A sea change

 the River basket and tools will be in the closet for a while. My left thumb is acting the fool and I'm right-handed. Keyboarding is slow, pens are no problem

I've been having trouble getting the next book out of the gate. It would be easy to blame it on circumstances, but that's bullshit. There's been quite enough of that around, so, no, I know the truth of it. 

It feels like I've been herding rabbits with rabies. Every time I turn around, there are more of them, all sweaty and wild-eyed. The real problem--I didn't know where I was leading them. 

The first book, a romance, never gave me this kind of trouble because every good romance must have a Happily Ever After. Readers demand it. Prophets Tango delivers.

This time, the story is not primarily a romance and I haven't been able to see from here to the imaginary there. The story didn't know what it was living for. Until yesterday. 

After spending hours with acres of notes, I stared at the spiral of scenes, then into the void. Who owns that little voice inside my head? I didn't recognize it. 

Came the voice, "How does it end?"

The question immediately reminded me of some lines from my favorite movie, "Shakespeare in Love". (Yes, Will could have had me for a scrap of paper with his ink on it.) 

Lord Wessex: "How is this to end?"

Queen Elizabeth: "As stories must when love's denied. With tears and a journey."

There will be tears and a journey, but I have no intention of denying love anything it wants.

A birthday

 Celebrated in a private, solitary way. At first, I thought I'd just ignore it, but then I thought about those who didn't get this little personal milestone, another year in this beautiful life.

 And so, I acknowledged it with something new and different and something old and strong. 

Went ahead with my decision to take the Firmament apart. 

As I looked for places to cut, I found this. A little digging in the archives  revealed when and why I stopped hanging stars in the sky.  I'll be happy to take them out of history and into another story.

Then I saddled up and drove south to inspect, approve, and buy a machine I'd never heard of before I saw it listed in the FB marketplace.

Truth it was the beautiful bentwood case that caught my attention. And why was it still listed after a week? 

The Singer 99k seems to be a very well-kept secret. Plainer then a fancy Featherweight. Heavier and twice the motor.  A warhorse!

It's been well maintained, but never allowed to languish. The owner was a smoker and loved her candy. I can see her bent over the machine, her head wreathed in smoke. A little bowl of jelly beans opposite a tin ashtray. There was old nicotine and stickiness at all touchpoints. 

A bit of time, some soft rags, mineral spirits and good machine oil and it's ready. 

Now, to go back into my clothes closet with the scissors and harvest some of that cloth hanging around doing nothing. I feel a Hectic quilt coming on. 

And from all the way around the globe, a package. A gift. More magic -in-waiting. Thank you! 

And most importantly, I voted.

Spangled

That broad expanse of teal with the pale whisps is "Bonnie Blue" a Prochem color that's been discontinued. I've tried mixing it on my own. All the failures have been beautiful, but never even close.

There is a lot of history in this piece. I'll dig around for the original posts. Without research, nothing much is going on. Until you get close. What I intended as stars have come to life.

For all their swarming, something else has to happen with this piece. There are scissors in the future.

The Bruised Heart

 

...beats like thunder.

Sparks, pearls, and distant thunder.

The fringes of hurricane Delta are reaching us here, so it will be days before I can get a decent picture.

Done, finished except for a backing.

That's going to have to be enough stitch for a while.  

Dee, I think that's Hope and Sam on the staircase.

And pearls

 

The characters have started talking to each other. So far, I'm only an eavesdropper. A note-taker. One has demanded a name change. "Some dignity," he said. Okay.  It's name day. Boone is an old eight. 

I'm letting the imagery in the cloth, the things that slip out of the shadows into the light, lead me back to the words. The solid ones and the ones still waiting. I'm happy about what's *finished* excited about the things still spinning out of the ether.

Sparks and Pearls are part of the same cloth.

This scene part of a much larger story. (explicit material advisory)