the lord, et. al.

Tiny Crochet Cloud #1 June 20, 2010
(becoming thicker, more layered and 3-D)
(Not lace at all. Straight – up free – form cro-cloud.)

Call it Pele if You’d Like.
Pele Walks the Walk.
So do I.

Two songs called: “I’ll Be Glad”

* (this one is Excellent, but the video is a little un-p.c.)

(I think it looks like a triumphantly good time, personally.)

I painted this when the boy was a small infant,
when he napped or lay drooling on a blanket.
His name is painted on the plywood between the hands,
under the night sky.
It’s a big painting.
Two hands, two boats pulled by strings.
I cropped out the other hand, cause it’s modeled from my own left.
I messed up the proportions a bit.
Hard to draw the hand you draw with.

Funny thing happened at the Ingles yesterday…

Young Life

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faithrhyne@gmail.com

show details 11:40 PM (5 minutes ago)

There must be a convention of some sort. The parking lot at the Ingles was crowded and young clean Americans milled from car to car – shiny, clean cars with out of state plates.

Young Life shirts abound.

As I loaded my federally funded groceries into the car, I considered the group of four young men leaning against a luxury sedan/wagon with a nerdy aerodynamic car-top carrier. They looked bored. And why not? The parking lot at the Ingles on Tunnel Road is not a terribly exciting place.

I looked around, cars in and cars out an old man with dreaded hair the size of my arm a couple, both pale and doughy and vaguely subversive if only for their shaggy hair and soft bodies and the appearance of being quite happy to be walking across the hot parking lot toward a dented green car, holding hands. I got in my car and backed out of my space. This song was just beginning.

I felt sad and useless and I had a wicked headache from the all the sun and mowing of the morning.

Instead of driving out of the lot, I turned left (south!) into the corridor of spaces where the Young Life boys were still leaning on their nice car. I pulled up, stopped. I was blocking parked cars, but noone seemed to mind.

I didn’t look to see if the boys had noticed the car. Of course they had. And I knew that they recognized me from in the store, where they had been shopping for sodas and chips, water. I had been in line with one of them, and besides, I am recognizable.

Tall.

From the driver’s seat, I explain that I have been keeping a weblog and that I am “a nice person, a good person” and just…

Somehow, I ended up asking them to pray for me? Yes. It’s true. I got a little teary and was just like: “Could ya’ll just all hope for me? I’m okay, but I really need to find my way.” (This is what happens when one talks primarily to oneself.)

(You become insufferable to people that are not you.)

(Talking to people seems to lead to discomfort and confusion, for either them or me. Misunderstandings abound. I look insane when I am happy and troubled when I am content and well, I have no qualms about asking Young Life to read my blog and “hope that my way finds me.”) (What I would really like is for them to realize that truth does not need logo’ed t-shirts and that I could live of the cost of the luxury sedan wagon for three and 1/2 years.

Really, I did the math. It is probably closer to four of five years, depending on the options of the vehicle.

In the course of this little blip of the boys looking sort of confused and then appreciative and then extremely Christian, I realized that I have just about had it trying to find my way.

I seriously fuck things up when I think for myself and follow my gut. I make wary acquaintances when I ought to make friends; I make things worse when I need them better.

I keep sort of half thinking that I am gonna hop back up the horse and gallop right back onto the track, like I have in the past following periods of intense de-construction. If I recall correctly, I just get some job that I profess to be fulfilled by and begin propping my life back up and soon I shudder to think about where I had been.

Well, I’m here.

My mother actually sews my daughter doll dresses on this machine.
The spool of modern thread looks really odd to me, sitting up there like that.

I found this machine in the street. The motor is superb as far as my cursory inspection (plug, turn on, observe, listen) can tell. It is missing the spool spindle. What good is a strong motor if there in nothing to hold the thread?

It seems like a fairly heavy-duty machine. I could probably bind small books on it.

Letterpress workshop this weekend. Need to start preparing to not act like an total weird-o.
Just be quiet. Take a lot of notes.

I only have five minutes to post this before it is no longer the 20th of June and the last month of my eight year marriage begins.

Oops, I missed it. It’s 12:10, June 21, 2010 – wow, that’s almost like binary.

I hate this drawing.

It is my least favorite drawing of the whole year. Scary and sort of icky. But, mostly scary. Putting on the Clown Suit.

My father hates clowns. It’s Father’s Day.

See, I am a total screw-up.

And it is past midnight. Haven’t been going to sleep early anymore. Not so much napping either.

The tired is less tired.

A more manageable brand of fatigue.

I have been unemployed for about a month now. I haven’t watched any television other an episode of Martha Speaks and Curious George, on one of the first days of the kids’ summer break. I am going to start really working in the reading and writing with them in our daily activities.

This summer is going to fly by.

one song entitled Now

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