Valerean

Last week we went to visit our nephew in his new home, which is beautiful. As we were leaving I noticed he'd framed and hung the bag of money I made for him in the laundry room. It's a reminder that he is loved. :) I ordered a bag of mystery dice for my daughter, who also plays D&D (I was a dungeon master while I was in the military.) The dice are a pearlescent blue and lavender, and perfect for someone who lives in the islands. I finally sent a message to the vendor at the online thrift auction about this lot that I won back in June but has not yet arrived. They responded immediately, told me they're having staffing issues and can't find it, and issued me a full refund without me having to ask for one. That is the kind of customer service you just don't see anymore these days.

I've gotten back into hand writing a personal journal while I document the ongoing changes in my life this year. I don't write quite as much (or as prettily) as I used to, but the daily habit adds to my peace and calm. While we were walking around The Mercantile last week I spotted some journaling kits, emphemera and mystery bags of vintage things that gave me an idea, and invested in these three. First, the mystery bag's contents: A beautiful old beaded purse, four spools of vintage thread, an empty wooden spool, lavender, and seven cut sections of a birch branch. Everything fits inside the purse and will stay there while I cook up some ways to use it. The purse is definitely going to be a journaling project. :) The journal ephemera pocket matches perfectly with the journal I'm using right now. It contains a lovely little collection of tags and papers. The journal kit was a big surprise; I didn't realize it came with so many bits. I...

Last summer I wrote a short story, After, that at the time I wasn't comfortable sharing online. It was a kinda-sorta sequel to Valen , just with zero romance and a more realistic (or so I thought) view of life after death. I also wrote without a filter, something I almost never do. I'm finally over that angry, bitter time in my life, and I can let go of this story now. Is it real life? Is it fiction? I'll let you decide. Image Credit: Myriams-fotos from Pixabay

While we were on our road trip for my birthday we drove through Rockledge and saw the old hospital they are demolishing bit by bit. I've never been able to get so close to this kind of job site and it fascinates me, so I snapped a few more pics from the car. Aside from it being excellent visuals for a story I'm writing for pleasure (yes, everything is grist for the mill) there is something haunting about getting close to such large scale destruction. It's apocalyptic for sure, but it's also a stunning visual metaphor for many things. The deconstruction site reminds me of how I've always torn down myself for never being good enough for others. No matter how much success I achieved, it was never enough for any of them. I was pushed to do more, land more contracts, write more books, and hand over the money I made. Everyone demanded, no one encouraged. As a result I never wasted any opportunity I had as a professional. When one thing didn't ...

Two years ago I made my first memory quilt out of my old t-shirts. It was also the last time I would even think about making a t-shirt quilt because I struggled so much with the execution. Cotton jersey is a nightmare to sew, even on the machine. My hands didn't want to cooperate so I couldn't do as much embroidery as I wanted to (that was the very first time arthritis kept me from quilting, I think.) The fact that it's become one of my favorite quilts does not tempt me to revisit the experience. I also know I couldn't make this quilt now (or it would take me a year or two.) The old me struggled with the making; the present me would not even try. I can barely hold a needle anymore. So I crochet, and I tell myself that's a reasonable substitution because what else can I do? I crochet well. I crochet a lot. Still, I miss quilting. And I hate that I miss quilting. And then I miss quilting and the me who could do it even more. And then I hate myself a li...

After so many (too many) DNFs it was a pleasure to read a properly-written book, which is absolutely Dear Old Dead by Jane Haddam. I actually took my time reading it because the writing, the story, the characters, the detective and basically every other element of the story were so good. At a charity, church-supported Harlem health center, saintly director and surgeon extraordinaire Dr. Michael Pride is not having a great night. After being arrested on a vice charge for frequenting a notorious gay sex club and having his image splashed all over the papers (keep in mind this novel was published 32 years ago in 1994), Michael is trying to clean up surgically the mess created by an ongoing gang war. Then he receives news that his wealthiest media mogul patron is waiting for him in his office, and goes to face the music -- only to find the mogul dying of strychnine poisoning. It doesn't help that basically everyone at the health center wants the mogul dead, and the poison used...