Spirit Cloth

slow going in july

Love and these lazy days

He  spends a lot of time with the bike's old carburetor..  A kind of mending  I guess. Making do. We've been riding.  Wind. 

He is a really nice guy, with a wonderful mind...an unparallelled sense of honesty (could cut you really)   and  loyalty.   Patience.   But, honestly I might have married  him for his hands.  Even if it was just to look at them.

This piece was not really planned.  A bit from this, and idea from that.  Scraps of self over time.  Past , present and in between.  I named it last night after posting it at Diaries and then having no words.

How one heart might affect another without explanation

I think that will work.  Work for so many things really.  When something has reach beyond just one little thought, I know it is right.  And I keep going. 

A doodle for Wednesday, not a new one, until I put it on cloth.

 The air is lighter today. 

Un Doings

Things undo themselves.

 

 

Really, I guess Undoing might  simply be the doing of something else. 

Likewise , I guess, doing is the Undoing of something else.

I will be thinking about this more. 

I am calling this little fragment Undoing, but I am not done yet. 

 

early morning Refreshment

OK...

Sun's up. Go outside.  Early morning rain.  Nothing like it.

A little laundry.  Removing the mustiness  from a humid July.  An early morning bath for some cloth.  Today is a hang it out in the winds to dry day.   It has cooled down and it is just such a relief.  I feel alive.

 

In the summer, the Man is the innovator in the kitchen,  He , a natural born fruit eater,  just loves the warmer months  when there is fruit everywhere.   Greek yogurt, cantaloupe,   green apple,  ginger.   ZIng!  Ready for the day.   He  froze the rest.

I found this little old eye in a pile of scraps, while continuing to clean the studio. Seems new today.  Pinned it to the curtain so I don't lose it again.  New eyes are so precious.

Note to self... new eyes are so hard to find, don't lose track of them.

 

The Midnight Spirit Cloth Blues...

Moody

 

Old cloth dyed at midnight.  Words jotted down by the light of the moon.  Because sleep didn't come, the vat was ripe,  the night was cloudless 

and I was really feeling it.

I poured myself a glass of wine and thought to myself,  this will be a year of great undoings.

 

#2523

How cloth might be a shelter

This cloth was started at the moment I realized my mother was going to die.  Sooner than later that is.  I have continued working on it very slowly.  Trying to  let it form  the story of its going through me. 

Today that cloth is just waiting there on the sewing chair.  It seems to call me. Saying lean on me.   It is forming just like that.  

I have many things to do. Be back Monday.

 

To dye what I imagine

 

To dye or not to dye has always been a question.

 

For the first time I am going to concentrate on dyeing a bit.  Purposefully try to personalize it a bit.  Take some of the sameness out of it.  See what I can express with it. Find a reason for it in my work.   I have planned to focus on color in general actually, over at Diaries soon,  so letting dye be part of that.   I am quite excited because I have a lot to learn. 

 

I pulled out an old bucket from last winter,  dried indigo rings.  Inspired already. I will have to work indoors in the studio, even though it is summer.   Too many mosquitoes.    It's OK though, since the studio is rather empty after a month of lessening.

 

Gladiola-la-la in July

Another Big Rain last night. The Glads are glad.

Imagine the view from inside one.

Blue, rain and wet wood

It rained hard last night.

Everything is washed.

I love how wet wood looks,  How the moisture creeps into the grain. Holds and darkens the pattern.  Rain dyed. While it lasts.

I checked out the fermentation vat before going to bed.  And then  thunderstorms. Hot and steamy day.  Happy vat.

 

A quick cloth moment.  An overlapping nine lives patch.  And thoughts about how time/ order  slips/ slides  beneath itself.  Nine moons tacked quite invisibly to an old wash cloth.  Dyed Blue.  Resting.

I feel something in me slipping,  shifting.  No, maybe not in me but around me.  I walk yet I slide beneath the path of others.  I slip between the hurried footsteps behind me.  I am invisibly connected to a swift current yet dragged just below the surface.  I have a name that I do not recognize when it is spoken.  This I dreamed.   Lost in going,  the going of others.  Turning back, I trampled over myself.

from  The Year I Became Old