled, now outside on the deck taking a drench in this monsoon. I may boil the best and ditch the rest given they are all worn raggedy. 

This is still a long day of work away. Gaskets need replacing from inside. 

A trip to the pool store for a few chemicals - the two feet of water left in it is already a lovely shade of green. But I know how to fix that. 

Saturday. Maybe. It feels like making plans is asking for trouble. 

a thread runs through it

And the Dirty Thread sets I promised are finally posted. 

Most of them, anyway. Some of the pictures came out pretty crappy, so I'll add them in when I get two spare minutes to rub together.

Over the weekend, I finally decided on and committed to a company to design the cover for my novel. I didn't have to be told more than three times that doing my own cover would be a lot like being my own lawyer in a murder trial.

DON'T DO IT!  

Oh, I've made a clever little placeholder (I am so in love with that photo, but I scrounged the original off the web which is a big no-no.) but I'm leaving it to the professionals at Bookflydesign.com . 

I looked at cover design sites until my eyeballs were bleeding. Most went from bad to worse when you specified "romance" or "paranormal". I'm so sick of sweaty, chiseled abs and tattoos I could puke. Somehow I found Bookfly. Here's their portfolio. This is a class act. I traded emails and put my electronic pawprint on a contract. Big step.

As a reward, I gave my self some stitching time this morning. More words lifted from an old song.

The Leftovers

This is the big basket that I'm picking from for Fat Baggies.

I found a box deep in the closet with about ten years of dust on top. Inside, what might have been my personal hoard. All of it now added into the mix. 

Smooth cotton sheeting that took the dye like print. Thick, thready pieces of Irish double damask (impossible to find on the cheap anymore). Cotton lawn so fragile it tears like paper. Woven pieces of some natural fiber.

Yes, I did snatch a few pieces back into the River basket. 

Two views of the same basket after I dug deep and pulled a handful to the surface.

Addendum - apologies Cynthia, Linda, and Michelle. Murphy's Law wisely conspired to keep me from the post office this morning. 

When I got there, the line was out the door, BUT they were letting too many people into the lobby AND I'd left my mask at home.

Also, it's Georgia.

I'll try again, midday Monday.

A Cloth day

The words got away from me yesterday, 

but the pictures usually do the talking.

Distant friends and family have been on my mind. 

Out of reach, but never out of mind.

This lot of cloth rescued from an acute case of LINT, one by one. A full roll of packing tape and hand wash and dry for each piece. 

The hummingbirds were scandalized.

Miss Salem has finally decided that Colin means her no harm, even though she did leave him with a pound of fur right after this shot.

And fingers crossed, the pool seems to have been rescued from the mid-winter tree fall disaster. Repairs to the liner are holding. Pump and infrastructure test tomorrow. Marine putty and super duct tape at the ready!

the stash

I'm good on thread for now and the river basket is overflowing. The problem is, I have to set cloth and thread aside for a while so I can prod the book to life. 

But there's still plenty. I took all pending orders to the post office this morning so mailboxes across the country will be lighting up by the end of the week. Let me know when they arrive!

dirty threads: the Summer Run (update)

I'm going to call this group the Summer Run. This basket is actually heaped high now!

It's going to be days before I can start to curate sets of six and post pictures, so if you don't want to wait, and trust me to pick six (with a little coaching from you) email me with a little guidance of what your set should look like. 

Or you can wait for the pictures.

I've lowered the price because times are strange and we could all use a little breathing room. Stitching shouldn't be a luxury.

Fat Baggies  are back in stock!

Expansive