Black Tea Top

I made this top out of another blousey shirt that I had dyed with black tea dye. I just love the soft faun color it produces. I used an Isabelle Schultz tutorial for her Crocodile Top. I spent an evening using her free pattern that can be downloaded and the above was the result. The pattern she gives you is an extra small, her size, so it is definitely on the small side for me. But I like the top itself, and want to make another one with an old black stretchy shirt I have. I actually wrote to her on instagram and included a picture of the top, and she responded! She was so friendly, and it makes me want to try more of her tutorials. 

Randomly Selected Photo

I intended to upload another photo, but there was some glitch and I couldn't see what I was doing. I randomly clicked this file, and it uploaded, and this is what I saw. It somehow feels better fitting. 

Feverfew/Feverdream

My feverfew plants started to bloom for the first time this week. Also called "maid's weed," "midsummer Daisy," and "devil's daisy," I tried growing feverfew a few years ago for my migraines but it never took. Last year I planted them but they didn't bloom. I guess this was the magic week. Associated with the planet Venus, they have a medicinal history as treatments for menstrual problems and headaches as a blood thinner. They are used in mojo bags for protection, and during plagues people planted them around their houses for protection. (They probably kept vermin from entering the home due to the leaves smell.) It also was tied around ones' wrists to draw out pain in medieval Europe. A delicate ally for profound times. When I was picking the flowers, and when I look at these pictures I am playing "Cinder and Smoke" by Iron and Wine in my head.https://youtu.be/F_b-v45Zcsk

Lie With Me

"...I allow my gaze to wander to the people walking across the lobby. I watch their comings and goings, and invent the lives of these people in my mind. I try to imagine where they are coming from and where they are headed. I've always loved to do that, to invent the lives of strangers in passing. It could almost be considered an obsession. I believe it started when I was a child. I remember its worrying my mother. "Stop with your lies! She would say. She used the word "lies" instead of "stories," but nevertheless, it continued, and all these years later, I still find myself doing it." - Prologue, Lie with Me by Philippe Besson, translated from the French by Molly Ringwald. 

Black Lives Matter

Caged Bird

BY MAYA ANGELOU

A free bird leaps

on the back of the wind   

and floats downstream   

till the current ends

and dips his wing

in the orange sun rays

and dares to claim the sky.

But a bird that stalks

down his narrow cage

can seldom see through

his bars of rage

his wings are clipped and   

his feet are tied

so he opens his throat to sing.

The caged bird sings   

with a fearful trill   

of things unknown   

but longed for still   

and his tune is heard   

on the distant hill   

for the caged bird   

sings of freedom.

The free bird thinks of another breeze

and the trade winds soft through the sighing trees

and the fat worms waiting on a dawn bright lawn

and he names the sky his own

But a caged bird stands on the grave of dreams   

his shadow shouts on a nightmare scream   

his wings are clipped and his feet are tied   

so he opens his throat to sing.

The caged bird sings   

with a fearful trill   

of things unknown   

but longed for still   

and his tune is heard   

on the distant hill   

for the caged bird   

sings of freedom.

Maya Angelou, “Caged Bird” from Shaker, Why Don't You Sing? Copyright © 1983 by Maya Angelou. Used by permission of Random House, an imprint and division of Penguin Random House LLC. All rights reserved. found via the Poetry Foundation   https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/48989/caged-bird

The Witch of Coös

The Witch of Coos

By Robert Frost

Circa 1922 I STAID the night for shelter at a farm Behind the mountain, with a mother and son, Two old-believers. They did all the talking.   The Mother   Folks think a witch who has familiar spirits   She could call up to pass a winter evening,         5   But won’t, should be burned at the stake or something.   Summoning spirits isn’t “Button, button,   Who’s got the button,” you’re to understand. The Son   Mother can make a common table rear   And kick with two legs like an army mule.         10 The Mother   And when I’ve done it, what good have I done?   Rather than tip a table for you, let me   Tell you what Ralle the Sioux Control once told me.   He said the dead had souls, but when I asked him   How that could be—I thought the dead were souls,         15   He broke my trance. Don’t that make you suspicious   That there’s something the dead are keeping back?   Yes, there’s something the dead are keeping back. The Son   You wouldn’t want to tell him what we have   Up attic, mother?         20 The Mother                     Bones—a skeleton. The Son   But the headboard of mother’s bed is pushed   Against the attic door: the door is nailed.   It’s harmless. Mother hears it in the night   Halting perplexed behind the barrier         25   Of door and headboard. Where it wants to get   Is back into the cellar where it came from. The Mother   We’ll never let them, will we, son? We’ll never! The Son   It left the cellar forty years ago   And carried itself like a pile of dishes         30   Up one flight from the cellar to the kitchen,   Another from the kitchen to the bedroom,   Another from the bedroom to the attic,   Right past both father and mother, and neither stopped it.   Father had gone upstairs; mother was downstairs.         35   I was a baby: I don’t know where I was. The Mother   The only fault my husband found with me—   I went to sleep before I went to bed,   Especially in winter when the bed   Might just as well be ice and the clothes snow.         40   The night the bones came up the cellar-stairs   Toffile had gone to bed alone and left me,   But left an open door to cool the room off   So as to sort of turn me out of it.   I was just coming to myself enough         45   To wonder where the cold was coming from,   When I heard Toffile upstairs in the bedroom   And thought I heard him downstairs in the cellar.   The board we had laid down to walk dry-shod on   When there was water in the cellar in spring         50   Struck the hard cellar bottom. And then someone   Began the stairs, two footsteps for each step,   The way a man with one leg and a crutch,   Or little child, comes up. It wasn’t Toffile:   It wasn’t anyone who could be there.         55   The bulkhead double-doors were double-locked   And swollen tight and buried under snow.   The cellar windows were banked up with sawdust   And swollen tight and buried under snow.   It was the bones. I knew them—and good reason.         60   My first impulse was to get to the knob   And hold the door. But the bones didn’t try   The door; they halted helpless on the landing,   Waiting for things to happen in their favor.   The faintest restless rustling ran all through them.         65   I never could have done the thing I did   If the wish hadn’t been too strong in me   To see how they were mounted for this walk.   I had a vision of them put together   Not like a man, but like a chandelier.         70   So suddenly I flung the door wide on him.   A moment he stood balancing with emotion,   And all but lost himself. (A tongue of fire   Flashed out and licked along his upper teeth.   Smoke rolled inside the sockets of his eyes.)         75   Then he came at me with one hand outstretched,   The way he did in life once; but this time   I struck the hand off brittle on the floor,   And fell back from him on the floor myself.   The finger-pieces slid in all directions.         80   (Where did I see one of those pieces lately?   Hand me my button-box—it must be there.)     I sat up on the floor and shouted, “Toffile,   It’s coming up to you.” It had its choice   Of the door to the cellar or the hall.         85   It took the hall door for the novelty,   And set off briskly for so slow a thing,   Still going every which way in the joints, though,   So that it looked like lightning or a scribble,   From the slap I had just now given its hand.         90   I listened till it almost climbed the stairs   From the hall to the only finished bedroom,   Before I got up to do anything;   Then ran and shouted, “Shut the bedroom door,   Toffile, for my sake!” “Company,” he said,         95   “Don’t make me get up; I’m too warm in bed.”   So lying forward weakly on the handrail   I pushed myself upstairs, and in the light   (The kitchen had been dark) I had to own   I could see nothing. “Toffile, I don’t see it.         100   It’s with us in the room, though. It’s the bones.”   “What bones?” “The cellar bones—out of the grave.”     That made him throw his bare legs out of bed   And sit up by me and take hold of me.   I wanted to put out the light and see         105   If I could see it, or else mow the room,   With our arms at the level of our knees,   And bring the chalk-pile down. “I’ll tell you what—   It’s looking for another door to try.   The uncommonly deep snow has made him think         110   Of his old song, The Wild Colonial Boy,   He always used to sing along the tote-road.   He’s after an open door to get out-doors.   Let’s trap him with an open door up attic.”   Toffile agreed to that, and sure enough,         115   Almost the moment he was given an opening,   The steps began to climb the attic stairs.   I heard them. Toffile didn’t seem to hear them.   “Quick!” I slammed to the door and held the knob.   “Toffile, get nails.” I made him nail the door shut,         120   And push the headboard of the bed against it.     Then we asked was there anything   Up attic that we’d ever want again.   The attic was less to us than the cellar.   If the bones liked the attic, let them like it,         125   Let them stay in the attic. When they sometimes   Come down the stairs at night and stand perplexed   Behind the door and headboard of the bed,   Brushing their chalky skull with chalky fingers,   With sounds like the dry rattling of a shutter,         130   That’s what I sit up in the dark to say—   To no one any more since Toffile died.   Let them stay in the attic since they went there.   I promised Toffile to be cruel to them   For helping them be cruel once to him.         135 The Son   We think they had a grave down in the cellar. The Mother   We know they had a grave down in the cellar. The Son   We never could find out whose bones they were. The Mother   Yes, we could too, son. Tell the truth for once.   They were a man’s his father killed for me.         140   I mean a man he killed instead of me.   The least I could do was help dig their grave.   We were about it one night in the cellar.   Son knows the story: but ’twas not for him   To tell the truth, suppose the time had come.         145   Son looks surprised to see me end a lie   We’d kept up all these years between ourselves   So as to have it ready for outsiders.   But tonight I don’t care enough to lie—   I don’t remember why I ever cared.         150   Toffile, if he were here, I don’t believe   Could tell you why he ever cared himself….     She hadn’t found the finger-bone she wanted   Among the buttons poured out in her lap.     I verified the name next morning: Toffile.         155   The rural letter-box said Toffile Barre.   from

Welsh Spirits

Recently, I posted on this blog two sculptural marionette pieces that I started in Wales. Morfudd the Mermaid of Mwnt and Alaw the Naiad of Rhaeadr Peiran. Both of them belong to places that I felt connected to during my travels in Wales. Mwnt was a beach that was a short walk from where I was in Ferwig. While the Rhaeadr Peiran was a waterfall on the Hafod Estate, a place I visited on a private day tour of the Cambrian Mountains with Cambrian Safaris. They each have grasses or mosses or seed pods or stones that I gathered from their respective locations sewn into them. Even dipped in the water where they were gathered. That seems special for these water babies. To imbue them with a sense of that place. 

My first day in Ferwig, I went on a walk by the sea with the family that operates Createspace. It was not Mwnt, but a beach very close to it. The day before I had flown into Cardiff. A huge storm hit Wales and the rest of Britain just after I arrived. It flooded train tracks and fields and roads, and left many people without power. It was reported that it was the worst storm they had had in years. If I had left a day later to fly out, my flight probably would have been cancelled. I needed to be on that particular flight. It felt fated to arrive with the storm. Though the worst of it was over when I was picked up from Carmarthen to head to the residency the day after I arrived, it remained incredibly windy and rainy. When we went on our walk on the cliffs by the sea, at one point we were pelted by rain and I thought I was going to blow off the cliff. I had never experienced anything like it! Rose, the artist who runs the residency, said "Welcome to West Wales!",smiling, when we finished our walk. I felt like I was getting back to my wild mermaid roots or something. So it sealed the deal that I needed to make a mermaid. Later that week, I went on a walk down to Mwnt and cried when I saw the beach from an overlooking field. Thus Morfudd the mermaid of Mwnt was born. 

Something else that happened my first day at the residency, when I took that invigorating windy walk, was I got my period. It was the full moon. I've been tracking my period with the moon cycles for a few years, on the recommendation of my brilliant acupuncturist Diana Keener. I used to start my menstrual cycle (or moon cycle) pretty darn regularly with the new moon, however in the fall of 2018 it abruptly jumped to the full moon and has been pretty consistent since. I conceived the mermaid and her backstory as she related to my sex/love life. She represented the part of me who falls for someone who seems different than all the others. I get their attention, much like mermaids and their siren songs, and then I start thinking that I can engineer or control the relationship and it never ends how I "think it should". It seemed particularly potent that I started my period on the same night I had both the windy battered cliff experience, and started making Morfudd. Especially as periods are associated with sex, love, and binding magic in Hoodoo, Rootwork and European folk magic- notably Sicilian.

Alaw, the Naiad was started only a few days after Morfudd. Alaw represents the side of me that wantonly wants attention- that wants to get someone's attention for the sake of that attention. For a mirror's purpose if you will. Though Morfudd was quite a seductress, she had her eyes set on certain people, whereas Alaw really doesn't care. It's just whoever walks by, that she can lock eyes with. She loves admiring herself and lying on a rock in the sun by her waterfall. And playing with her hair. 

Rhaeadr Peiran, on the Hafod Estate. Alaw's residence.

The view overlooking Mwnt, whereupon seeing I felt such a powerful feeling I started to cry. Morfudd's favorite place to haunt.