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. 
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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. ​

....and it is RA for the win! I can understand getting hit for a day after overdoing it, which admittedly I did on Thursday. Was hoping there wouldn't be a two day hangover, but after last night's difficulty I called in the Big Guns and took extra prednisone this morning. Am typing with four fingers instead of all. The legs are wicked and the arches on the bottoms of my feet were feeling like overstretched taffy. I got upstairs, to bed, then the pain intensified to an ugly point, making sleep difficult. I move a lot in my sleep, and every move brings a jolt of pain. Sleep didn't come easy until about 4 am. Now it is time to feed the farm and make up for lost minutes of a nice Saturday...but how?  C'mon, meds, c'mon...

Yesterday was a washout as I made the decision not to get all sweaty yucky and try to compensate for Thursday's cleaning.  I did one Good Thing for my current art project, and had a BLAST doing it. I dug into my library and found Valerie Campbell Harding's amazing book "Edges and Finishes in Machine Embroidery" to gain direction with the next step of the current piece. I expected to sit for a leisurely half hour and gently think, but in true Ropple fashion within a couple pages and five minutes my brain was off and running.  Then it was zigzag all the way as I blended a neat braided yarn with a thin gold cord using variegated thread, and finally some metallic thread too. I made yardage of the stuff and know it will be wrapped and coiled, and beaded, to become a balanced part of the piece. As soon as the hands are working again. Grrrrr. 

It is so therapeutic to play with textural materials. I am so grateful to the amazing authors of all the books I hoard and treasure for carving such an eccentric path with their accomplishments. Even if yesterday was mostly a washout, I was able to make this and open a new door onto using handmade cords as embellishments and edges. Niiiiiice. Cheers. 

Taking a day to clean up the house, as it is in dire need of attention. This is because I was able to finish the main piece of art for my course with School of Stitched Textiles last night! I think it needs a little more and will get to it once the tsunami of mess and chaos is reigned in a bit. I don't live under the false illusion of being a domestic goddess, but even I have my limits...

So, Here is a peek of the piece as it is now...cheers! Back to cleaning! 

Today we lay to rest a member of the Temple Street neighborhood for as long as I can remember (more than 50 years.) She passed away a week ago, and today we say our final goodbyes. My neighborhood is like a small English village, really, and in the years since I bought my parents' house and lived here full time "Mrs. C" and I had become friends. She was a compulsive vaccumer and her house was always so spotless I was in awe. She was a down to earth, say-it-like-she-sees-it kind of woman who was fiercely independent and more resistant to illness than any person I've ever met. 

When I was young, I was in and out of her house like one of her own kids as her daughter Lisa was one year older than me, and we were best friends. Lisa died in a tragic accident at the age of 16, and it was a long road back from emotional estrangement for all of us. I reminded her of Lisa, and she reminded me of Lisa, and there was pain. For the past decade tough, I'd see Mrs. C when walking the dogs, and on the occasions that she needed a little help. We put her dog to sleep together, and I cared for her pets when she faced many hospital stays in recent years. We laughed about things on the street and in the world, she showed me pictures of her grandchildren, and shared a great love of dogs. Her house, with the kitchen light on, looms iconic on the street and is full of childhood memories. While she has been hospitalized for some time and the house stood empty, it was waiting for her return. Now it seems cold and lonely. Death is so sad. 

Add to this another sudden death this week of the husband of a dear friend. I am ready to lock myself into my sewing room and sew for a month. Alone. Doesn't matter what I sew, I just need to distract myself.  This summer has been tough -- losing Tobes, and then three significant deaths that have affected people I care about. Tilly being really ill, too.  Am working on my artwork, but seems to be a lot of other things that need doing, too. 

As I write this, my little green feathered pickle is being exceptionally sweet on my shoulder, reminding me that I have to get going and feed the flock. With them around, I will never slack off completely, which is a good thing. 

RIP, Mrs. C. You are missed. 
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