Category Archives: color pattern love

Light, silence, tooth, and time

Dull light this morning but no percussive hammering. I think it’s over.

Also over: the first (and most invasive) step in getting an implant for my front right tooth. The one with a history.

Grievance: a doctor who didn’t answer my email about anxiety meds until it was too late to do anything about it.

Humor: my brother disagreeing with her assessment that diazepam prescribed eleven years ago probably wouldn’t work. “Unless it’s turned to fungus,” he said, “it’s fine.”

It was fine. In fact it was so fine that I was relieved when K said he’d walk over with me. I felt that woozy.

Tonight I’m eating ice cream. I can be a bit of a baby.

Yesterday I wrote a scene where a character spins and spins and spins. Sufis were mentioned. Imagine my surprise as I noodled around with this week’s Paris Collage Collective visual prompt in bed later to see the Sufis emerge (from an old SoulCollage card). I remixed extensively to make them more visible (along the lower edge).

I didn’t seen them at first. With many of the dianaphoto app filters they disappeared. I love to be surprised like this.

A far cry from where I started.

He’s the prompt

The Christ-like figure is from a photo taken by Andrew J. Whitaker, a photographer for the Charleston paper The Post and Courier. He took it during the summer of George Floyd protests — George Floyd who recently would’ve turned 50.

@andrewjwhitaker on Instagram, photo itself

Other surprises from last night.

Incorporating Sketchbook Project Page
Incorporating photo of Hearts for Charleston Quilt
Some earlier Sufi collages

Honey I’ve Shrunk!

I’ve lost half an inch — which means the next time I lose half an inch, I’ll be 4’11” and a half. I know it’s indicative of spine deterioration, aging, blah, blah, but I also find it funny. FOUR-ELEVEN and a HALF — REALLY? (I’m looking at you, Dottie!)

At my annual yesterday, my PCP managed to be efficient and personable at the same time. I got to air my concerns. She referenced reports from specialists and reviewed them for both of us. She even asked after the boys.

Are you lucky enough to have a doctor that gives you enough time?

In other news, this week’s Paris Collage Collective double image is dedicated to Tommy Tuberville who recently announced that white nationalists are Americans and not racists. He has since walked this back.

I agree with the commentator who said it was hard to tell if the man is more racist than stupid or more stupid than racist. And then there’s this:

Paris Collage Club — this week’s image

The printer is working again, so there will be paper variations this week.

Plaid door. Satin moon.

After two zoom calls and a dog walk, I had the day to myself, and also the house. I enjoyed going between the ironing board in the living room and the bins of cloth in the basement. Up and down the stairs. It felt like getting back to something I’d been missing and didn’t know how much.

The buttons on this one are coming off — too much like eyes. Whimsical is okay but not distracting.

Composed years ago, this little house quilt was languishing in a pile.

Cloth: plaid flannel — one of the boys’ pjs; wool challis from a scarf that belonged to my mother; luscious indigo strip dyed by me years ago. I can’t remember who wore the dark shirt behind the house, but I’m pretty sure that I bought the vintage hankie (roof) on eBay once upon a time.

Auditioning my barn on a stormy background. The foreground is stitched already, which is the only sewing I managed to accomplish in California.

I just inserted that thread crumb moon this morning. If I keep it, I’ll work some purple into the foreground.

Speaking of not getting much done, I am tired today and don’t even feel like walking the dog.

Yellow arrives out front. Such a cheerful color, yellow!

May ‘23 collage round up

Themes? I’ll let the images speak for themselves.

The debt bill just passed the house. Ugh. The process. Certainly, some mastery at work by Biden.

In this house tonight, Jeopardy is competing with a soccer game. I think Jeopardy will win. I don’t want Ted Lasso to end — I really don’t— but we’ll watch that later.

Ready for a month’s worth of haiku tomorrow? Is a month all at once too much? Would weekly round ups be more digestible?

“Riot is the language of the unheard”

Lying on the couch after dinner, half-asleep and wondering when all the shows about WWII will finally dry up, I suddenly remembered the dead robin in my bag. Eek! I’d picked it up on our walk yesterday with the intention of burying her here and then forgotten.

Still in my bag? Sleeved in a newspaper plastic but still. I’m going to California in the morning. Imagine if I’d forgotten it altogether.

I found that butterfly tag in my carryon laptop bag. “Riot is the language of the unheard.” Where did I hear that? A slightly haunting relic of the summer of George Floyd? Does anyone know who said it? [thank you Deb and Nancy. This was said by Reverend Martin Luther King, Jr.]

And, to pick up on Grace’s blog about creative endeavor, there is that question that thrums through the life of a maker. Why? Why do you do it? In particular, what is the point of all these collages, many of which exist purely in ones and zeroes on a screen?

This one is paper, but uses a print out of a digital collage in the background (me, peeking out above the book).

One thing I said in the comments is that there are very few things I do in life that don’t require overcoming resistance. Ugh. This again? Working with pattern in cloth and collage is not like that. I just find myself doing it. For that reason alone it’s a valuable, ongoing exercise.

There’s more to say about this, but as Jude recently noted on her blog, maybe the saying matters a whole lot less than simply continuing.

Right now, I’m “getting” scenes about some characters living in Boulder during the pandemic. I have no idea yet whether this is a viable project. There are ecstatic dancers who appear and disappear (all women) and no one knows what to make of them. There is a feral boy who lives deep in the woods. There’s a mom and her three kids, one of who is decompensating (again). Her middle child is a lawyer working for a social justice group that objects to decisions being made about the former bomb factory at Rocky Flats (turn plutonium-contaminated land into a public park? Really?)

I share this because, like the collages, the scenes keep coming whether I want them to or not. I’m sure Deb can speak to this.

Okay. Off to give Ken a tour of recently planted perennials so he knows what to water in my absence. Mostly divided hosta. Oh those reliable and prodigious hosta!