Protect Your Wrongs

This season in the sign of Sagittarius is warm, even if the temperatures isn’t, and I have more social plans lately --normal for holiday times for many people, right?
 
I'm going out with Sister this afternoon to the café at the art institute, if she doesn't cancel because MORE SNOW is forecast. 

I said I'd post Sister's final baby quilt.
These are the pieces.
I was so happy to see that she chose the colors herself, instead of asking the quilter she considers her Color Queen, like she usually does, which makes me sad:
I want people to trust their artistic intuition, even if it's bad.
I want this because everything conspires to make us, to “help” us Get it Right. 

A Procrustean bed that punishes wrong choices squashes creative spirit. 

Don't be afraid to Get it wrong!
I suppose it could be said that Sister's choice of ONE dark piece in the lower left corner is "bad", 
but I wouldn't say so.

In fact, I think it's a bit brilliant:
The weight of the dark color among the bright ones is like a dissonant note in a piece of music--something you want to "solve", but can't, so you're left a little ... jolted. 
Jolted awake.

Or, it's like art that is a little off-center. 
Wrongness invites us to engage.
For example, this woodblock print, below, by Japanese woman artist  Iwami Reika. 
I want to nudge the sun into the center of the wood knot, but the sense is that it'll be moving itself. Rising!

Via Smith College

Of course that was a masterful choice, not a beginner’s fumble. 

My happiness was dashed when the Color Queen pointed out to Sister the disproportion of the dark square. 
That sounds dramatic, but really, I my heart sank.
Sister, though, sounded grateful for the help and happy to "fix" it with a brighter floral print. 

It's correct now––matchy-matchy, pretty. 
Of course that's fine for a baby blanket;
 but the point is, I'd cheered that Sister had made her own artistic choice.

Importantly, I bet her friend didn't even ask her if she liked the dark square there, I bet she just pointed out that it was wrong.
(Hm, I wonder how the dark square would have looked in the center...)

III. "How do we guard our souls?”

Blogger Michael recently asked, "How do we guard our souls?” 
Especially in these days of political madness, he meant, but the question is always relevant. 
There are always forces that work to grind us down.

Simple entropy, for instance: 
things, including our bodies, fall apart. 
It takes energy to maintain them, 
and the Conservation of Energy kicks in--
not the law of physics, but the way a system prefers to use minimum effort.

Laziness is an emotional coping mechanism for me--I tend to let my energy drop. Some of this is good self-protection, 
but INERTIA kicks in, and that's a problem--
once energy drops, it's hard to rev it up again.

Related, there's the problem of 'Why bother?' 
Why expend energy in a world that seems not to care?

So, yeah, I think Choosing Your Own Colors is good, vital work to push back at the dimming norm.
The outcome matters aesthetically and socially, but it has nothing to do with guarding your soul--that comes from simply spending the energy to make the choice. 
And that's of primary importance.

A.I. could choose correct colors. 
It can't guard a soul. 
The opposite, in fact--it wants to make it easy for us to 'get it right'.

But it isn't easy to get it right!
And the effort, the expenditure of energy, to make artistic choices is protective of the soul
---like the way carrying heavy weight makes our bones stronger.

Getting It Wrong is becoming a marker signifying
 A Human Made This.

A lumpy knitted object, a poorly worded thank-you note, an off-balance hand-painted poster---and anything ugly and misshapen. 
Bodies too, as people are sculpting them to their preference, surgically, chemically, and otherwise-- to a sci-fi level.

Be ugly! Make lopsided stuff! Save the Humans!

Guard your soul.

Any thoughts on how? 

The Fence in the Snow

 I. The Fence in the Snow

It's hard to photograph the fence of godseyes because the eyes usually lie flat against the chain link. Yesterday the wind had blown them on an angle to the fence, giving a good view of them: 

Almost none of the original 125 remain from the end of September--these are mostly ones I've made and hung in the two+ months since. 
Sometimes friends make a few for the fence when they come over to my place too.

I love that people can feel comfortable to come by my apartment. 
I used to have people over at previous places, but it'd been a while. (Housemate wasn't welcoming, and of course neither was Covid...)
Having godseye-making supplies all over is nice--often people will pick up some sticks and make one as we chat.

Now that it's been snowing so much, I have to figure out what to use for the cross, since I can't find natural sticks very easily.

Forward

 

Do you like ^ one version better?

Yesterday’s 1st print,  above, left, w backwards “a”.

Above, Right—cleaned up final version. (Decided against a heart or anything in the “O”—Open like this, I see it holding open space.)

I rushed too fast to “fix” the first carving : this morning I love that 1st version! I wish I’d printed a whole bunch of them – – (maybe fixing the “a”—or not even that). I like how chunky and crowded it is. 

I texted it to a woman I know from the store  yesterday, saying I’m going to post them up in the store’s  neighborhood. (Their oil ink has to dry first.) 

Her reply practically made me cry: “Not much makes me happier than guerrilla art that makes you smile (or rally)”

And she recommended this book by Cory Doctorow, an author/journalist/sci-fi-er I like: Enshittification: Why everything suddenly got worse and what to do about it (2025)

“Enshittification, as defined by Doctorow, is a process that online platforms undergo from being user-friendly and valuable to gradually turning into revenue-driven platforms at the expense of user experience”. 

Doctorow is at craphound.com.

___________

I’m learning: in printmaking and life, you can make duplicates … but you can’t go backwards.

So—on we go, forward!

Let's Hold Hands Backwards

I'm on my third (fourth?) try making a lino print of LET'S HOLD HANDS--a line I'm always quoting from Toy Story 3.
The toys don't say that, actually--they do it:
they take each other's hands as they are being conveyed into the Fiery Furnace of a garbage plant, like Shadrack, Meshach, and Abednego.

Hey, Shadrack, Meshach, and Abednego say NO KINGS!
Hahahahaaaa, I would use that on a poster if the public knew who they were. 
(As you may know, inHebrew scripture they are the three young Jewish men who defy their employer, Nebuchadnezzar, king of Babylon, by refusing to worship his GOLD image of himself--in the Book of Daniel, chapter 3.
The king has the three thrown into a fiery furnace, but a divine figure walks with them, and they emerge unharmed.)

Anyhoo, the first carving didn't work at all; 
then I carved the "a" backwards. Sometimes that's okay, but it didn't read, so I fixed it. 
Then the O was too heavy, so I opened it up...

This ^ is my orange kitchen table--taken from the reverse angle of the photograph of the pine boughs w/ girlettes the other day.

It's a little café table, not really sufficient, but I use it for everything. Isn't it funny how sometimes we'll choose the most awkward place to work? Like a cat will curl itself into a tiny container and fall asleep.

The open O looked like a donut, so I'm testing a heart (glued, here) in its center:

I don't know. It's fine, but I don't love it.
It's what happens whenever I try to Make a Statement--it feels like ... a statement.

Actually, this is a statement. 
ICE is in town (the federal agents, not the weather, though that too--today's temps are in the single digits), and I'm seeing lots of informative or supportive (of immigrants) or angry posters and fliers around. 
I thought I'd make something to put up along with them.

I was just talking about the different between pure play and playful resistance tactics.
Pure play is pointless.
Resistance has a point, and this is that. 

Does anyone purely love a message?
Well, of course we do.
I just don't love this print!
But I don't think I will love it more if I make another iteration.

But maybe . . . taking off the heart?

Will futz some more.
____________

Sometimes Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego are referred to as children. The girlettes would love to play them. 
"Put us in the fiery furnace with a divine being!"

Who would be the divine being?

"We shall choose among us."

They are popular in art history. My favorite

Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego in the fiery furnace, in the Priscilla Catacombs, Rome, Italy. via

Be the Anvil... or the Banana.

Remember saying 'the record's skipping' when the record-player needle ran into a scratch on an LP, or something?
I'd felt like I'd jumped the track for a while, but even more people cheered me up yesterday, and I'm in the groove again. 

As we in the US and elsewhere see a rise of bad actions and intentions, I am seeing so much personal good on display. Am I just noticing it more, or is it on the rise, too? 
Is the bad squeezing us like oranges?

First cheering thing yesterday, a woman donated six boxes of the best books––all of them high interest and in excellent shape. 
I could tell at a glance that they were gold: like-new books that customers will love––artsy, alternative, healing social justice--queer qabalah kinds of books––and that she could have sold elsewhere.

I thanked her heartily.

"I'm moving", she said, "and this store has helped me so much, I wanted to give back."

I wheeled the boxes on a dolly directly onto the sales floor and put them right out. I priced a few high, for us--$3.99–$5.99. Some of them, below, were 30, 40 dollars new. 
(But I left most at our flat price: $1.49 for paperbacks, $1.99 for hardbacks.)

I was gleeful that I'd already seen our main re-saler scanning ISBNs with his phone app earlier in the day. Hopefully neighborhood people will get to these books before he comes back. And in the afternoon, I saw a local woman buying several. She told me, 
"This is such an amazing place for books."
"People donate amazing books," I said.

_____________________

Then, three college students came into the thrift store, (all white women, one trans--I note for sociological interest), shopping for sleeping bags and tents. They were part of a student group, they told me, that gives supplies to people sleeping out, like the guy I gave a tent to the other day. 
 
I got talking to them when one asked me why a sleeping bag was priced $77.99.

We have few guidelines on pricing, so various coworkers come up with some weird ones, but that's weirder than even our normal. 

I have no idea, I said, but that is wrong.
I looked it up (on the internet in my pocket), found the brand for $50 used on eBay, and marked ours down to $14.99.

Within a mile+ radius around the store, people often walk up to you asking for help. Usually for the most portable help––money.

But last night at the bus stop, I had no cash so I offered a guy the banana I had in my bag.

"Thanks!" he said. "Bananas are my favorite."
 
"Me too!" I said.

This little exchange and watching this guy walk away carrying the banana helped keep the needle in the groove too. 
Everybody likes bananas. :)

(I need to remember to start carrying mittens and scarves in my backpack again--or else I end up giving away my own, and  I love the ones I have right now.)

The big public actors can be lighthouses. Like, I went to hear Rev. Marianne Budde speaking the other day. Her talk was called Courage Is Contagious--and she did en-courage me.

My favorite thing she said was:

"Don't just be against things.
Be for things."

So that's great. Even more, however, it's the everyday people, people who are not high-powered, who inspire me, because they are all around me, and I am in that category. 

______________

Side Note I: My Favorite Thing in Civilization 

The college women were so fresh and bright--not only because they were young, but because they've practiced good dental care. You can see this.

I don't just mean dental visits.
I mean access to sinks with running water (clean! hot!), new toothbrushes, ample toothpaste & floss––
and people who care and teach and urge you to use them.
We who've always had this tend to take it for granted.

The US could have better health care, for sure! 
But people of my class tend to overlook the fantastic public health system we already have. 
Functioning sewers!

They were hard won, and take a lot of maintenance. We would miss them if they're lost.
Hopefully it won't come to that.

[End Praise of Sewers]

_____________________

Side Note II: Praise of Silliness...

We got a donation this week of three boxes of ceramic figurines made in Occupied Japan (1947–1952). 
A few are rather fine, some are charming, and many-- most-- are lumpy copies of European porcelain.
Like this couple below. 

What are they holding?
She is supposed to be holding a fan, but doesn't it look like a dildo?
I don't even know what he is supposed to be holding.

Maybe I should gift this to Smitten Kitten, the feminist sex-shop.
________________________

A Serious Note: "The Anvil always breaks the Hammer. Be the Anvil."

Last night, I got a group email from the indie gym I used to go to. The founder, Ben, was an anchor for me during Covid and the George Floyd uprisings. I've mentioned that one day when the National Guard rolled past me  as I walked home, I'd stopped and cried with him.

So though I don't go to the gym, I've never dropped out of Ben's group e-mails.

His approach is not mine:
he is about helping people cultivate physical strength, as they are able, to support The Good. (He used to work with special Olympics, and he still coaches a group of weightlifters with Down syndrome.)

He talks about iron. I talk about yarn.

He is like a French Resistance fighter in WWII, 
and I, I suppose, am like a person who'd draw a butterfly on a prison wall (and then die of dysentery).
These, at best, are complementary energies.

I love that Ben pours his heart out every so often.
(He also coordinates the sharing of info, gatherings, and actions, which I didn't include here.)

 I'm sharing this last outpouring, here below—written as ICE agents are sweeping down on town, especially on Somali and Latinx Americans here.

Begin email from Gym Ben: [boldface mine]

"The Anvil Always Breaks the Hammer. Be the Anvil.

"Hey all, simply wanted to drop a note to everyone; 
I have some words on my heart tonight.

"As the feds roll through our city, we all know folks who are affected, some directly, some by degrees. 
I want to share something [a friend] said to me a few years ago when we were talking about being involved in the revolution. 

"I didn't know if I was doing enough, or what to do, 
and he simply said something along the lines of 
finding my spot in it, and doing SOMETHING. 

"I understood he meant this in the context of something meaningful and sustainable, as this was not a quick, easy fight. Meaningful change takes time, and effort, and very often, pain and sacrifice.

"We are in it, and it is real. 
Neighbors are being kidnapped by people with bad intentions. 

"A big part of the fascist playbook is to create division and terror, and destroy hope and faith. 
We must keep hope and faith, and understand this is a long fight, and a tough one. We will win this fight - always - on a long enough timeline.
We must withstand the hammer blows, see and feel what is happening, remember and connect with what we know to be Truth and what is Real. 
2 + 2 does not equal 5.

"This takes energy, so remember to rest, and remember to tend whatever it is in you that brings you vigor and energy. 
Find joy - especially those little spots of it. 
This is what we train for.

"Iron is a constant, an anchor. 
Let your training in a safe space, with safe people, and cool lights, be your anchor.

This gym is, and will forever be, as safe as we can make it, and as consistently *exactly what it is* as possible.

"We are Strong, Kind, Helpful, Considerate, Disciplined, Empathic, and Powerful people.

Take Care of Yourselves, and Take Care of each other.
Big Love... "

[End email from Gym Ben]

_____________

How We Be.

There are all sorts of strategies to try to prevent and to fight against bad things happening, or to repair after. 
As Noam Chomsky says: 
You know (or can figure out) what it right for you to do. 

Or, I would add, to be.
Because there's also the cultivation of the kind of strength required to accept moments when you can't do anything--and sometimes that's in the middle of the action.
And then we call on who we are, how we "be".

I always point to what this scene in Toy Story 3:
as the toys are being conveyed on a belt into a fiery garbage incinerator, they can do nothing. They simply reach out and hold one another's hands. 

(There is a miraculous rescue.)

Sometimes we are the anvil.
Sometimes we are the banana.

Sometimes we are wonky, hand-painted sheep, like these donated figures from a creche made in Italy in ... the 1960s?
I love them! 

And how 'bout that chonky shepherd carrying a struggling sheep?

 
I'm going to the Needle-workers meet-up at the library soon.  

I have to leave plenty of time before going out to catch the bus to get dressed warmly to go outside.
It's 'warmed up' from our coldest day-- 

now it's 23ºF / –5ºC.

Have a good day, Beautiful Spirits! 

Freshen Up, Heart Up

Deep cold has come early this winter.  
As I start to write this morning, it's  –3ºF (–19ºC). 

It won't be light for another hour. At least the snow cover will brighten the day.

I. Heart Up

I have to screw up my courage and get out my warmest clothes to go outside, these first cold days.
I'm off work today, and I (probably) will bundle up and go downtown to see the Rev. Marianne Budde––the Episcopal bishop of Washington DC who'd asked Trump to show mercy in her inauguration-day sermon. 
Budde used to live here, and she is speaking at the noontime Town Hall Forum. 

It's a few-blocks walk to the bus that goes directly to the forum. 
I'm reluctant to go outside, but I know I'd get a lift out of seeing Budde, like I did seeing Sharon Day, the Ojibwe leader of the Water Walks.

Gotta try to keep the heart up!
_________________________

I'm doing a little online housekeeping this early morning. 
Like, I just cancelled the auto-renew of my CostCo membership. 

I get downhearted at CostCo, seeing people wheeling giant carts with plastic bottles of water bundled by the dozens in plastic across the giant parking lot of the giant warehouse.

The shoppers themselves aren't necessarily giant. 
Have you started to notice Americans getting smaller?

I have. At my workplace, three men have each lost around 100 lbs! Two used Ozempic,  one quit drinking alcohol.  
I wonder how these weight-loss drugs will change us overall, in subtle ways. We'll have to wait and see.

II. Fresh Baby 

A cheering sight:
Mr Jester Mushroom modeling pink fabric, so I could photograph it for my sister. 
Yesterday she'd asked me to keep an eye out for a piece of pink fabric big enough to back the baby quilt she's making.
And, in the magic of thrift, I unpacked one that very afternoon.

"I'll be the baby," Jester said.

(I'm proud of Sister--she choosing this quilt's colors herself! She's right, she's not great at it, but I really like that this quilt won't look like it's from a kit. I’ll post a photo when she's done.)

Jester has become my main work friend. He is goofy and kind, and he brightens my day so much. (Mr Furniture is mostly at the warehouse or driving the truck these days, and I don't see him much.)

And he's inspiring: a few years ago, he made big life changes, pulling himself out of a lifestyle hole. It's like one of the prehistoric animals DID escape a tar pit. (Surely sometimes one did manage to?)

Gradually so much good has come from the changes he made--he's quite a different person. Well, no, he's the same person, but he's so much lighter and brighter. 
Freshened up!

I'm not against weight-loss drugs--it's so hard to stay upright in this tilt-a-world, if drugs help, that's a valid option.
But it's inspiring to me that he didn't use them.

No matter what, the inner work of being human remains.Nice to see people doing it bravely.

III. Back in Balance

Yesterday I was returned to myself at work.
I kept feeling like the Universe was sending me person after person to remind me of who I am, having been knocked off my moorings.

A regular customer I know making me mittens; 
another telling me she was looking into going to church because she has been so inspired over the years by OUR STORE (I didn't tell her church has little to do with it--because, in fact, faith (in many flavors) does);
a customer I didn't recognize flat-out telling me, "You are kind, you are a big help here".
Customers doing things like that for me, and coworkers too, like Esmeralda pricing my earmuffs "free".

I saw it, I appreciated it, but still I felt adrift--mostly because of Big Boss and his Christian cronies' faux–thank you dinner.

Then, late in the day yesterday, I was shelving Christmas stuff (endless!), and a man with a big backpack came in and asked me if we gave away free tents. It looked like he was unhoused, I guessed, and needed a tent to sleep outdoors. This isn’t uncommon, but usually in warmer months.

I said--assuming, without checking--that we didn't have any, and turned to Big Boss who was nearby to ask who might give tents away.
He told the guy a place to go, 
but added that they wouldn't be open at that time.

The guy left, and I thought,
I should just check if we have any tents.

We did.

I grabbed an intact-looking one in a carrying bag, priced $8.99, and hurried outside after the guy, where again it so-happened Big Boss was nearby, standing in the cold talking to a customer on their way to their car.

The guy with the backpack was already to the corner.
I called, but he didn't hear.
Feeling desperate, I turned to Big Boss:
"I can't RUN," I said, gesturing to my still-vulnerable knee. "Help!"

Big Boss let out a piercing whistle, and the guy turned to look. I flagged him back, holding up the tent.

"What kind of tent did you want?" I asked when he got near.

"Any kind," he said.

"Well, take this one, it looks pretty good." 
I showed him the tent poles (sometimes they are lost). "Are you sleeping out tonight?"

He said he was, took the tent, and thanked me.

 "Take care." What can you say?

Yeah, so, as you can see above, temps fell below zero last night.
There are people who DO know how to take care and live outdoors here, year round.
 I hope he is one of them. 
(Lots of people avoid the shelters, and there aren't enough beds anyway.)

Going back inside, I asked Big Boss if the tent was a gift from the store, or if I should pay for it.

"Ask Manageress," he said.

I TRY not to express disdain for Big Boss to his face, because it's not helpful, but I did roll my eyes at that. He could have made the call.

Technically Manageress is the store manager, while BB is Exec. Director of the Society that oversees it and the parish charitable groups. 
When it comes to things like buying shopping baskets, however, he still (micro-) manages our store.
When it came to this, he passed the buck. 

So I asked Manageress, and she said no, I can't give things away. People have to bring in a Voucher to get free things. (The Vouchers are dispensed three mornings a week, across town.)
I would have to pay for the tent. 

Fine, I am perfectly willing to pay 9 bucks for a tent. 
I've bought people stuff they needed before--(or, honestly more often, given things to them on the low down).

But it was that misfire—Big Boss's deferment to Manageress, and her decree--that set me to rights. 

I don't need to judge these two people.  They have their own reasons––(they both come from harsh backgrounds)––and I know they do their own kind of good. 

I have seen it. And often I have failed to do so, crossed the street, gone into the back room to avoid someone inconvenient.
I am not better than them.

But that they would turn away someone who needed a free tent--the most flimsy of shelters? And then charge me for it? It’s not like there was no room at the inn. The store could afford to give away a donated tent. (And who buys them in winter anyway?)

The thing is, Why have I ever given these people any power over me and my mood?

Well, I am not anymore. They are not the boss of me.

Writing that, I feel refreshed. 
I am going to go out into the cold to hear Marianne Budde in a few hours. I want to be in the presence of someone of courageous faith.

Noodling around (w/ Ambush Predators)

I. It's Fresh!

Very fresh! Auntie Vi and I would be emailing a lot about the weather these recent days, if she were alive. 
It's snowing again this morning, and it's cold, 18º F ( –8º C) and dropping during the day, heading to below zero F tonight.

I've been feeling kind of bad and sad and mad. 
Fallout from work. Not all because of Big Boss 'n' The Christians--

I also mishandled a volunteer situation--my fault. But also not my fault: I shouldn't be put in the position I am. 
I do NOT want to "manage sideways" anymore to try to compensate for Bad Management.

Fretting in the middle of the night (eye roll), I realized:
NO ONE else cares if we don't have supplies, if we operate in chaos.
I really can, should, and want to drop this impulse to Fix Work.

And "fix" (do) My Own work!

Girlettes need sparkle ponies for their parade!

My go-to emotional reaction is "freeze"-- feeling low and slow, wary & watchful. So I had to make myself get Christmas decorations up from my storage closet in the basement, on my way to do the laundry.
  I didn't have the pizzazz to put the decorations up right away though.

 But then, walking home from the bus, I saw that the local florist had set on the curb a pile of pine boughs--trimmings from the bottom of Christmas trees he sells in his little side lot. (I got one from him my first year here, but they're around $75--and take up a lot of room.)

I took an armful of the pine trimmings home, soaked them overnight, and stood them in an aluminum flour canister (below).  The boughs are so fresh, my hands were sticky with sap, and they smell nice too.
So that's cheering. (Also, free. Which fits my budget.)

Penny Cooper requested the vintage Christmas balls (handmade from kits). Penny is always equanimous.
That's Frankcolumbo with Penny--like her namesake, she's also never flustered.

I'm standing in the living room to take this photo, facing into the kitchen.
You can see ^ the orange legs of my kitchen table (left side of the photo), and the black chair where I sit to blog in the cold weather, away from the chilly living-room windows.
 
(My bedroom is around the corner, right of that room divider.)
I should draw a floor plan--I loved when blogger GZ drew hers.)

II. Noodling with the Library Card Print 

I'm not so low I can't start noodling around with my next print--a library card. Yay! 
It's for my Childhood Tech series. A trio, so far: 
a typewriter, Joe Buck's transistor radio (my favorite), and a wall-mounted pencil sharpener.

First step, looking at old library cards. (I thought I'd saved mine from childhood, but I can't find it.) It looked much like the one on the right, below:

 

I'm thinking about what I want it to be. Not a literal copy.
Maybe like a prize on a cereal box--with a dotted line to cut out.

Child World.

III. Ambush Predators: Bad Pike

And I'm looking at other artists. I just discovered English printmaker Gertrude Hermes (1901-1983). Not that I'd even want to do the fine work she does, but she inspires me.
royalacademy.org.uk/art-artists/name/gertrude-hermes-ra

BELOW: Hermes's woodblockprint Undercurrents (1938)--in thirds, so the carving shows. (I didn't line the thirds up exactly.) 

That big muskie lurking at the bottom?
I think of that as a Minnesota fish. 

Yep... Looked it up [wikipedia]:
Muskellunge, the biggest fish in the pike family, are native to North America--the Great Lakes region and beyond.

They are ambush predators, and the top predator in any body of water they're in--eating animals as big as muskrats.
Only bald eagles and humans threaten them.

And the name is local (to me):

"Muskellunge" originates from the Ojibwe... mji-gnoozhe, maskinoše, or mashkinonge, 
meaning "bad pike", "big pike", or "ugly pike" respectively.

Oh, okay, but pike are in England:

"The pike, often revered as the 'water wolf' of UK waters, stands as a symbol of the cunning and strength. 
Ambush Predators, they known for their sudden and explosive attacks, often lying in wait for unsuspecting prey."
--via 

Hm, in 1938 Great Britain, why would Gertrude Hermes print water wolves  lurking in ambush under swimmers?

III. Ambush Predators: Anthropic Court Case

Another example of how we're Living in a Sci-Fi World. 

I'm dealing with Modern Tech Predators too:
 I got an email saying I can file a claim re the court settlement against Anthropic for pirating copyrighted work to train its AI, using without permission more than 7 MILLION copies of books--
 including, super weirdly-- three of my copyrighted books.

> > > The Weird GOOD Thing: 
I would get money from the settlement! 

It's a $1.5 billion (!) settlement, but it's not like they can't afford to pay for the works they use:

"Anthropic is in a good position to handle the sizable compensation. The company recently announced the completion of a new funding round worth $13 billion, bringing its total value to $183 billion."

More:
npr.org/2025/09/05/nx-s1-5529404/anthropic-settlement-authors-copyright-ai  

And the old world exists side-by side:
I also got a paper mail saying I'm called for Jury Duty at the end of December. I have to go in person on the first day.
 (I think after, you can call in? Not sure.)

IV: Ambush Predators: Panthers

Time to bundle up and go to work.
This week is both Big Boss's and Mr Furniture's birthdays, and there's a lunch today.
Last year I made Big Boss a three-layer chocolate cake.
That's because I'd forgotten I don't like him, but now I remember.

Mr F is the self-taught artist who collages suits of clothes with political images--some from his early days as a Black Panther sympathizer in prison.
I love him.

He had been very wary of me at first, but one day (I've written about this before) he, who does not use the Internet, asked me if I could find a book that the prison had taken from him, The Black Panthers Speak (1970).

"It had a yellow cover," he said, some forty years later.

I was able to find it online, in minutes. Seven dollars. He bought it.

Recently Mr F asked me to order some Black Panther Party patches for his clothes collages. Looking for them, I found these too--which he loved. I am giving them to him for his birthday.

Mr Furniture is torn about Big Boss. They are both Black men who came up the hard way, and Mr F is my age, old enough to be BB's father. But he feels ... I guess the word is, betrayed.
One day Mr F said to me, 
"We've lost him".

Meaning lost BB to white Christian culture. (Mr F and I come from such different worlds, but he knows I see this like he does.)

And the other day, I was telling Mr F how awful the 'thank-you' dinner was--which he was smart enough NOT to have attended!
Don't bite the hook.

And Mr F. said, 
"I told Big Boss, 'I love you like a son I would give away'."

Brutal. Panthers are another ambush predator. But religious bigots are like invasive species, smothering the entire ecosystem. 

Waiting to be found, or given.

ABOVE: Along the waterfront: my map of childhood water places
___________________

Ugh, I'm still feeling thrown off by work culture -- dampened.
 I suspect it's going to take some time to re-orient myself there;
but meanwhile, I'm filling the gaps where the rain gets in with Other Things, 
and I'm so happy that yesterday I made myself accept Volunteer Vikki's invitation to go to her Congregational church. 

I didn't want to, fearing emotional gloppiness, but it wasn't like that AT ALL.

An Ojibwe elder and Water Protector, Sharon Day, was giving the guest sermon, and beforehand she led a one-hour reflection on water in our lives.  
 I loved her. 

It's funny--Sharon did just what the Spiritual Director I'd disliked had done at the church I'd gone to last month:
she invited us to close our eyes and reflect.
But instead of feeling fake and syrupy, it felt REAL.
I thought, Okay, well, I'll just try that.

The prompt was to reflect on a body of water we have known well... 

Afterwards we could write a thank-you letter to the water.
Instead, I felt moved to start to draw a map of two lakes and the channel between them that I grew up near.
 [Map ABOVE (I'd like to fill it in more.)]

As kids, my sister and I spent a lot of time along the shore-- sometimes with the neighbor girls our age, but always unaccompanied by adults, because those were the days. 
We had our own names for places--the geography of childhood...

People read their letters, if they wanted.
Some of the reflections were about grand and powerful bodies of water, like Lake Superior, but at one point Sharon Day said that when she was in recovery, sometimes she would submerse herself in her bathwater and listen to her heart beat.

I was so filled up by that hour, I didn't go to the church service. 

Here, below, is a cool little story Sharon Day tells about a young woman who joined her for ten days on one of the Nibi (Water) Walks--walking the length of the entire Mississippi River--and what the young woman found, or, what found her.

"The Nibi (Water) Walks are Indigenous-led, extended ceremonies to pray for the water. Every step is taken in prayer and gratitude for water, our life giving force."
--More here: https://www.nibiwalk.org

BELOW: Clip from "Sharon Day: Speaking for the Water", transcript of Native Lights Podcast: Where Indigenous Voices Shine, Hosts: Leah Lemm, Cole Premo, Minnesota Native News, July 31, 2025,
minnesotanativenews.org/sharon-day-speaking-for-the-water

Sharon Day: "A young woman... had been in treatment, and she got out and drank that night, and then the next day, her mother said, 
'You’re gonna go walk on this water walk'. 

So she was with me for 10 days. 
It was kind of a struggle those first couple of days, and at one point that first night, she told me, she said, 
'I really want to drink, and I have $20 in my pocket and I could go drinking.' 

And I said,  'Yes, you could, but let me, let me tell you a story and sing you a song.'

 So I did, told her the whole story, sang a song, and she said, 
'Okay, I’m going to go to bed, but tomorrow I might drink.' 
Like, okay, fine. 

Well, she stayed with me for 10 days, and on the 10th day, she ran up ahead of us. 
We crossed the Mississippi River into Wisconsin, and there was a wayside rest up there, and she ran up ahead of us, and she came running back,
 and she had this eagle feather in her hand, and she said,
'Look what I found.' 

And I said, 'Look what found you.' 

And she said, 'It’s kind of like me. It’s a little battered.' 

And I said, 'But it’s still beautiful.'

She said, 'Yes.' "

[End clip from Sharon Day: Speaking for the Water]
________________________

(This reminded me of recently quoting from children's book The Story of Edward Tulane, by Kate DiCamillo:
 "Someone will come for you".)

And this all reminds me of Advent too, which started yesterday, the pregnant weeks leading up to Christmas.

At this time, the Magi are walking toward the Baby Yet to Be Born.
They are bringing gifts. But the Baby is the gift, like the eagle feather.

At this time of year, I am always reminded to wonder...

What gifts are walking toward us, which we cannot even imagine?

And, What gift are we, waiting to be found, or given?

$free choices

I. Free!

I was given gifts of earmuffs and a pair of mittens at work the other day. The mittens were made for me by a regular customer. She even asked what colors I like. 

She is a possible model for me: 
she crafts lots of things, and she both sells and gives them away with lightness. She doesn't seem to have any hang-up whatsoever about either.

BELOW: Wearing my mittens and earmuffs at a burger joint near work, where I had French fries for lunch yesterday. It's joined to a laundromat and smells pleasantly of hot-dryers inside. 
Outside, it smells like drugs. When I walked up, people were bent over in the sheltered doorway of the laundromat, smoking crack (chemically smelling).
 In the parking lot round the other side sat a police car.
Such is life in the 'hood.

Anyway--even though the mittens were a warm and welcome gift of love, the gift of earmuffs are my favorite, because of work politics:

Mr. Jester Mushroom was the only manager at work this holiday week. He's assistant manager, but that mostly means he has a set of keys--he's still "one of us" workers (so far). 
The mood was mellow.

Jester was at the cash register, giving the cashier a break, when I stopped on my way out to pay for the earmuffs. They had a new tag, but no price.

"How much are they?" Jester asked.

"Esmeralda will know," I said. 

I turned to ask our coworker who hangs clothes. She is a warm and lovely person, from Mexico, and her English is not fluent.

"Three," she said, which seemed very fair.

Jester started to ring it up on the register, then stopped and said, 
"Esmeralda, did you say three or free?"

"Free," she said. "Free!"

And Jester agreed. "Free."

This gift helped me especially much because I've not been able to shake the ick of the so-called 'thank-you' dinner last Sunday.
Getting REAL free love from coworkers and customers re-sets my mood.

This morning, a volunteer Vicky is picking me up to go to her Congregational church--a liberal congregation, tending toward wealth, like the one I went to last month, but with less gibberish?
We shall see.

II. Pick Your Own Sticks

I'm interested, but I'm not looking for a home church. 
As I keep saying, the most important thing is to
Do My Own Work. 

When I find myself ruminating about the store––(sometimes thinking about shopping baskets in the middle of the night--I resent that!)––I remind myself to think about my projects. 
Which works, but man, my mind runs to that old groove.

Stop it, mind!

I must ponder, for instance, how to make God's eyes. 
Yet more snow has covered the ground, so it's the end of pick-up sticks for the season. I like natural sticks best, but if I'm going to keep making them this winter, I'll have to use other things. Chopsticks worked, pencils not so much. 
I'll keep my eyes open.

 The wool and wood eyes seem to weather well.

III. Choose Your Own Colors

After I address my Christmas prints this afternoon, I will start a new lino print. 

I want to print a library card!
Do you remember I printed punch cards?
I loved those and the whole idea of hand-making everyday things that are now machine-made of plastic.

My sister has started quilting since she quit working six years ago. 
(She is happy and engaged in retirement--very. 
She reminds me of our ever-active Auntie Vi . . . which also reminds me that much as I cherished Vi, I did not love everything about her--for instance, that she always insisted Every Day Is a SUNNY Day. 
Spare me.)

A friend helps Sister choose her fabrics because, she says, "I'm no good at choosing colors."

How can you be bad at choosing colors?
Just choose ones you like!

But... no. I get it actually. 
Working in Housewares, I see that people are often spectacularly bad to anything to do with DESIGN---from color to placement.
So very bad at it. 
Like, putting tiny objects on dark, bottom shelves or behind tall things.

But I'd still rather make my own mistakes in craft/art than follow someone else's "correct" way. 
I mean, what's the point?

I guess the point is getting the finished object--a perfect quilt.
My sister sews the patches with a sewing machine, and she also hires someone with a long-arm sewing machine to top-stitch (the decorative stitches on the quilt top).
The quilt looks exactly like what it is:
machine assembled.

She's happy and proud, so that's fine for her--no harm! 

(And it’s not AI designed, though Sister keeps texting me AI material… yesterday, a synopsis of a book she read. Why? Is her brain going?

Sometimes I truly wonder. 

But bink says she was always like this. I hope it’s that and not loss of mental acuity.)

For me, this kind of quilt-making is a model of what I don't want to do.

So... on with library cards. 

Hey, I could print pennies too! 

“A simpler, more agreeable time”

This morning I’m listening to Sarah Vowell read her book Lafayette in the Somewhat United States—she’s talking about the patriotic fever that welcomed Lafayette’s tour of the US in 1825, the same year there was near-violence over the presidential election—including threats to storm the Capitol.

In the first 15 minutes, she’s already made me laugh out loud. 

This:

Americans’ unified enthusiasm for Lafayette, Vowell says, was for the man himself – – it was not a reflection of a simpler, more agreeable time. 

“In the United States, there never was a simpler, more agreeable time.”

——

Hopefully today —Thanksgiving in the USA—will agree with us.

M & Q drove down from Duluth yesterday – – even though there’d been a snowstorm the night before. Here, too.  This feels early, after years of brown Christmases – – but bink reminds me that when we were kids, risking sliding off snowy roads into ditches —(or dying)—on Thanksgiving was quite normal.

I’m putting a little extra effort into the vegetable dishes for today’s dinner, as one guest is vegan. Roast potatoes dressed with fresh rosemary, onion, garlic, and olive oil;  the collards & mushrooms, w smoked paprika and apple cider vinegar, are made with an enriched stock from  a small sheet of dried seaweed, dried mushrooms, leeks, parsley, and the usual mirepoix.

The guest is bringing vegan pumpkin pie & ice cream! I am taking a day off from not-eating white sugar.

There’ll be a roast chicken in the Dutch oven too, for those who partake (probably me). 

I hope you enjoy your Thanksgiving – – or, as the case may be, Thursday.