Five to get ready...

The largest of the five, "Cephalopod" is ready to go. All I have to do is measure and cut the rod.  I have two weeks to do the pesky business of making and attaching a few sleeves to pieces that are really small enough for framing and matting. Not out of my wallet, thanks.  
 

The exhibition is called "The Material is the Message" and will be at 378 Gallery from 8/5 thru 8/27.  the address is 378 Clifton Rd. NE, Atlanta GA 30307.

 

As to the business with my back. The doctor gave me three options. I'm going for the most expedient which involves a few more rounds of needles which I am fine with. 

I'm an old hand at administering injections. You never feel another's pain or pleasure, so it's important to watch their eyes.

 Getting injections is an excellent time to practice that out-of-body kind of meditation. 

This picture is both my focus during that mind bend and my goal - walking again. 

One foot in front of another until there is no thinking about it, freeing my mind for other, better things.

sidelined

Somehow, I imagine this is what my spine looks like these days. X-rays and MRIs are so boring. There are a dozen words ending in itus or osis that all relate to the decrepitude of my frame in the doctor's report. 

I used to stand a pretty tall 5'8". Three of those inches are gone, discs and bones all succumbing to disease, age, and gravity. The nerves left behind in disarray are another story. Alive and sparking.

 I don't want to write about pain - too many people suffer horribly and chronically. I'm a hobbyist by comparison, but when the demon bites me, it brings me to my knees. And then I can't get up right away.

I also smile to think what a good drug addict I could be. I warned my doctor that I survived the sixties, so she's already on notice. But I have too much to do to be at the mercy of pain or being out of my gourd.

The garden needs me. My people need me. 

 

the abandoned

 

This one was started under other, more hopeful stars.

Pretty sure I abandoned it because of that rust color. The old damask is so fragile and I put it through the tortures of the damned the first time around the dye deck.

I'll keep plugging away on it this time. There's a clock ticking silently in my life and passing time needs to be fruitful.

In the Great Closet Toss, a small box of sharp things turned up. Dee, they are still a wonder.

That thread appears to have been dyed just for this cloth.  Happenstance, I assure you and that's the last of it. Another yard, maybe. My thread box is getting pretty bare.

Update

She just strolled into the studio and climbed onto the ottoman where I set this down for a moment.

This is very unusual behavior for Sweetie. I put it down to upset over the insane level of fireworks in the neighborhood. It's as if she knows it's far from over.

Maybe she thinks it should be a cat pillow.

Contracting

 

These past few days s have taken a toll on all decent people. 

Myself, swinging between the horror show of the less than supreme court trying to shove us all back to Mayberry and the vengeful glee of watching the Jan.6 hearings has me so outside of myself. As it should be. These matters concern all of us. Fuck anyone who would put their heads in the sand.

So, some large batches of self-care and a contracting of concerns for me. 

Readying unfinished pieces for possible inclusion in a gallery show in August had me digging through the closet. Missing tools and materials were found. A degree of order was restored. 

The River Basket purged of wishful thinking and stocked with real work. 

Finding works so disconnected from my psyche that I left them untitled.  What was going on in my head?

I'll have to dig into the archives and figure that one out.

"Night Gardener" is so close to my heart that, if it's chosen,  I am going to put a ridiculous price on it. It wants a sleeve and signature.

That kind of handwork is good for me.

And first thing this morning, a trip to day surgery for injections in my back that I hope will put me back upright and on two feet. Nightwalking would be so sweet.

Starting tomorrow, ferrying Charlie to day camp. A little time together that I've missed. 

Valium is everything I remembered it to be and wrote for Anna in Prophets Tango.  

A downy cradle. A softening of all sharp edges. A sweetener of anything delightful. Protection. 

I also know it to be a deceiver.

My firstborn will be 42 tomorrow. It was 100 degrees daily when he finally arrived three weeks late. A Cancer rather than the Gemini I plotted. Ever and eternally the tenderhearted contrarian. I'm so grateful for his good humor, decency and artist's heart.

 

Thank you, Colin, for everything.

Finding a gear

 

The grove is in bloom. They are cinnamon bark crape myrtles. Planted on the four points of the compass, white North has always been the most vigorous, pushy member of the group. We haven't topped them in three years, but come January, it's going to get a serious pruning in hopes of giving the other three a chance to catch up. 

I have resolved to stop taking poison, knowing how I plan to help those who need camping gear or assistance. 

Also, I've been invited to participate in a local gallery event! Time to see what's still in the closet.

Charlie is home! And I swear he grew two inches in two weeks. While he was away, his Mom and Dad spent every free moment redoing his room from ceiling fan to flooring. This room had the dark green walls and carpet that Jake chose as a teenager. Change was past due.

He's a bit overwhelmed.