One of the lovely things
about being a creature of habit--

--is that I get to follow ideas
from their first glimmer--

--on into half formed experiments--

--and if I'm lucky,
further still--

--until eventually they flit away
of their own accord.

A drawback to this persistence,
is that I am a teensy bit inclined

to overdo.

 Which means that on this occasion,
it is I who need to flit away--
or at least pause this beloved series
( all 37 of which are now on the 2020 and 2021 archive pages)
while I attempt to rest.

Or rather,
(since I'm terrible at resting),
while I do the myriad stretches and exercises
prescribed for the future existence
of  my yarnish ideas.

Luckily, so far
there have been many wonderful things
to read--

like the gorgeous essay by 
my brother Benjamin C Swett
What I Wanted to Tell You About the Wind
in the Spring 2021 Orion Magazine:
(also myriad others in this unputdownable issue)
and
Carson Demers' book, Knitting Comfortably
(delightful, eye-opening, and occasionally mortifying
when I see how casually I've treated my poor old body)

as well as watch:

like Rebecca Mezoff's beautiful (and informative)
tribute to the work and life of inspirational tapestry weaver  James Kohler
on the tenth anniversary of his death
and
the webinars organized by Fibershed
(I just watched this one that Redbird did on Dog Bane
that hopefully will be available soon as a recording),

and oh, so much else.

Along with reading and learning
I shall also practice hand rest and rehab
which so far means
learning to use a mouse with my left hand
and doing a little studio spring clean
in order to clear both my head
and some space
for whatever parenthetical idea(s)
eventually take pity on me
(naturally using only large muscle groups
which are, truth to tell,
in far better shape than my small ones).

And perhaps you,
if you are so inclined
(and are not so foolish
as to have taken your hands and shoulders
as for granted as I),
will feel free to weave
a few of your own precious words--
those that you've shared in the comments in the last two weeks
or which are quietly rattling around your brain.
Because how not?
So many wonderful ones await.

And though this comes under the heading
of shameless self-promotion and blog support,
if you are interested in the word thing,
or at least attracted to crisp stacks of tapestries,
with no ends dangling in any direction
(ideal for tapestry Post Cards)
I cannot not recommend
the Fringeless Four Selvedge warping class
I did with Rebecca Mezoff,
and
my little zine Tucking the Tails .

Or if you're truly ambitious
 don't have a loom
and don't want to make one
there is always that other
goofy and miraculous four selvedge technique
Weaving a Bag On a Box.
Imagine a list, or  poem
going around around and around a bag
that can be carried around and around
wherever you go....


But enough of that.
I already have more bags than I can use in a life time.
My oh-so-ergonomic broom awaits.
And it's time for some more stretching.

Never a dull moment--
though wouldn't one or two be grand?

Wow-
it's March!

How are you doing?

Me--I am well,
(how happifying is that?)
And the snow is melting!

It's amazing to be back here--
 familiar and strange
at the same time.

I mean
after three months
there is so much to say,
and also, nothing at all.

For while listening
to other people express essential ideas
with perfection and beauty--

--I've been spending my days
with one word at a time.

I mean--
quag.
Isn't it lovely?
What a thing
to get to balance
(or try at any rate)
on its delicious
q-centric
syllable.

And really,
does a person really need
entire sentences?

Even my inner Storymaker
has been mostly OK with it.

She is all about words to be sure,
usually ready to cram in
as many as she can
(Verbs!!! Adjectives!!!!!
Parenthetical Asides!!!!),
but it turns out
that reading dictionaries
studying etymology,
and debating the merits
of this word
or that
is wildly entertaining.
(OMG--a double ff-- YES!)

Almost as satisfying
as having chopped
the ice dams
off the roof.

Now it could be
that writing this essay
back in December
for my friend Debbie Lee's
monthly blog: Witness Wilderness,
was all the Storymaker needed.

Or maybe she has just been biding her time,
waiting for the thaw
while the Luminist blissed out
on quiet(ish) winter days.

Either way,
we're decidedly out of shape
for this blogging biz
and it might take a while
 to fully emerge
from our wintry ways.

Though I suppose that is
what spring is all about, eh?

Lots of things happened in 2016 --
not least
that I  built 
my first backstrap loom.

Though probably not directly connected,
this elemental tool 
has helped to see me through
some of the other world-rocking
​ events and emotions of the last years--
the reverberations of which,
(as you might have noticed yourself...),
have yet to settle down.

For these years have
 asked-- nay, demanded 
so very much --
​not least
the development of
new levels of fortitude--

-- a massive amount of trust
in some absurdly fragile-appearing 
​threads of connection--

--and even some heart-expanding joy
when the  threads 
​actually hold.

So it is with a peculiar kind of curiosity
that I remembered, just now,
that it has been just over four years
since I first leaned back against 
my needlepoint strap--
and to spend some time thinking about
what has happened to me
​since then.

Of course it was tapestry
that started it--
the desire to begin weaving
with a single word
and follow it, letter by letter,
wherever the unfolding idea chose to go--
a deeply unsettling thing 
for a person given to weaving
from  carefully composed cartoons
(and thus even more worth pursuing).

The idea of plain plain weave, however
never crossed my mind.

Well, not until
the very second warp anyway.

And then --
well then I was a bit of a mess for a time.
A happy mess to be sure--
bounding back and forth
between delicious, weft-faced text
and luminous, drapy, open cloth--
yet also thoroughly confused
and bemused
by my new divided attention.

Luckily, I blogged about it at the time.
​(three 2016 posts: One, Two, Three),
then wrote  Backstrap Dialogues,
in order to dig even deeper
into what felt, in the moment
like uncertain direction.
"Who am I
to enjoy both of these?"

There were days, indeed,
when my head
felt as divided and divisive
as this country--
a place where "and" was not a thing--
my internal state
 as seemingly unreconcilable
(and sometimes downright cruel)
as the national mood.

Four years,
many many many yards of cloth
and more miles of yarn
than I can even begin to count later, 
much has changed--
​and much has not.

 As thrilled as ever
​by the breadth of possibility
inherent in the simple tools,
I now don't think twice about using
un-sized, super fine singles as warp.

And in endless, in-depth conversations,
Luminist and Storymaker--
though sometimes not as polite
as they might be--
have, over time,
come to realize how
interdependent they actually are,
and to make space for
techniques, ideas and materials
one or the other
might once have disdained 
(or, more truly, never even considered:
coffee filters? wedge weave? milkweed?
tapestry book covers? nettle baskets?).

Though not always been a cakewalk 
(as you might imagine),
even my tradition-bound inner Storymaker
has begun to concede
that tales can be told in many ways--
narrative, light and local materials 
coexisting
in a single swathe of cloth.

And​ at least some of the time, 
​in a single human as well.
​
(Or heddle -- Margaret, with her sweet, bemused smile,
is pretty much up for anything--
the more untried, the better).

For I do so hope,
 along with the unmitigated joy,
brought by final ballot counts,
that civility, kindness
​and attempts at being helpful
might be possible 
in our government
and amongst ourselves.

Or, at the very least
that we can remember
that taking turns
is a thing.

there is always tapestry.

And though Rebecca doesn't cover
these materials in her wonderful new book
The Art of Tapestry Weaving,
(officially launching today!)
she does provide instruction
on all  of the techniques I used.
(well, not the clamp and scrap wood support part,
but maybe I"ll talk about that
​some other day on this blog).

Today --

well today--

​all I knew for sure--

When I was 12 or 13
I learned to sew clothing.
It was a bribe from my mother--
"If you do such-and-such
without complaining any more
you can also take that class
at the fabric store."

Naturally, I totally went for it.
I mean, I was longing to sew properly:
​
--to master zippers and waist bands,
 the matching of plaids,
the smooth fitting of sleeves and facings,
the interpretation and adjustment of patterns

--to have real projects
and a proper reason
to  work with the sewing machine

--to understand the fabric itself
and know intuitively
​how to make the perfect choices

​--to make the garments of my dreams

As for the other half of the bribe--
(the thing I was being bribed to do),
well, I was a kid and well used to
enduring things I disliked
 while looking attentive
 and absorbing the necessary
 to regurgitate later
​in an acceptable form--
all while truly focusing 
on the pile of possibility
waiting at home
on the card table
by the sewing machine.

It is a useful skill--
pretending to be attentive I mean--
if not nearly as useful,
as the one that came
from the sewing class.

I say  "the one" 
because though I went on to make
many many garments over 
the next few years,'
my sewing skills
never grew beyond the serviceable.
Indeed, though I continue to
make, wear and mend 
a large portion of my current wardrobe,
the shaping of my favorite fitting garments
is accomplished with knitting needles
rather than darts.
And matching plaids?
Maybe in my next life.
(And really, who but a thirteen year old
would think that she could
totally understand sewing
after six lessons 
in which she made
one lopsided
if beloved
​ skirt?)

And as a reader of this blog,
you'll know well
that true understanding of cloth
is as elusive for me as ever --
​thank goodness.

 is noticing:

--the light on my laundry
--that empty winter squash shell
(baked and scooped)
sitting by the compost bucket
--the rhythm of the first half
of this sentence (if not the second),
--the glint of a strand of fiber
lifting from a drooping stalk
--the gut-settling satisfaction
of said strand twisting
 almost of its own accord
then settling into a warp
--the awkward feel (and lovely look)
of untwisted willow bark.

It's not just noticing though.
There are the added bits
of noticing that I noticed--
then noticing what I noticed--
and then believing it all--
that make this useful.

And that is was what I learned
from sewing class.

Actually, it wasn't  in class
that  all that noticing occurred.
In class I was concentrating 
(​of course).
The noticing happened
when I was at home
alone
​with the materials.

There I stood by the card table,
(still wearing my scratchy
pink and grey herringbone school uniform
with the matching pilled pink polyester shirt,
falling down blue cabled knee socks,
and thick, brown leather shoes
with the slitted flaps to cover the laces),
my hand on that pile of possibility:
-- slightly rough
blue cotton cloth,
-- pattern pieces carefully cut
(notches and everything),
with the crinkly paper
still pinned in place
-- unsullied spool
of coordinating thread
--empty bobbin 
--sharp, new, orange-handled
Fiskars sewing shears,
my first private pair
which no one else
(on pain of who knew what)
was allowed to touch
FOR ANY REASON WHATSOEVER--

​and I thought:

Bombarded as I was then
(with adult's ideas
of what I should do),
and as we now are
(with images and ideas 
and material dissatisfaction),
noticing remains, I think,
a hard skill worth honing --
even if following the results 
sometimes get me in a lot of bother,
not least, sitting out in the cold woodshed
for days --nay weeks--
scraping away at stemmy stalks
all for a few grams of fiber
for I don't know what.

And today,
instead of writing a sensible and useful critique
of my milkweed tapestry experiment
to go with the photos 
I couldn't resist taking this morning
​because the light was so lovely, 
I've ended up following
a wild hare across the moor
and into the past
and now I'm going to spend
the rest of the afternoon
trying to remember
what those shoes with the flaps are called
(do you know?)

So how many photos
does a gal have to take
of her backside

before she finally decides
that enough is enough?

I mean honestly --
all I wanted was to show
that the reason
​for the long narrow tapestry
​with the endless slits--

--was nothing more
than a desire to wear this skirt
(photo below)
without the bunchiness
​of a belt.
And now  I can!
Yet for some reason,
though it feels great on the inside,
my inner model and inner photographer
were not communicating this morning,
and every photo of the outside
is badly lit,
out of focus,
has me posed in front of
the only distracting object
on an otherwise empty wall, 
or my hair is in the way. 
And each time I checked out the photos
and said to my model,
"fix the elastic on your braid!"
did she do it?
Nope.
​
Ah well.
​We all have our little skills.

At any rate,
the skirt is old favorite
that was designed, alas, 
in that sartorially awkward moment
when retail clothing companies decided
that a "waist band" should sit
somewhere below one's belly button,
yet I've always loved it'
so awkward photos aside,
 it is delightful to be able to wear it
​without tripping over the hem
and/or displaying an unnecessary
​amount of stomach.

Why it took me so long
to think of this solution
​I've no idea,
as the fit of this
otherwise heavenly garment
has been annoying me for years.

But I guess brains,
like cameras
do not always focus
on the thing
that in hindsight
one might have preferred.
And since ideas
have their own pace
​ and agenda,
I can only be happy 
that this one showed up at all.

As you can probably tell from the safety pins,
I just cut the tapestry from my loom yesterday.
and wove in the the ends before supper.
After a quick bath
(a thing I do with all wool weft tapestries,
especially if it is a thing I'm going to wear --
though now that I think of it,
I'm not sure I've ever
woven an 'accessory' before),
I squeezed it in a towel,
laid it flat to dry,
and by this morning 
it was ready for a nice steamy iron.

 I was pleased to remember
to weave slits/buttonholes at either end
so the suspenders (braces)
could also work 
with this pair of pants
(extra satisfying when structure and function work together),
and am always happy
when Tucking The Tails
keeps stray weft strands
from sticking out hither and yon
on either back or front.

 I'm not, however, entirely happy
with the bulges/folds of the tapestry fabric
above the tiny house center panel
where the front straps veer off to my shoulders
(clearly visible in the photo above),
and I believe next time I'd either 
weave two separate straps 
that literally cross in the back,
or make that center panel wider
so there was more of an H
and a shallower shoulder angle.

This last would also make
a useful design space--
room for an entire landscape perhaps,
or, as in many Coptic garments,
a face looking ever outwards
watching your back,
and noticing 
where you've been.  

So many ideas--
I want to try them all.
Woven words?
(Logger World is traditional 
though what a place for haiku...)

Or a person could use a backstrap loom
and a rigid heddle
to weave a long narrow strip
of needlepoint canvas
then embellish it
with.... anything at all. 

And what about
warp faced pick up?

Oh dear. Off I go.
Please--
save me from this idea storm
and try one or two yourself?
What better way
to show off your glorious work,
and saying what you have to say
than by wearing your heart
on your shoulders?

And now that I think of it
this 194 grams of milkweed fiber
​(and some willow as well),
are calling my name--
really loudly.
Perhaps they, too,
have a sartorial plan
 (not yet revealed),
that will allow them to travel
exciting places
like --
curbside pick up
at the grocery store.

I didn't mean to start this tapestry--
and when I did begin,
I wasn't thinking
​about the air.

Back then
(all of four days ago),
the wind was blowing 
in a different direction,
and I was merely amazed
to be working with wool at all --
​much less weaving
it into a long narrow tapestry
with absurdly elongated slits.
(My ubiquitous wool sweater
steadily takes shape
on spindle and knitting needles,
but that is for evenings and lunch breaks;
regular studio time
has not been 
wool-centric
​for a while).

​So the whole thing
came at me sideways.
I mean -- 
this is a cordage moment--
​right--
and even if I was to
weave a tapestry,
milkweed
(or maybe willow)
would be
the obvious choice.

These fibers, however,
have other fish to fry
(or wrists to encircle)
and are not interested
in adapting themselves
​to a weft faced form
at this time.

​"Well," thought I,
having already
(somewhat precipitously),
built a pipe loom
and wound
a continuous warp.
"what about
coffee filter yarn?"

Alas, no.
The coffee filters
did not care for
the freshly wound
wool/silk warp
(nor, methinks,
for playing second fiddle
to milkweed--
though that is 
mere speculation
for  while
they feel free to tell me
what to do,
these fibers tend to be
somewhat sketchy
when it comes to
​ explaining why).


(note--for more on continuous warps and how to wind them,
this blog post: Long Warp/Short Loom,  has info)

At any rate,
in the midst 
of my connundrum
(should I unwind that warp?)
some lovely, fine wool skeins
cleared  their collective throat
from their comfy place on a shelf.
This gathering of skeins --
my "purse spindle project"--
​is a graded color progression
of Merino, Cormo, Polworth fleeces
I carded a couple of years ago--
and ever since
have spun and plied on the go
 with my Jenkins Kuchulu
(the aforementioned purse spindle),
whenever my dear  friend Rochelle and I
have met for tea--
historically at a local coffee shop
and these days
(carefully distanced),
shouting enthusiastically
across her back yard.

And of course once I began,
it was clear that the fiber
usually does know best.
 I'd forgotten
how familiar
and forgiving 
wool can be--
pure pleasure--
which is a fine thing
​on a series
of icky days.

Soon enough
(no surprise
to you who know me
​though I had not planned it),
a little way up
​the color progression,
there appeared a tiny house:
encased in smoke
and with lights on during the day
as is the case right here--
​and in much of the rest
of the western half
​of the USA just now.

It's  horrible --
the fires I mean,
not the house.
​Even those of us
not in immediate danger 
of losing our homes to the flames,
know every dry leaf
​to be potential danger.
We long for rain
to clear enough air,
and ease the worry
about friends, family
and perfect strangers 
​in Oregon and California--
and wish we could
 open windows--
or go outside 
for an autumnal breath,
or even a walk.
On top of 
"everything" else,
it sometimes feels
like just too much.

Except, luckily,
though being 
somewhat crazy 
is absolutely "a thing"  these days,
working with magical
and opinionated materials
can help to turn
potential madness
into more of a
focused frenzy.
And when one can
share that frenzy,
and the utter
over-the-top-ness
​of bloody everything
with dear friends,
it is easier to remember
that up above 
the grey sock we're living in,
acres of blue sky
await.

So on we go,
up the warp
into the blue--
in all the ways,
soon.
​
Right?
(don't forget, my USA friends,
to order your absentee ballots soon!!!!)

And as we work our way along,
it's a fine thing
​ to have support--
from our compatriots
and from lovely books
like this  one
by Linda Ligon--
filled with stories
ideas, connection
and inspiration --
 a place where
tiny house tapestries
(blue skies and all),
might even
run into
​themselves. 

Since it'll probably be a whole week
till I next have a chance
​ to go on and on about Milkweed
(a whole week!!),
​what better way to begin
talking about  a few of
​the books I've been reading
than with ​a photo of cordage in progress
shading the pages---

especially since
one of the many great things
about making cordage
​(vs other methods of bast fiber yarn construction),
is that I can twist and read
at the same time.

Same goes for
spinning well prepared wool
with a familiar, lightweight spindle.

Indeed, 
reading and yarn making
are inextricably linked
in my odd little world.
Reading/knitting too,
though I don't seem to have  any photos
of that blissful activity--
even if I  have (and wear),
a great number
of  the not-very-complicated
but perfect-to-knit-while-not-looking
 garments, that result. 

How lovely, then,
to dive into Milkweed
with someone who has spent
far more time than I 
(at least so far),
exploring its mysteries. 
Aimee Lee's
Making Milkweed Paper
is actually a reference I've had for ages,
her work an unending inspiration.
Click the link with her name
and check out all her work.
The knitted books! The icons!
The Hanji dresses.
OH, be still my heart. 

And to slip from those
ethereal garments,
to Kate Fletcher's thoughtful 
and curious essays
 in Wild Dress--
is a mighty thing indeed.
Even better to be making a garment
while turning the pages.

Then again, 
if we're going to bring everything
back to the integral role
of woman the maker,
who can resist the engaging prose
of The Invisible Sex,
or ignore the pleasure
of wrapping my mind
around the elemental--
nay the central role--
of first cordage makers in pre-history--
probably female and mostly ignored by (male) archaeologists--
while ​physically twisting fibers myself.
Cuz some ways of being a human female
never change at all.
​I could hardly put it down.

I mean -- actual woven illustrations,
 exquisite drawings,
 wide ranging understanding,
rock solid information,
irresistible charm, and deep knowledge--
I am beyond proud
to know them
and really really glad
​to have this book.
The sections on preservation, conservation
and restoration are a gold mine indeed,
and I anticipate a few--
--erm--adjustments--
to the way I've been storing my work.
I love them so much.

Real Reviews!
Rebecca Mezoff
Elizabeth Buckley

When I've needed
to take a brief step back
from textiles
(hard to believe, but sometimes true),
I've been re-delighted
with the imaginary,
decidedly un-sentimental--
even pointy-- elven worlds
created by Sylvia Townsend Warner--
one of my all time favorite authors.
I'm so very happy
that some of her
hard-to-find work
has been recently republished
​by Hand Held Press.
​
Given half a chance,
I'd probably order
half a dozen other books
from this small publisher.
Indeed, I bet I eventually will.

But back to tapestry --
because seemingly
somehow
everything  eventually
returns to tapestry 
in some form other--
if only as  metaphor--
though not in this instance--
there is one more book
I want to mention --
at least one more that I now have
in my physical possession:
the magnificent
The Art Is The Cloth 
by Micala Sidore

Well, now I've almost worn out my mouse batteries
putting links into this post
so it must be time to quit.
Except that while I'm in the mode
 I want to add a short list
of wondrous  and soon-to-be-released
Tapestry/Textile books you can pre-order.
Once they are physically in my world
getting milkweed, coffee filters
​ and wool fibers caught between their pages
I'll talk about each one again,
but in case you like to do
​a big old book order all at once,
and then have them trickle in
like little unexpected treats
​for your future self,
here are a few you'll want to have on your list.



Books to Pre-Order:

​The Long Thread Special Issue  by Linda Ligon
(lucky me to be in this one too--and I can hardly WAIT to see the rest of it)
The Art of Tapestry Weaving by Rebecca Mezoff 
(This book -- I've had the privilege of reading early drafts -- a thorough and glorious resource--
just wait till I have more room to talk about this book!!!!!)
How To Weave A Navajo Rug and Other Lessons from Spider Woman 
by Lynda Teller Pete and Barbara Teller Ornelas.
(Two fifth generation Navajo weavers writing about their work and generously sharing techniques and family stories with us all--THE people from whom to learn stories, techniques and understanding.)

Books Mentioned in the Blog Post:
​
Wild Dress by Kate Fletcher
Making Milkweed Paper by Aimee Lee
The Invisible Sex by J.M. Adovasio, Olga Soffer & Jake Page
Anatomy Of A Tapestry by Jean Pierre Larochette and Yadin Larochette
Earth Materials by Sue Lawty​ 
Of Cats and Elfins and Kingdoms of Elfin by Sylvia Townsend Warner
The Art Is The Cloth  by Micala Sidore

How else but with two aprons,
 to pick ​rapidly ripening raspberries

and carry a garden watering timer
​(aka phone)

when neither your linen shirt
nor the  hand-me-over-unfinished-skirt
you're wearing underneath
​has a pocket?

Not that I couldn't remedy that.
A nice patch pocket on the skirt
would be the work of a moment.
​
And the shirt
is a continual work in progress--
the fact that it already has
a teensy tapestry pocket on one side
no reason to neglect the other.

It's just that I wear the shirt so often--
 like every day I'm not wearing
  the linsey-woolsey one--
that I just haven't gotten around to it.

Yes -- it's hard to tell from the drawing
that I'm wearing the linsey-woolsey shirt.
But it is  only short-sleeved shirt I have,
so not a tricky deduction.
Besides, it was just a few days ago.

Also, though I occasionally
bend the absolute truth in my comics
(for narrative clarity only),
I generally aim for sartorial veracity--
if only because I love my clothes
and am oddly attached
to the idea that  future me
might like to enjoy seeing them too
(while remembering what. weenie I am about shopping).

It also helps with the laundry.
("I seem to have worn Sarah-Dippity Skirts
in almost every drawing for this entire diary--
definitely time for a bath!")

But I digress.
Paper pockets
were the topic of the moment.
And they might actually be
a compelling experiment. 
Though the coffee filter yarn
is itself pretty fragile,
especially as singles
(I can't imagine using it for warp for instance),
it seems to stand up remarkably well
 tightly packed in a weft faced plain weave--
at least to the wear and tear 
of life as a diary cover--
growing soft, pliable,
and almost leather-like
​(if a little grubby),
with daily use.

And true shifu,
(woven from hand spun washi)
has been used for clothing for centuries,
so the idea is not totally outrageous --
except of course, that washi
(and the resulting kami-ito)
is often specifically made
for strength and longevity
while coffee filters are (usually)
single use items.
Though expected to withstand
 boiling water and soggy grounds, 
they are definitely not​
as intrinsically strong as washi.
But who knows?
In case you haven't noticed,
my life is a constant work in progress --
my chief delights arising from
​experiments with the materials at hand,
no matter the source.

And as we all learn daily,
you never know 
what is going to happen.

Indeed, I'm super excited
about watching the evolution 
of this diary I just made.
Not only do I get to play
with the wedge weave tapestry
I wove last May.
(2-ply vs the singles of the last one)--

​but I also got (and get) 
to see how the dog bane binding cordage
(made in the fall of 2018),
behaves with constant handling.
It's pretty rough right now,
but super strong
even if I did have to punch
​extra large holes in my signatures. 

Now what was this post supposed to be about?
No idea. 
Undoubtedly something
satisfying and insightful
that would rock all our worlds--
though nothing could equal
the roller coaster ride
of real life just now--
my mind growing, I hope,
as strong and flexible
and welcoming of change and possibility
 as dog bane cordage.
So a bit of paper-induced absurdity
never hurts alongside, say, things like
the recent groundbreaking
 Supreme Court Decision
that almost half of Oklahoma
falls within a Native American reservation!

So I'll just end with this photo--
because it makes me happy,
and is a good reminder
to enjoy the hidden richness
in even the simplest
of moments.

​ps. Tiny chair carved by Linda Ligon's grandfather in about 1915 --
and though this chair didn't start
Thrums Books , Long Thread Media,
and the once-upon-a-lifechanging  Interweave Press,
Linda did, and all three make (and have made)
the world a better place for textiles
and their makers.

pps. Squash plant--a volunteer,
​grown by itself from a bit of compost,
whose contributions to my world
are blossoming even as I type.

ppps.  Because it has to be said:
​Fuck Trump

It's been a while
since I've woven on
a continuous warp,

​and had forgotten
​ how delightful
it can be
​to slowly swirl
​an emerging tapestry
​around the top and bottom beams

as the prickly plants
gradually emerge,
a letter at a time.
(The names I use for the plants, that is,
​since I do not know what they call themselves). 

The length of the thing
means there is time and space
to notice unexpected words,

It has also been fun,
just after writing
Tucking The Tails,
to find another place
where the practice
of working in the ends as I go
adds moments
of enchantment
to weaving:
getting to glimpse
the elegance
of letters in reverse
out of the corner of my eye--
to admire grace of their shapes-- 
to relish the confusion of
of thinking a 'd'
is a 'p'
and trying to figure out
what word I had
 inadvertently written.
​
And how not to delight
in the dignified nod
of two 'r's
(distantly socializing as now is normal)
as they pass by, 
one going up, one down?

I'm weaving the letters
with naturally dyed wool.
The colors were a surprise
as at first I thought 
I'd write all the words
with black and charcoal fleece,
and I really appreciate 
the indigo and madder,
weld and lobaria pulmonaria,
insisting that they, too
​ get to promote
 the loveliness
of some of the sharp things
in my world.

The two-ply used coffee filter yarn
also had its way with me,
​thank goodness.
For though it is almost
too thick for a sett of 8 epi
(and anything but smoothly even),
it is a pleasure to touch,
to tap into place,
​to think about,
to make,
and to photograph. 

Using the two fibers together
does take a little getting used to--
 the extreme difference
in how each packs into place
 a little disconcerting
especially when I'm trying to count passes--
but I'm getting pretty good at eye-balling
how much the wool will pack down
in relation to the paper,
and the juxtaposition
of warm brown beads of coffee filter
against the smooth fuzz 
of fine spindle spun wool,
is a continual source of delight. 

Even if you're less
easily amused than I,
how not to adore
the exuberance
​of an 'e' coming to life?

I am hoping to fit
two more prickly things
onto the last few inches of the warp
and though am not quite sure there is room,
( the shed will be tiny no matter what
and I haven't even gotten to 
my list of local burrs),
I'm still going to try.

And luckily (hopefully)
I can soon put on another warp
for  apparently
my beloved PVC pipe loom
loves a good continuous one
as much as it loves four selvedge--
and there are so so many more
weirdly wonderful prickles
to investigate,
a letter at a time. 


ps. And in case you care about such specifics
 the warp is that merino/silk,
I wrote about back in May.
As you may recall
it didn't race my motor 
in the cloth samples I was weaving then,
but it does make a glorious warp
as I had hoped (3 ply for this tapestry),
​and I'm delighted that I have plenty more.