And just like that, fallow turned to useable soil. I have a theme for my current study module, I have samples started and planned out, all I need is time and reasonably good health to get there. It is a very convoluted answer to the assignment's request, but I think it fits enough to move forward. 

But the snow.


​It snowed last night and now it is sleeting/raining/vomiting on top of about 8" of the stuff. Looks like misery incarnate to go out there. It is going to freeze though, so there is a lot to be done. Plow came (thank you world for that) but unlike other storms where the snow will melt or can be picked away at, this one has a tight timeframe with freezing temps on the way, turning the whole mess to ice. Yet every time I want to really complain (this is a whine, not a full out complaint, if you can't tell the difference) I think of my amazing neighbor Mary who, at an age above 80, still insists on shoveling herself, and it is a game to try to get out there before she does. She is a tall, strong woman, who has survived both polio and cancer, and handled the latter with such grace, strength, and positivity it seemed like she was shaking off the common cold. I am in awe of this woman and her quiet, kind, reserved manner. Always thoughtful with her words, never judgemental, always assuming the good and offering a smile and sincere kindness at every turn. She is an amazing woman who has served others her whole life, as her stellar nursing career lasted longer than I have been alive. Now she cares for her sister, who is also an amazing woman, and plays with the house furniture like it is a dolls house, always making new arrangements and, of course, moving everything herself despite offers to help. I am thrilled to see that their puppy Mia has bonded closely with her, and they are clearly a team. It is great to see the love fest between them - she so deserves it! Mary is one of those rare people who one feels honored just to know, and I realize how lucky I am to be her neighbor. 

I better stop writing and get my arse out there before she does. I want to do her steps :) 

​Cheers. 

Being an artist can be challenging. It is fantastic to be able to make meaningful art things and spend time lost in the process. It is so interesting to bring to life ideas that had no form before. To always be learning new processes, absorbing new ideas, and to always be changing, means though,that the road is not always a smooth one. 

There are dry patches during which I can sense that my art is changing in terms of subject, media, or style. I could still be making pictorial fabric collage quilts like I did when I started years ago. I loved making those and felt extremely satisfied with the results. It felt right to keep going with the medium. I could still be making giant paper collages on canvas like I did in the early 90's. Loved them too. I could be doing tight counted stitch work like I've come back to time and time again (therapeutic, perhaps?) But it never feels 100% right to move in a backwards direction with hopes of finding artistic satisfaction. 

This is one of those fallow periods. I look at the past year and see it as a series of dabbles into new and renewed processes (English Paper Piecing, weaving, bead making, collage, fabric printing, etc.) rather than creating large "successes." That is hard to take in some ways as I have always valued productivity as an important part of the art journey. Certainly there are health issues that have impacted my ability to devote the time I'd like to my artwork, but that is not all that is going on, here. 

As part of the current Embroidery course I am taking through the School of Stitched Textiles, I have been presented with an idea that I just haven't been able to make work. I have tried multiple subject matters only to find that the initial enthusiasm was a mirage. I am feeling pulled to do machine embroidery drawings - something I have yet to really focus on -- but keep procrastinating. I take little baby steps, then run screaming in the other direction looking for laundry to do, or maybe a dishwasher to empty. I have seen others do such lovely machine embroidered work, I am both intimidated and put off from the experience. It is logical, but irrational. I do not want my pieces to look like things I've seen, I need to find my way of using the process so I feel like it is mine, and this course will help with that. So why is it so hard to jump in and do the work? 

Plain and simple, fear. Fear that the work will be ugly, not match my expectations, not "say"what I want it to say. Fear that it is so different from things I've done before that I "lose" artistic continuity. Fear that I won't enjoy the process or results. That it will feel like "work" rather than the magically escapist journey that art has been for me in my life.  I have to remember that it is just fear, and no matter what medium I try, the art will be mine, and to move forward in baby steps, a little every day if needed until the creative rocket launches and I just can't put the work down or walk away from it. It is bound to happen. 

For me the answer in times of artistic transition has been to be gentle, and lower my expectations, but make sure I continue to "show up" and do the work, even if it is less than I theoretically agree with. One night a week and time on weekends, for now, are devoted to this new direction, more if it takes off. At least one other block of time is devoted to what I call "R&D" -- more playing and dabbling without the expectation of Art. This has taken the form over the past week of playing with vector drawing with hopes of exploring digitally cut collages using a Cricut machine.  I am fascinated at the intersection of technology and fiber processes, as one is slow and methodical, the other is fast and provides immediate gratification. What an odd couple. I think this is the path I've been on for a while -- dabbling with digital embroidery, now digital cutting, as well as digital fabric printing and using the materials in more laborious, meditative processes. 

The fun part of being an artist is getting seemingly lost in the nooks and crannies of the journey...not knowing exactly which way to create, not seeing through the fog that is created by having so many potential directions. I know that I am very, very fortunate to be where I am, and have to keep the faith that through time, baby steps and effort, I will be able to look back and see that I ended up in the right (and only) place I could. Cheers. 

New year, new energy, blah blah blah blah. 

I slept 15 hours last night. 

Alas, I woke up without an alarm, and felt rested for a good fifteen minutes before the mind foggy tiredness crept back in. Here's to hoping I can salvage this weekend and the pets will forgive my lapse in attentive catering.  Tilly and El slept too, so at least they won't be holding a grudge. 

Some thoughts this fine morning as I drink strong coffee with hopes of physical and mental revivial:

Guinea Pig. I never knew I needed a guinea pig in my kitchen. I had a rat visiting my kitchen without permission and thought I needed to move as a result, and finally killed it (and his brethren) with brutal snap traps, putting Rodent Trauma on the list of things I'd like to erase from my mind should a sci-fi drug to do this becomes available. Horrific experience. Now, I look to my left, and there is a very corpulent rodent happily nibbling alfalfa on a piece of unicorn covered polar fleece, taking breaks to wash his little face with his little pink feet and showing me his tiny rabbit-like mouth, which makes me squee like a five year old.  Welcome, Piggy. I named him Basil, but have to admit, Piggy is sticking. Hope he stays for a while. Who knew? Age 51, like guinea pigs. New knowledge. 

Letting things go. Over the last year I have let go of a lot of things as my health has felt like it was getting worse. Guilt over not creating art every day was the biggest monster, and I focused each day on just getting through it, caring for my birds, dogs, and cats, and spending time with people I love. I fully understand how my dad's life grew smaller and smaller as he dealt with this plague (or something similar) so that all he seemed to do after a certain point was lay on his bed and watch t.v. It is downright exhausting, mentally and physically, to be in pain. The fatigue piece of the arthritis is an additional piece of the puzzle, and I can see that it has increased dramatically over the last six months. In my mind I would say "Yeah, so it is pain, so what, can't change it, move on..." and just keep pushing. Somewhere over the last year, the bag burst and I became just too tired to do anything. I've spent my creative time over this year experimenting a lot with computer printed fabric, English paper piecing, bead making, and very little else, and there have been no "grand pieces" to leave my studio wall. I get angry at the fact that I now have the tools and materials that I need to make the art I want to make, but my body doesn't give me the time. One of life's ironies, and I have to make peace with it. 

Small accomplishments matter. I go to work, a lot of people with the scourge of RA can't. I love my job, many people hate thiers. I walk my dogs after work nearly every day and multiple times on weekends, and try to give them as good a life as they can have. I have amazing friends and family who add color to an otherwise monochrome world. I have to remember that my "baseline" for an average day is an accomplishment in itself, sometimes. 

I haven't given up yet. Despite the want, I have not sold all my machines and fabrics and gone to live in a hut somewhere in Aswan, though the thought has crossed my mind. New meds might come out, or I might have a period of less disease activity so that I can do better and more. I am enrolled in a great textile course that is challenging me to think and create in new ways, and haven't given up the creative journey quite yet. That in itself is an accomplishment, I think. Cheers to 2019. 

Where did this month go? I seriously think I slept through it. All of it. I remember a few bits and pieces of things outside my pile of pets and blankets, but not very much. Extreme fatigue is an ugly thing. Marathon sleeps are all that I could do to manage the pain and exhaustion levels of the last few weeks. Not to mention the holidays! And, there is so much work, both creative and otherwise, to be done. NOW.

I remember a swinging bash with my ladies celebrating Tilly's 15th birthday and Barbara's 60th, with laughs and love for pups and peeps all around. I remember thinking about what I will do for my upcoming course work for the SofST, but not actually getting to much of it. Like snowflakes piling up outside, the clutter and chaos inside my den of hibernation has accumulated as I gave into my need for soul-drenching sleep. And now, it is time to shovel, whether I like it or not, or feel up to it, or not, or can walk well, or not. 

I am looking at the trainwreck of my kitchen, listening to my birds chatter away, thinking "What the hell happened?" I now have a guinea pig named Basil living on my kitchen table with a wire pen on the floor. Hay has made a negligible difference in the mess. Seems like the piggy just kinda showed up one day and became family. The bird cages need scrubbing, the perches need sanitizing, and my GOD the floors need washing. I try to enjoy coffee while the meds kick in so I can get to some of this stuff. 

Ah, but Christmas is over. Buh-bye expectations, and planning, and being torn in a dozen directions at once. It was a very nice few days, almost perfect, really. Nice time with my sisters with no fighting, a Christmas Miracle in itself. Got to spend time with my nephews, now young men, and appreciate how grown up they are. Watching them, thinking back to the past 22 years of Christmases, seeing them all grown up (almost, Alex!) was like being surrounded by ghosts and shadows. Where are the piles of toys? The Christmas mass re-enactments by Mamu when he was four? The Santa trail? The years from baby hood to toddler hood to young kid hood to ugly, grumpy teen hood seem to fly by like pages in a flip book, with a shining photo like this at the end. I love my boys. Beards and all.

Had to laugh that Alex picked out socks for me that have a quilter with a bun on them and the saying "You crafty bitch,"  and Matt found socks with famous artworks all over them for me, too. I am all set because of their thoughtfulness. Happy that Matt was so happy with his Lord Hobo themed gift. Finally we have a common language again, and it isn't pizza like when he was three. Hoping to take him to the Taproom while he is home from school. 

Now on to the New Year, filled with new challenges and hopefully less body degradation, though I doubt that very much.  Waiting for the back shots to kick in. Trying to make the most of every day. And sleeping. Ah, delicious sleep. Peace out.  

​Another Thanksgiving has arrived! A time to stop and think a bit about all the good things that are in our lives, instead of what seems to be an incessant focus on the challenging, ugly, scary, and unjust truths that seem to populate our world every other day. As I sit with my coffee, Hapi emits his first ever turkey gobble -- I kid you not -- as my friend Jeannette made the sound repeatedly in front of him on Tuesday night. This bird is too smart! I am thankful for my silly friends who put up with me, you know who you are!

Little Boncuk has flopped to the floor after taking a bath this morning, and waddled out to see me in the kitchen. I bundled his little wet self into a scarf and cuddled him dry. When all his feathers are in he pretends to be a fierce and feral thing, but I know his secret. After a little feather mishap with some adhesive material a few weeks ago, he lost quite a few flight feathers, and his flight has been limited until they come back in. He flies a few feet and unceremoniously plunks to the floor, and scutters over to me for a pickup and cuddles. He has earned the nickname of "my little sticky pickle" because of this unfortunate incident. This has shown how much he still loves a good kissyfest. He is on my left shoulder now, being the sweet little snugglebug that I brought home eleven years ago. Nothing like a quaker parrot -- the maltese of the parrot world. Tiny but strong and very independent! I am thankful for my fur and feather babies, the ones here and the one who has passed since last Thanksgiving. Miss you, Bobo. 
​
Am mustering the energy to get organized and bake a little this morning. It is bitter cold outside (temps in the teens) and the smell of apple pies in the oven will be lovely. I don't want to watch or hear the news, or even read much of Facebook. It bothers me that once again the nice little town of Reading, MA has made an impression on the national news for something negative. This time it is being shown to the world on CNN and NPR for being an intolerant, racist community due to repeated acts of graffiti. People who live here know different, but it is painful to see just the same. 25000 people in this town, and all it takes is a fraction of 1% and a sensationalist press to cause mayhem. Sign of the times, for sure. Despite this, I am thankful to live and work here, to be able to meet amazing young people every year who continue to give me faith in the future.  

The current Tuesday class is proving to give me a run for my organizational abilities and makes me feel like I bit off a bit more than I could chew with it. Instead of focusing on one, two, or three different bead mediums, silly me decided to toss in four: paper, fabric, clay, and sculpey. This has resulted in accumulating a lot of stuff and having a very crowded work table! I would love more time with each technique as I feel like I am just scratching the surface with each. I particularly like the fabric beads as they are fun to embellish with glass beads...the possibilities are endless. Oh, what I would give to just stay in today and have some dedicated, uninterrupted art time. I am still working on with English Paper Piecing (our last class) and am feeling very creatively scattered right now, with little time to organize. Add to this I have received materials for the second module of the School of Stitched Textiles C&G course, and I'd love to immerse myself in this challenge, as well. I am thankful for having more things to do to fill my days than there are hours, as the alternative would be even more suffocating. 
Had a short pain management appointment yesterday that proved to me what a farce the entire system has become. Into the office, pay a fee, pee in a cup to ensure that I am actually taking the meds I am given, and a brief interaction with the twenty-something nurse practitioner who prints out my prescriptions. I ask her about how the state mandated system is going for her patients, and if she has had to reduce pain meds for her patients in ways that she feels are unfair. She says yes, that it is terrible, that she has had to cut people's medication in half, leaving them in pain and unable to work. She shrugs and says "It is hard for them, it is hard for me, but our hands are tied." I asked if the office has seen an any pain related suicides and shared some statistics that I learned recently, and was told "Not yet that I know of..." A very sad conversation that was way to casual to make me feel comfortable. Medicare patients are soon to be hit with changes that will leave many chronic pain patients without the meds they may have been taking successfully for years because of a decision made by insurance providers and others who do not have medical backgrounds. Criminal. I am thankful that even though I have a very stubborn and painful condition, I am allowed by Big Brother to have the medical support I need to remain as functional as I can be. At least for now. 

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone! 






 

Too many choices for too little time. Sometimes I think I'd be happy returning to my 8th grade artist self, who lugged around a torn plastic drawstring bag that had held back-to-school Levi's and was then repurposed into a needlepoint supply carrier. I had about six colors of yarn, the inexpensive bulky polyester yarn available at Zayre's for a dollar a skein, and several thick pieces of plastic canvas, maybe a fragment of the Real Canvas bought at the little needlework store uptown. I had books from the Reading Public Library from which to learn every needlepoint stitch imaginable, and I had time. Hours and hours of time. My mom used to say "You will never be bored," and she was so right. 

Fast forward forty years and I could survive artistically for months in my house with all the supplies and materials I have. It is gross, actually, and it amazes me when I find that I do need to go to a store to actually get something for a class or project. And yet...what am I creating? I currently have a few small things in the works, and a couple Grand Ideas on the wall. And samples for classes I am teaching.  Because of health (and age!) I need more rest than I used to, and productivity is down. I have to accept this. I write about it here a lot as if seeing it in writing makes it real. I am scared that time is running out. My hands are becoming more stiff, sore, and are noticeably changing shape. This scares me. I think we all are, in some way, racing against time as we get older. It becomes harder to take time for granted.  It would be so easy to stop thinking about creating things, to just exist amongst the bird chatter and kitty meows, and the daily dog walks. But I can't. 

The ever-elusive great idea looms around the corner, just up the road a bit.  If I can ever get to it before it disappears, I have a piece to make. Very often it slips into a doorway as I approach. When I am not engaged in a larger, more complex piece, I feel less happy, less centered, less fulfilled in my own life. The ambiguity of not being engaged in the dialogue of creating is anxiety producing.  It is these times when I break out a new media or try to learn a new technique, which adds to the chaos of options that exist all around me in my art space. Maybe...if I just had canvas and yarn, I'd be making more work? Hmmmm...

Sometimes all I think I need is thread and cloth to be happy. Ok, and beads. Can't forget them! But would I get bored with such limitations, or would I get more creative with them? Hard to tell.

So, on this extra-long day due to Daylight Savings Time, I hope to see beyond the material gluttony and work on chasing down the next lead that I've been given for a "real" piece of art. I have images pinned to my wall, calling out for new experimentation and new results. Art in a transitory time, amidst the tactile riches of the 21st century. At least until Tilly needs a nap. Cheers. 

In the old days, kittens just seemed to show up in people's lives. They were not bought at stores or shelters. Someone had a box of them on the corner and they just dispersed into the community like a loving sneeze. It wasn't such a big deal. I am thrilled that cats are spayed and neutered now, making this scenario a memory. But...

I think back to the early nineties when a colleague told me one of her students' cat had kittens in Dorchester. "Want one? They are orange." That is all I needed to hear, and on a cool October afternoon we ventured to this student's house. We found a mostly white mama nursing four beautiful orange babies, and had about two minutes to pick one out. I looked in each little set of eyes, and settled on one who looked back. My friend did to. We put them in a box and left, pulling over to get flea powder at the first pet store we saw. We held the kitties up in the air and tried to delouse them by the side of the road, then cuddled them all the way home. My friend's cat became Moses, who used to sit in the trash barrell and poop in her plants. Ew. My little kitten became Boo Boo, my best friend and soul mate. I know I will never ever have a friend, feline or otherwise, that was like that. Still...

Since Boo's passing every October I get a hankering for that experience...stumbling across the kitten that is The One. The Best Friend. The Mysterious Feline Partner in Crime.  I've tried twice and have lovely cats, Theo and Seama, but they are no Boo. Was it the time I got him? My life circumstance? Was it him? I do acknowledge that raising a kitten in a house with dogs and parrots is not as calm as raising one in an apartment with only another cat and a resentful husband, but wonder...is that special four pawed pal out there somewhere, waiting to sleep on my pillow? Boo Boo slept with his big bear paws wrapped around my neck almost every night for 14 years. Can't tell you how I miss that. Seamus deposits his butt in my face on my chest every night. Not quite the same thing.

Alas, I know in my heart of hearts that bringing a kitten home now would throw off the rhythm of my home and it's members, and probably cause an outbreak of feline gang warfare that could go on indefinitely. I know I don't want that. I console myself with many kitten videos on Facebook and get lost in the tiny feet, tiny faces, innocent eyes, and bulging bellies. Oh, the bellies. 

I can hope that my PAWS friend will get baby kittens soon that I can play with. At worst I will scratch the baby kitten itch. At best, maybe, just maybe, I will see Boo potential in one kitten's eyes? Or maybe I will be driving down the road someday and see a person with a box of kittens...then I will know it is time. Until then, forcing the issue by actually visiting a shelter seems wrong. Oh, Boo, you were a one in a million cat and I think you broke the mold. Why do I keep looking? Because kittens and cats and birds and dogs are life, and make me happy. That's why. Peace out, cat lovers! ​

I will admit it, I went to bed at about 6:30 last night. Just to lay down for a bit. Awoke at 11:30 like someone hit in the head with a frying pan in a cartoon. Put the confused birds to bed, and returned to my puppies and blankets. And actually slept. Haven't slept a full night in days due to RA discomfort, and knew this was coming. Well, forget the euphemism. Not just discomfort, actual pain. The bad kind in the toes that wakes you from a sound sleep and reminds you that the clock is ticking on your joints and mobility. 

But there is so much art to do! 

Sometimes battling the fatigue associated with an RA flare is winnable -- but often the internal batteries are so drained you know that the 3% that is left won't be enough to do anything of measure, so it's best not to fight. Sleep helps, and is an escape from soreness. I feel very much like a cell phone that needs charging. When on the last bar of energy, I better not try to take too many photos or I will completely shut down. 

Last week I pushed my luck on a Monday night and worked on a new art piece that I am excited about for an extra hour or so, landing in bed around 9:45. I paid for it all week, as during Flare Times one isn't allowed to do anything, it seems. So discouraging. Seems like a massive exaggeration and whine-fest, but it really isn't either. Just stating the facts, ma'am. It feels like a cruel joke -- I finally have all the materials. tools, and most important the IDEAS for artwork -- but have the physical stamina of a sloth to get things done. I know many people have it much, much worse and can accomplish more than I do, and it frustrates me.  

Doctor offers more steroids, which are not a good solution, or more of the biologic medication I take at the next infusion, which I will try. She said if I were her patient at the beginning of her practice I would be in my current condition within a few years, so that is a consolation, I suppose. She asked "So you want to stay working?" Ummm. Gee, let me think about it. YES! Who knows. All I know is I am grateful for my ice packs and have an addiction to ice water as my temp seems to be running high these days, too.  And this too will pass! 

The new piece I am working in has a base of almost all digital fabrics. I scanned gelli prints and played with them in Photopaint, and printed out sheets to use for piecing. Finally really yellow fabric! I also printed a bunch of dreamy photos from this summer's one beach excursion when the sunset was doing amazing things. Some edited, some not. It is a whole new way to feel and work. And there is a big seagull.

New color palette, using ideas that mean something to me, and I am inspired to stay up and fight the good fight to get it going. What more can one ask for? I am in love with the printer and being able to make the cloth I want to use. Game changer. I go to Joann Fabrics and no longer am limited to what they have at hand. To make the jump from screen to cloth at home is truly inspiring. C'mon RA, give me a break so I can do this!! Gripe over. Be well everyone and stay up late if you can pull it off. The alternative is not that great! 

It is a blur since the last post. A roller coaster of fear and worry, and returning to work in the worst heat I can ever remember teaching through. Happy now to know that all is finally on the mend with little Tilly, and the rhythm of the school day is again feeling normal after only three full teaching days. Like riding a bike. A big bike with 350 kids hanging on to the seat, pedals, my hair, and the bike's handlebars, but a bike no less. 

And I love it. Managing the mental chaos that arrives with the start of a school year is exhausting but also right up my alley in terms of sorting detail and planning. Getting to know new faces, seeing so many sweet kids that are actually happy to be back, and the laughter that accompanies each day when one works with kids. Oh, the laughter. I miss that in the summer. 

Tilly went through what I can only call radical dental surgery on August 23. He had 24 teeth removed while under sedation, and thanks to my amazing vet friend Carol, it was successful for him. Can't say it was for me, though, as the whole experience felt very traumatic. My 94 year old son did not have a smooth recovery and is very vocal to his mama. He shook and shrieked nonstop for several days following the procedure and made me feel so guilty for having subjected him to the surgery. Gradually, he has weaned off pain meds and is now appeasing his ravenous appetite -- eating more dog food than I've ever seen him consume in his life! His resiliency is nothing short of amazing, considering his liver is bad since age four and he was supposed to not live very long. It's been a long road with this little pup, and though his smile is forever changed, he can now satisfy his hunger, take walks again, and most importantly, poop (that has been an ongoing issue due to not eating well and infection from a yucky mouth.) Now the Toothless Wonder has fresh breath, too -- bonus! Words can't describe the sense of relief I feel in knowing he will be okay, at least for a while. It was a rough patch. 

As was opening school with temps in the high nineties. And I am in the basement! We are talking high humidity, wring out your shirt after thirty minutes, type of heat. Constant sweating, as if I'd just worked out (perish the thought!) Nothing like stress and excessive heat to kick RA into gear for the goal. Today it is expected to only be 86, so that is an improvement. My room stayed at a steady 80 yesterday, but the humidity was so high the printer kept jamming and all the paper felt damp. The floor feels slippery and the air feels hard to breathe. Yuck. 

On the art front, things are looking great, though! I completed the first piece of art for the School of Stitched Textiles class and have submitted it to my tutor (the term "tutor"sounds so Harry Potter...) I am reasonably happy with it, and see  it as a departure from the Completely Flat World of Art. Making chunks of quilted and stitched fabric is fun and can lead to interesting structures. It allows for more mixed media and experimentation (one concrete benefit I've taken from this class, for sure.) I look forward to the next piece, and working with a wider color palette, too. No more green for a while! 

Except for Boncuk, who is green, and is sitting on my left shoulder as I write this. He is nestling under my neck, and the sound of his little foot moving faster that the speed of light to itch his neck feathers is amazing. Probably only bird peeps get that part. 

And, another addiction has taken hold of my hands, but I think it is a good one. Thanks to a little video by Laura Kemshall on English Paper Piecing, I have rediscovered the technique (long forgotten in my own art making history.) Again, like riding a bike, my hands have recaptured the rhythm of basting little bits of cloth onto cardstock shapes, and I am delighting in the perfect geometry the technique produces. Already I have two big hexies made of diamonds and jewel shapes using fabric I like. Going for the scrappy look and to make some pillows...watch out relatives, lol. I love that it is portable and I can do it anywhere -- at the district Welcome Back to School meeting, in bed before sleep, and even in the chair when getting the last Remicade infusion -- during which I made 30 diamonds. Gotta be a record for me on that one! 

Sadly, Laura Kemshall made the video as she is making a raffle quilt for the hospital that is treating her recent horrible cancer, and she works on it during her chemotherapy appointments. That is where I got the idea to try. Because the needle is in the crook of the arm, some (most) hands-on activities block the flow of the iv and cause an embarrassing beeeeep that the nurse has to come fix. For some reason, I can do EPP in a position that doesn't block the meds. Woot!  Now Remicade time is studio time, and it has a better feeling attached to it. Yet another reason to love Laura Kemshall, as if one needed another reason! Best wishes to her in her treatment and outcome.  May she have as successful a treatment as the Tilman. 

Cheers!

Nothing is truly very permanent, is it? This summer has been such a mix for me. A mix of routine, attempts at accomplishment, much needed rest (as needed), and lots and lots of time with my birds, cats, and sometimes ill dogs. And lots, and lots of sad news and the deaths of four people close to good friends, and to me. I tend to punch holes in every moment of peacefulness, thinking there needs to be more going on than ever really needs to be, with a mind that has more ideas than time to explore them. Not getting to them all leaves me thinking that I am standing still most of the time, instead of seeing the baby steps of progression that are actually occurring.

Last night I took the pups out for a walk. My neighbor's two energetic maltese girls, and my two elderly citizens. Tilly, sporting a new very short haircut, resembled a newborn pink mouse on a leash. With the hair gone I can see that he has lost weight. Almost frail to carry. His appetite for food and walks has diminished this summer, and I think his vision and hearing are fading or gone. No longer charging up Temple Street like a puppy, as he did just this past spring, he now walks a few tremulous steps and waits as if he needs to reorient himself with the new space he has found. I put him on a leash and he refuses to walk altogether, so I stand next to him and reassure him with little pats as he tries to navigate. He seems scared. I am too. Very.  

When still on leash we encountered a puddle and I gently tugged the leash to guide him around it. His legs gave out and he fell on his side. Leave it to say I scooped him up and was glad no one was around to see me get emotional about it. This is my baby. It might be time to use the nice stroller Auntie Valerie sent the kids. Thanks, Valerie. 

Tilly's potty habits are not usual, and he is having trouble "going" in the right places. Honestly though I don't really mind that after dealing with Toby for so many years. I've always joked that Tilly pees magical rainbows and it is true. Just the fact that he is still here and almost fifteen makes this true.  We will cope. He spends most of his time sitting on a poofy bed, sleeping. He gets up a few times a day to drink, nibble, or pee, and then it is back to bed. Such is life for an oldie, I guess. Yet I hate to see it happen. It physically hurts.  99% of the time I am in denial but the reality is creeping in. Maybe because there have been so many wakes and funerals this summer that I feel like the veil between worlds is exceptionally thin? I don't know. 

What I do know is I look over at the doggie beds and see my two best friends resting peacefully amidst a pile of soft toys that Ellie has collected. I hear my happy parrots chuckling in the back room, and am greeted every morning by little Boncuk as he flies to my shoulder to welcome me when I enter the kitchen. That I am carefully guarded all night by two beautiful feline patrol officers that come and go as they walk their little kitty beats in between my night time naps. If I stop noticing all that needs to be done around here, all the Big House Improvements that are needed that I can't manage right now, all the Little House Tasks I Should Be Doing, and all the freelance work I Should Be Organizing, even the artwork I Should Be Making, life is perfect. At least it is life. In these special moments of awareness, I'll take it. Cheers. ​