I retired from the Public Defender Dept. November 12, 2015 after 16 health destroying years.
Now, I'm a full time multi-media artist and writer on a new adventure. As an artist, I create with beads, fabric, fiber, and ceramic clay. Sometimes separately; sometimes in assorted combinations. You can find my on-line store at: www.debthumanart.com.
I’m taking a human physiology class from one of my favorite teachers. This is the third class I’ve taken from her. For some reason, her classes trigger quilt ideas. No quilt ideas have come from any other class I’ve ever taken. When I took neurobiology from her, I made two quilts about nerves.
Someday, I’ll bind this one.
When I took animal physiology from her, I made a mitochondria quilt.
Now, I’ve got a human physiology quilt floating in my brain.
When I was in college for real, I majored in biology. I would lay awake at night trying to figure out how water crossed the cell membrane. I loved botany. Had I gone to grad school instead of law school, I would have been a botanist. Now, I’m in college for fun. I take classes that interest me and I’m not working towards another degree. I can’t get another degree; I’m out of wall space.
As I was reading the textbook for my human physiology class, I saw something astounding. There are junctions between human cells that closely resemble junctions between plant cells. I’ve never seen structural overlap like that before. That’s what triggered the quilt idea. The soft idea floating in my head features representations of the parts of biology and the parts of my class that mean the most to me. I need to do some sketching.
In the UFO category, I still haven’t made quilt basting spray which means I still haven’t quilted the suicide quilt although I’ve got a firm idea of how I want to quilt it.
I’ve been working on photographing necklaces I’ve made and putting those necklaces for sale in my store, Deb Thuman Art which you can find here: http://www.DebThumanArt.com
I woke up in pain yesterday. Only one thing to do when that happens – grab the camera, go outside, and start shooting.
I woke up about an hour after sunrise, so I got some interesting light.
The agave that bloomed two years ago still hasn’t died. We didn’t cut the stalk down, and the stalk is now woody and it has become a perch on which birds watch for predators. These are dove.
We took a tiny trip to Albuquerque on Friday. We stayed overnight and came back Saturday morning. Travel is interesting. No more breakfast buffet at the hotel. They offer a breakfast grab and go bag containing yogurt, a granola bar, and some juice. No bedspread on the bed. If you want a blanket, you have to ask for one to be brought to your room. All the dishes, including the coffee pot, are in the dishwasher rather than in the cupboards and drawers. No more hot coffee and hot tea all day and night. We bought teabags at Sprouts. No honey. No sugar. No creamer. The pool is closed but the exercise room is open. Only two people or one family in the elevator at a time. One of our favorite restaurants appears to be permanently closed. Limited hours at other restaurants. I had to contact the Department of Transportation to ask if restrooms along I-25 are open. They are. I asked because restrooms at parks have been closed since mid-March.
The point of this trip was to buy beads at my favorite gem store. I checked before we left home to be sure the gem store was open. This trip, I decided to splurge and buy some of the more expensive beads. Expensive is a relative term. Although I loved the 10mm round larimar beads, I couldn’t afford to pay $750 for them. The most expensive beads I bought were $45 a strand. It’s a balancing act. I wanted to have higher end beads, but I need to have high end beads that turn into earrings and necklaces my customers can afford. Few people are willing to pay $1,000+ for a necklace from an on-line store. At that price, people need to see the jewelry and feel the stones before buying.
Bumble bee jasper. These are beads the clerk recommended, and I’m fascinated by the colors.
Larimar which is found only in the Dominican Republic. I love the stone, but at the moment, the beads are pricy. Gem prices are driven by scarcity, politics, and how much is being mined at the moment.
Phosphosiderite. The name is from the components of the stone, phosphorous and iron. I was surprised to discover it’s rare because the price for these was reasonable.
Peruvian opal. Although these opals don’t have the light play of the more famous opals, a couple of the stones are clearly trying to sparkle.
Rhodochrosite, one of my favorite stones. It’s the national stone of Argentina. While the price here is reasonable, the price is outrageously expensive in Argentina.
Turquoise. The reasonable price was a surprise because turquoise jewelry is expensive in New Mexico.
Vericite. I love the delicate green color of the stones. The color isn’t absolutely accurate in these photos.
Here in New Mexico, we’re getting smoke from California and Arizona. I don’t remember the last time smoke didn’t hide the mountains in haze. I took these photos from the hotel window and had a time and a half editing the shots.
My broken tooth was extracted this past Tuesday. I opted for anesthetic because I detest getting a shot of anything in my mouth. The oral surgeon explained that the tooth had three roots and the roots would have to be drilled out. After the tooth was removed, a titanium post was implanted in my jaw. I watched a Youtube video to see how the post was implanted, and I was glad I wasn’t awake. While the process is fascinating, some things I’d rather not know about while they are happening. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8k6pFGwUHVs if you’d like to see the process. I stopped taking the painkillers on Wednesday. I hated being stoned and when I wasn’t having pain. I’m still taking the antibiotics four times a day. I still have to eat on only one side, but I’m starting to eat semi-solid food. Pasta. Enchiladas. Refried beans. Rice.
I was reading in my human physiology text book, and my brain took a little trip. I thought about chocolate chip cookies and how everything in a body is interconnected. That transition made sense at the time. Then, an idea for a physiology quilt started to form. The design needs more work, but I may end up with something fun. Fun would be nice. For the past couple years, my quilts have been about mass shootings, suicide and isolation.
It’s amazing how childhood hurts last a lifetime. When I got accepted into law school, I decided getting into law school wasn’t such a big deal. They let me in, so it can’t be a big deal.
“When I appeared before the Supreme Court of the United States….” When I say that, people’s jaws drop. People are amazed. Stunned. They let me in so it can’t be a big deal. Why is everyone so impressed? When I took an adult religious education class and mentioned I was going to appear before the Supreme Court of the United States, the rabbi was astounded. I remember thinking that a rabbi who didn’t know me was impressed and my siblings and my mother wouldn’t have thought it was a big deal. If I did it, it couldn’t be a big deal. If I did it, it wasn’t worth noticing.
It was a big deal. I got accepted in to a law school that rejects 90% of the people who apply. Appearing before the Supreme Court of the United States is a big deal. I appeared to be admitted to practice before the Supreme Court. For the rest of my legal life, I can go into the Supreme Court any time I want and listen to arguments. I never have arrive before dawn to stand in a line and be allowed to spend three minutes in the courtroom. For the rest of my legal life, I can use the law library at the Supreme Court. The library is an ode to wood. Raised panels everywhere. Rows and rows and rows of raised panels and books. Any time I want, I can go in the library, sit down and do research. I can eat in the cafeteria whenever I’m at the Supreme Court.
It’s a big deal.
When I appeared before the Supreme Court of the United States, I learned that Ruth Bader Ginsburg was the heart of the court. As long as she was on the bench, I knew my voice would be heard. Who will hear us now? The loss of Ruth Bader Ginsburg hurts more than the loss of Thurgood Marshall and that hurt more than the loss of JFK.
It took 244 years before a woman lay in state in this country. Let’s make a big deal out of Ruth Bader Ginsburg being a Jewish American because being a Presbyterian American is no big deal. Let’s replace the heart of the court with a Religious Bigot American.
I don’t remember a time when I wasn’t bipolar. I could have been diagnosed 35 years earlier. I should have been diagnosed 24 years earlier. There’s no excuse for not being diagnosed 10 years earlier. That’s what happens when you get packed off to a psychiatrist and the psychiatrist wants to prescribe meds but doesn’t want to listen. During the time I was undiagnosed, I put myself through college earning degrees in journalism and biology even though I had no high school math or science, put myself through law school, took and passed two bar exams, ran my own law practice, appeared before the US Supreme Court, moved 2000 miles across the country, argued before the New Mexico Supreme Court three times, did about a hundred trials and a couple dozen appeals. Bipolar disorder never kept me from doing what I wanted to be doing.
I have a mental illness. I’m not disabled. Except, I am. Thursday, my brain didn’t work. I’m taking a biology class and although I find the class fascinating, I can’t remember things, can’t figure out answers to problems, can’t concentrate. For the first time in my life, bipolar disorder is a disability. Knowing that many other people who are bipolar have similar experiences doesn’t help. My brain is broken and cannot be fixed. I’m not able to accept that.
My severe lack of ambition seems to be a function of a pandemic. So many people let me know after my last blog post that they share my malaise. Because my extreme lack of endurance, I need to set exercise goals. Right now I can only handle small goals. My current small goal is 10 minutes on the elliptical machine every day. I’ve done that five days in a row. I think the exercise, pitifully small though it is, helps.
I’ve been doing some macro work lately. Some of my work involves taking photos of interesting patterns and manipulating the photos.
I’ve also been doing some product photography. I’ll be listing these in my store, Deb Thuman Art, in the next couple days.
I am suffering from a severe lack of ambition. I need to clean the bathroom, vacuum the rugs, read my physiology textbook, and get around to cooking something. I need to do meal planning and eat a balanced diet. I need to work on the novel. I need to make quilt basting spray. I need to quilt the suicide quilt now that I’ve figured out how I want to quilt it. I need to make the isolation quilt now that I’ve got a firm design worked out. I need to get back to exercising. I need to unload the dishwasher. I need to put ingredients in the bread machine and make bread before Jim does something horrible like buying bread at the grocery store. I need to select fabric designs and have Spoonflower proof them so I can sell my designs. I need to take my vitamins.
I’m not doing a damn thing.
Almost not a damn thing. I did a load of laundry this morning and sprayed mold killer in the shower. Now, I need to put clean sheets on the bed. I’m not doing that, either.
I don’t know how to get myself out of this funk. I’d love to go back to the gym, but it’s too dangerous because the county I live in is a hotspot. My severely decreased endurance is scaring me. Many days, I go outside and take photos. It doesn’t help. I’m making some progress on the insomnia. Even getting 6 hours sleep a night doesn’t help. I was getting 4 hours sleep.
The broken tooth has limited my food choices. I still have lots of food options and I don’t feel like making any one of those options. Yesterday, I soaked some dried cherries in water and intend, someday, to use the cherries in cookies. I should probably take my anti-anxiety med, but that requires I walk into the kitchen where the meds are kept. I don’t feel like doing that.
I have always had problems concentrating, but it’s worse now. I know a good part of that is lack of sleep. That doesn’t comfort me. I’ve had extreme anxiety for so long that extreme anxiety feels normal.
Bleah.
Manipulated grass photo. Eventually, I’ll find the ambition to pick out designs to have proofed. Once proofed, I can sell the designs on Spoonflower. My Spoonflower shop is here: https://www.spoonflower.com/profiles/deb_thuman
Fuzzy Wuzzy was a creosote bush seedpod.
Tunas. Those red things are prickly pear seed pods. They’re edible. People eat them, turn them into jam, or turn them into wine.
Just to prove I really can take the stick out of my butt…..
Normally, I try hard to get accurate colors. This time, something interesting happened while editing this shot. The flower really is this shade of yellow. The background, in real life, is desert brown. I like what happened here.
I frequently take shots of patterns. Can you figure out what this is a shot of? Hint: it’s not wood.
I’ve been working out a design for a quilt about how I feel isolated. Frequently, I don’t understand what’s going on inside of me until the feelings come out my hands. Sometimes, art is the only way I can communicate.
I bought a copy of Step-by-Step Texture Quilting by Christina Cameli and it arrived on Saturday. I’ve been doing some skimming and I now have some ideas about how to quilt the suicide quilt and how to quilt the isolation quilt after I finish working out the design and turn it into fabric.
This is the original photo. I was working with my macro lens and saw a feather on the ground. I thought it would be an interesting subject for manipulation.
Here’s one of the manipulations:
And here’s the one I used for a fabric design:
I haven’t proofed the design so it’s not for sale in my Spoonflower store yet. I’ve got a coupon for 25% off, and I’m working on getting together a huge order.
Fall in the desert is…..interesting. Several years ago, I decided I wanted to make a quilt using fall colors. I’m from western New York where fall is wildly colorful. When I finished the quilt, it didn’t look right. I had yellow and purple, but I thought I had too much green. How we design quilts and the colors we choose is strongly influenced by what we see around us.
In the desert, we get most of the annual rainfall in July and August. In the fall, the brown desert turns …
These are Dona Ana Mountains behind my home. One of these days, I want to hike these mountains. Alas, the pandemic has caused restrooms in the parks an on trails to be closed. I’m not adverse to relieving myself al fresco, but I don’t want half the town watching me while I do so.
Art is a fleeting look at a moment of the artist’s life.
I make emotional art. The kind of art no one wants to look at. The kind of art that shows the ugliness in my life. Maybe, if I’m very lucky, it’s the kind of art that will unlock past trauma and let me feel the feelings I’ve refused to feel for so long.
I’m not responsible for the trauma. I am responsible for allowing or not allowing myself to feel things I couldn’t feel during the trauma because releasing those feelings at the time of trauma wasn’t safe.
I’m in the process of recovering from my last blog post. I put in that post things I’ve never told anyone. Things I was ashamed of. Things that, at the time of the trauma, seemed not exactly normal but also not unusual or special. Didn’t everyone hate their siblings as we were taught to hate each other? Didn’t everyone have parents who hated and beat them? Didn’t everyone stagger through hell while denying they were in hell?
I couldn’t feel anything growing up because it wasn’t safe to feel anything. At one point, I convinced myself that I didn’t have emotions. Prozac without the prescription. Now, it’s safe to feel what I couldn’t feel before. Except now I can’t feel those feelings. I can’t access them. I don’t know where to find them. I don’t know how to let the feelings out. Maybe that’s why I can’t find the feelings. Those feelings are buried under raw terror.
What would happen if I allowed the pain from neglect, emotional abuse and physical abuse to release? Would I explode? Would the feelings be horrifying? Would the feelings hurt? That’s the one that terrifies me. The feelings would hurt. I’d have to relive a hell I’ve buried.
More than anything, I want to heal. I want to be normal. I want to be able to make friends. I want to attend services at my temple without wanting to be by myself curled up in a corner.
I don’t’ know how. I don’t’ know how to be normal. I don’t know what to do with people. I don’t know how to be part of a group. I go through life believing I’m all I’ve got, all I’ve ever had, and all I ever will have. What does it feel like to be normal? What does it feel like to be happy? What does it feel like to feel? To be fully alive?
Lose a tooth and find myself.
I don’t recommend it.
I’ve sketched a couple designs that may become quilts. I’m not sure. I’ve tried drawing my trauma, but it has never seemed to be accurate. I think I’m coming closer to drawing what’s hidden inside of me. It’s emotional art. I’m not sure I want to look at it.
My mother, a violent drunken narcissist, hated dentists and thought teeth were temporary and everyone should have dentures. Consequently, my siblings and I never went to a dentist, my mother didn’t buy us toothbrushes nor insist we brush our teeth. One day, feeling brave, I told my mother I needed to see a dentist because I had a cavity. I was 16. The dentist wanted to explain to my mother what work needed to be done on my teeth. She stood outside the room, did her melodramatic attempt to look frightened, and told me – over and over – that I should have all my teeth taken out and get dentures. I refused. That was an act of bravery. This demand that I have all my teeth removed was made periodically and I always refused. Losing a tooth means my mother wins. I cannot let my mother win.
The dentist used nitrous oxide and one day, I had a bad reaction and threw up. Vomit landed on my blouse and in my hair. My mother made me go to school wearing that vomit. I was 16. A junior in high school. Dressed in vomit.
My mother was a horrible person. When I reached puberty, I got my first pimple. It was on the end of my nose. My mother announced the fact to my siblings, and then told them I looked just like a witch. I didn’t say anything. Just got my coat and went out to wait for the school bus. I was 12. She bought me clothes that were a few sizes too big and bras that were a few sizes too small. She called me fat ass. I weighed 103 pounds. She called me selfish and lazy. I had no social life because I always had to babysit my siblings while she and her husband went out and drank themselves into a stupor. When my siblings got an allowance, I didn’t. After a few weeks, in another moment of bravery, I asked to have an allowance. When her husband beat me with a belt, she made no effort to stop him. A couple days later, she asked how I got belt-shaped bruises. I was too embarrassed to tell her so I just said that she knew how I got the bruises.
Now, I have a broken tooth. My dentist told me she might not be able to restore the tooth and it may have to be extracted. I told her I wanted the tooth restored. As she looked at my tooth, another piece broke off. The break went clear down to the bone. She told me the prognosis for a crown was horrible. It would be expensive, time consuming, and I’d end up losing the tooth in a couple years.
I cried. I told her I have a repeating nightmare about having a tooth break and having to have the tooth removed. I told her about my mother and how she demanded I have all my teeth pulled and get dentures.
My options are a bridge or an implant. The dentist told me that many insurance plans won’t pay for an implant, and implants are expensive. A friend had a horrible experience with an implant and I’m reluctant to have an implant. Plus, I’d have the tooth extracted, wait for that to heal, have a post installed, wait for that to be healed, then have a crown put on the post. A process requiring a minimum of three months. With a bridge, I’d have the tooth extracted, wait for my gum to heal, then a bridge would be made. She told me the bridge would last the rest of my life. I have to choose one bad option or the other bad option. As I type this, I think that a bridge would be the best bad option.
I hate my mother. She’s been dead five years, and she is still hurting me. At least I won’t have to listen to her gloat about my broken tooth and once again demand I have all my teeth taken out and get dentures.
For me, art is therapeutic. I think I need to make a quilt about my tooth. I’ve been working in my sketchbook, but I haven’t discovered a design that works. Either I need to keep sketching and letting my hand put on paper what’s in my heart, or I need to take a couple days off and then look at today’s designs again.
Maybe I’ve got this figured out. It’s too soon to know for sure. I’ve battled insomnia for five months. Sleeping pills don’t work. Melatonin doesn’t work. Relaxation music doesn’t work. Music that’s supposed to trigger brain waves to promote deep sleep doesn’t work.
I’ve always had an inordinate amount of anxiety. Lots of reasons for that, and none I want to discuss. It’s okay; I discuss those reasons with my psychologist. For the past five months, I’ve battled extreme anxiety. Relaxation music doesn’t work. Klonopin helps, but I’d need to have an increased dose to defeat the anxiety. I’m not going to ask my doctor to increase the dose. I’ve been on the lowest dose since August 2007. I take it when I need it and don’t bother when I don’t need it. Having been through the hell of psych med withdrawal a number of times, I’m not about to risk addiction to deal with a temporary problem.
I’m out of ideas.
I’m done fighting insomnia.
I’m done fighting extreme anxiety.
We live is terrifying times. There’s a virus that has caused a pandemic. There’s no vaccine. There’s no cure. Scientists are discovering the virus attacks far more than the lungs. It attacks other organs and causes irreversible damage.
That’s terrifying.
In the United States, we have a narcissistic sociopath running the country. He’s lied, dismantled environmental protections, pissed off leaders of other countries, treated the Queen of England horribly, mocks disabilities, mocks veterans, mocks the parents who have buried sons or daughters killed in Iraq and Afghanistan, decimated the economy, and encouraged people to drink bleach.
That’s terrifying.
In the United States, we have a presidential election in November. The narcissistic sociopath has threatened to send the military to “protect” polling places, dismantled the postal service in an effort to thwart absentee balloting, and claims if he loses the election (please God let him lose), it will be the fault of the post office.
That’s terrifying.
Being terrified when in the midst of terrifying events is healthy. Being anxious and sleepless in the midst of terrifying events is evidence of mental health. Only a psychotic person wouldn’t be terrified by what’s happening in the world and in the United States.
I’m terrified. I’m worried. I’m afraid the narcissistic sociopath will get re-elected and my country will be destroyed. That’s evidence of mental health. I don’t care if the military, the police and Putin stand between me and the voting booth. I’m voting in this election.
I once offered a friend the following advice: Your feelings are your feelings. They aren’t good or bad. They are just there. The appropriate response to anyone who says you should or should not feel a certain way is to tell the person to fuck off.
I’m done fighting. I accept that I have extreme anxiety and that anxiety is reasonable. I accept that I have insomnia and that insomnia is reasonable. I finally figured out that I cannot battle my feelings. They’re my feelings. I’m entitled to have them. I get to decide how to respond to things that are out of my control.
I have this to say to extreme anxiety and insomnia: fuck off.
I’ve had extreme anxiety for so long that extreme anxiety feels normal. I don’t notice it until I have a small frustration, then the bipolar nuclear warhead explodes. I’ve no idea how to lower the anxiety. I have a prescription for Klonopin, but Klonopin isn’t helping as much as I need it to help. I’ve been on the lowest dose since 2007. I take it when I need it, and don’t bother when I don’t need it. That has kept me from becoming addicted. Having gone through psych med withdrawal five times, I can say with great authority that coming off heroin is easier than coming off a psych med. With heroin, you puke and poop for three days and you’re done. With psych meds, withdrawal lasts at least three months. I’m careful with Klonopin. I’ve had extreme anxiety for five months, and that’s more than long enough to become addicted to Klonopin. I haven’t yet, and have no plans to ask my doctor for a prescription for a larger dose. As bad as the extreme, unending anxiety is, withdrawal is worse.
I listen to relaxation music. I meditate. It doesn’t help. It may keep me from screaming for a few minutes, but that’s the best I can expect. I think of the high stress events in my life – law school, taking a bar exam, a trial where I was in the courtroom when I grabbed my stomach and doubled over in pain, having a supervisor scream at me, having a stalker terrorize me, suing the New Mexico Public Defender Department….none of that compares to the anxiety I’ve felt for the past five months. None of that prepared me for the anxiety I’ve felt for the past five months.
I’ve been in an extended manic episode for the last five months. Something about a killer virus and a pandemic. Once the frustration arrives, the vitriol ensues. It’s not nice. For me or anyone around me. During this manic episode, I’ve had severe depressive episodes. The last one was scary because I felt dangerously close to suicidal. The suicide rate for people who are bipolar is 20 times that of the rest of the population.
My physiology class started on Thursday. The class is via zoom complete with technical glitches, internet disturbances, and a significantly lower risk of becoming infected with covid-19. I did not handle the glitches well. It took me a half hour to get into my class, and I don’t remember how I accomplished that. I had tried so many things, I have no idea what actually worked. I’m supposed to fill out a covid form and take the covid quiz that’s online, except it isn’t on line. Or if it is online, it’s in a super-secret location. I don’t see the point of this quiz. Dona Ana County and specifically Las Cruces where I live is a major hotspot in New Mexico. New Mexico State University has classes via zoom and on campus. I had predicted that the university would have to shut down by Halloween due to rampant infection. I’ve revised that. I predict the university will shut down by Labor Day. The university has had five months to figure out how to sanitize classrooms and restrooms with a janitorial staff that has been decimated due to budget cuts. Plans have yet to be finalized. The campus police apparently have no intention of enforcing state, county and local laws mandating wearing face masks in public. Jim is on campus daily and he has yet to see a student wearing a mask in public.
I spent this morning terrorizing the university administration. In my defense, the administration deserved it. There is a survey students are asked to take regarding a monument in the middle of a traffic circle. Some engineer who may have been on acid at the time, decided it would be a good idea to remove traffic lights, and have a traffic circle with exits and entrances to I-25 as well as exits and entrances to major roads and the university. I suggested rather than the three boring ideas proposed that a caduceus be erected as a monument to all the injuries caused by collisions that will happen in the traffic circle. Next, I took a survey for theater arts majors. Although I’m not working towards another degree, I declared a theater arts major as a matter of convenience. Jim works in the theater arts department and I needed a clearance in lieu of mandatory academic advisement each semester. It was easier for Jim to handle the paperwork if I were a theater arts major. The survey contained questions about upcoming plays – none of which are going to be produced because by state law there won’t be an audience because only 48 people can be seated in the theater. Every year, the theater arts department, in clear violation of the First Amendment, puts on a Christmas production. I suggested they have plays for Hanukkah, Rosh Hashanah, Yom Kippur and Pesach. Not that anyone in administration will know that Pesach is the Hebrew word for Passover. I then asked if the department was going to continue to cram Christianity down everyone’s throat. I used to be on the board for American Southwest Theater Company – the organization that financially supports the theater productions put on by the theater arts department. I resigned in the middle of a meeting when it became clear that not only was ASTC and the theater arts department going to continue to crap on the First Amendment, but ASTC didn’t carry insurance to protect me in the event someone woke up and sued the university. New Mexico is a community property state. Being on the board meant risking I would be sued, I’d be forced to sell the house, and we’d only be able to keep half the proceeds from the sale.
Then, I finished breakfast.
My broken tooth won’t be fixed until August 28 and my birthday is August 22. There will be a subdued celebration. I can only eat on one side of my mouth so my food choices are limited. Restaurants in New Mexico are limited to patio seating and take out only. I’d like to spend part of the weekend in Albuquerque but hotels are restricted to 25% occupancy and Albuquerque is a hot spot. The fanciest I can do for a celebration is to make Welsh Rarebit.
I’ve been doing photography, but that’s not helping as much as I would like. I calm down a bit, but the calm doesn’t last.
I’ve been working on manipulating photos to use for fabric designs which will be sold at Spoonflower. You can find my Spoonflower shop here: https://www.spoonflower.com/profiles/deb_thuman
I do not like this pandemic. I have money, time and gas is cheap. I have more than 135,000 points and can fly anywhere Southwest flies for free. Except flying isn’t safe. I can get a good deal on a cruise. Except taking a cruise isn’t safe. I have nowhere to go. Hotels all have restricted occupancy. Restaurants in New Mexico are take out or patio dining only. I’m surrounded by hotspots. It’s not safe to go anywhere. At first, I amused myself by documenting in photos spring in the desert. Then, I amused myself by sewing masks. Next, I amused myself by photographing summer cactus flowers in the desert. Now, I’m not amused. And I broke a tooth Friday evening.
I have put 30 new fabric designs in my Spoonflower store here: https://www.spoonflower.com/profiles/deb_thuman I manipulate photos I’ve taken of assorted subjects and turn the manipulated photos into fabric designs.
To sell fabric designs on Spoonflower, the designs have to be proofed. I use the economical 30 designs on a length of fabric to proof designs. I think I found a good use for the fabric. Quilt backing and making boxers for Jim. The only sewing I feel like doing is making boxers so I’ve been using up leftover fabric for Jim’s boxers. He’s used to getting a leg of this and a leg of that.
I am battling depression at the moment. In an attempt to banish the blues, Jim and I went to the Bernina store and I looked at fabric. Jim looked at sewing machines and discovered the Pfaff I bought two years ago was a huge bargain. It was on sale and it’s the nicest machine I’ve ever had. Next, he discovered the machines that cut out quilt pieces are expensive, the dies are expensive, and – as Jim put it – the machine doesn’t help you put the pieces together. Lots of opportunity to stretch fabric cut on the bias, not get the seams even, and end up with an expensive mess.
I found two pretty batiks on sale. Four yards of each have had the ends serged and are being pre-washed and run through the dryer. Serging the cut ends keeps the ends from unraveling and giving me handfuls of thread messes. Plus, if the ends are serged, I know the fabric has been pre-washed and run through the dryer. If fabric is going to shrink, I want it to shrink before I cut out a garment. Also, I’ve yet to find fabric that was folded on grain when it came off the bolt. I’m thinking blouses for this fabric. I got some patterns on sale a few weeks back.
Jim has been busy, and I’ve been listing the seam rippers he makes in my store here: http://www.DebThumanArt.com There are 8 new seam rippers. Here are a few of them.
I’m closing in on the quilting design. I’m playing with the idea of heaven and earth, dead and alive, and how they are separated. I’ve been thinking about how there’s no communication between dead and alive. I don’t believe mediums can communicate with the dead. We have assorted beliefs about what happens to a person after death, but those are beliefs. We have no actual proof of what, or if, anything happens to a soul after death. I believe a soul is alive before conception and lives on after the body dies.
There’s no communication between heaven and earth. Maybe. Those on earth pray, but we’ve no confirmation that anyone or anything is hearing the prayers.
I’d like to put all of that into the quilting and I think I’ve figured out how to do that. If the quilting works out the way I have it in my head, I’m going to have a strange quilt. That’s okay. It will work well with my other strange quilts.
I’ve been sending short stories in to writing contests and I got a rejection email the other day. The short story that got rejected is 1800 words and four chapters. Now, I need to find another contest to submit this story. I submitted two stories to the Chicago Tribune in February. Those are still pending. As I go through stories I had written for my writing classes, I’m struck by how weird my writing is. When I was in college, my writing was normal. When I was a journalist, my writing was normal. When I wrote appeals for my clients, my writing was both normal and constipated. I don’t know when or how I started writing weird. Although I’m an avid reader, I’ve never read anything remotely like my style. That I write weird was an almost disconcerting discovery.
I’m working on a novel. Anyone who thinks writing a novel is easy has never tried to write a novel. When I was a journalist, I’d sit down down, starting a story at the beginning and going straight to the end. All in one sitting. Novels don’t work that way. At least the novel I’m writing doesn’t work that way. The story is about a woman who is my age, bipolar, a criminal defense attorney, a widow, and she’s in love with a police officer. I had to kill Jim off to write the novel. He’s taking it well. New Mexico is a community property state and any royalties I get from this novel are marital property. Translated: Jim and I will jointly own any royalties.
Because I don’t consider any book that doesn’t have at least one dead body to be worth reading, I’ve put three bodies in my novel including an officer involved shooting. My view of officer involved shootings is nothing like the views written about in The New York Times. It’s also nothing like the views held by the majority of criminal defense attorneys. I’ve never been good at conforming. In the novel, I use capitalization in an odd way. Not only am I working with a story line, I’m working with unusual concepts requiring unusual capitalization.
Turns out, I’m not the only person who is bipolar and having problems with this pandemic. Rapid cycling is defined as four or more episodes in a year. I managed that in six days. I rested on the seventh day. The anxiety, mania, insomnia, and wild mood swings seem to be attacking so many of us. In my case, getting the dosage right is critical. Too much, and I’m a zombie. Too little and I’m suicidal. Meds don’t cure bipolar disorder. Meds dull the symptoms and the mood swings are not as extreme. The fear and anxiety caused by the virus makes bipolar symptoms worse.
New Mexico has been having a surge in new cases the last few weeks. We’re in better shape than the southeast, Arizona and Texas, but we’re not in good shape. I don’t think we’re seeing a second wave, we’re seeing what happens when the country opens before the first wave is done. What needs to happen is the entire country closing down for a couple months. Otherwise, we’re going to be having an out-of-control epidemic that lasts more than a year.
I’ve been doing more shopping on line rather than in person. I don’t want to risk exposure to covid. I’ve gotten sheets from Target – free shipping for orders more than $35. I’ve ordered contact lens products and ink cartridges for my printer from Amazon – free shipping with a Prime membership. I ordered spices from Savory Spice – free shipping for orders more than $49. We started wearing masks long before they became mandatory. There’s a state, city and county law mandating masks in public. Some store managers decided not to insist people wore masks. The law changed, and now store owners can face criminal charges for allowing people who aren’t wearing masks to enter. At Sam’s Club, there’s a disconcerting sign at the entry saying because of the government, everyone has to wear a mask. Right. Blame someone else for your stupidity. The state shut down one Walmart here because four employees tested positive a few weeks back. Neither the employees nor customers were told they had been exposed to the virus. Walmart waited an additional six hours before shutting the doors. Walmart managers offered excuses for keeping the positive cases a secret, but no apology.
I bought Mary Trump’s Too Much and Never Enough: How My Family Created the World’s Most Dangerous Man. I read it in one sitting. The book is well written, entertaining and explains how horrible parents created a narcissistic sociopath who’s killing us. What struck me is how similar the sociopath’s upbringing was to my own. No, I don’t feel sorry for him. I’m not a narcissist or a sociopath. I think narcissism and sociopathy are created rather than a mental illness that one is born with.
When I had my eyes examined recently, I asked the eye doctor if contacts would help. I have cataracts that can’t be removed because of problems with the retina in my right eye. There’s a 25% chance of the retina detaching if I have cataract surgery. I wear bifocals and I have a pair of single-vision sunglasses so I can go hiking and be able to see where the ground is. If I wear my bifocals for photography, I’m squinting against the sun. If I wear my sunglasses, I can’t see what the settings on the camera are. That’s important because I set the ISO and the aperture. The camera sets the shutter speed. I haven’t worn contacts for 26 years. At the time I got my first pair of bifocals, contact lenses for people who needed bifocals meant one lens for distance and one lens for reading. I’m severely nearsighted and thought contacts wouldn’t be a good fit for me. Turns out contacts are now multi-vision. My eye doctor gave me a pair of contacts to try. I like them. I can go outside wearing no-prescription sunglasses, see what I’m photographing, see what the camera settings are and I don’t have to squint.
I’m developing lines on my face and a strange indentation in my chin. I try, but I can’t stop or even slow down the formation of the lines. After age 65, the body undergoes massive changes similar to what the body undergoes during puberty. Puberty, as horrible as it was, is more fun than the aging process. I’m trying to accept the wrinkles, crepe paper like skin, and oversized pores. I’m not succeeding. We live in a culture that demands women be young, unwrinkled and anorexic. I’m none of those.
I’ve been wanting to photograph the comet, but we’ve had rain every day and each evening we have complete cloud cover.
Because of the rain, the desert is blooming.
Acacia bush.
Desert sage. Humidity triggers the bush to flower, and the entire bush flowers at one time. These should open tomorrow.
I used the macro lens today and the above is what’s left after the flowers fall off the cholla. It’s an odd looking cactus and the spines are vicious.
A week ago, the ocotillo were dead looking sticks. Now, the plant has grown leaves.
This is a bud on a prickly pear. This shouldn’t be happening this time of the year. All the blooms have come, gone and tunas are developing.
These are tunas. Once they turn dark red, they are ripe and can be eaten. Or turned into wine.
I still haven’t figured out how I want to quilt the suicide quilt.
I put together a quilt sandwich and proceeded to audition quilting ideas.
I had thought quilting lightening would be a good idea…..until I saw what it looked like.
Next, I thought some of my fancy quilt stitches would be a good idea.
Stitch #79 has possibilities. I like how it looks when the stems of the “T” are squished together. I thought stitch #191 would be a good option until I saw how it looked. The stitches where there is heavy stitching don’t seem to work well.
I had thought quilting horizontal lines would be an option and I auditioned assorted widths, but I’m not thrilled with how that turned out.
This is a quilt where the applique needs to stand out and the quilting be subtle. So here I sit with still no idea how I want to quilt this piece.
Photography this week was more successful.
The barrel cacti have started to bloom.
I don’t remember the last time it rained and it’s been even longer since it rained enough to matter. Even the prickly pear cactus, a cactus that is hardy in deserts, is withering. The prickly pear cacti will perk up once it rains. Global warming has caused the desert to be hotter – we have had 100+ temperatures, a few of them record breakers, for the past couple weeks – and drier.
Jim, DH, has been busy making seam ripper/stilettos.
The brown one is mine, and the teal one is for a customer. Jim is working on more seam rippers and when they are ready, they will go in my store, Deb Thuman Art.
Sometimes, fiber art starts in an unexpected place. When I’m shooting, I look for interesting patterns. The original shot might not be scintillating, as this shot isn’t.
I took the shot and had fun in editing.
It’s an improvement, but I took the photo as the sun was going down and I didn’t want a shot that looked like it was taken during the day.
First, I used the surrealistic feature on PhotoScape X.
Then I used an overlay and a texture. I like the result and I may have this printed by Spoonflower and turn it into an art quilt.
I wanted to play a bit more, so I used the underwater feature and made extreme bends in the shot.
Next, I played with the tiny planet feature.
Then, I used the kaleidoscope feature.
It reminds me of a tile floor and it could make for an interesting quilt if I had the design printed by Spoonflower. It could be a contemporary approach to a pieced quilt.
Because of the delay in shipping caused by the vile pandemic, Spoonflower sent out coupons for a discount on a future order. I need to put together a list of all the fabrics I want printed up both for art quilts an for garments. Some of my designs would make great yoga pants. Others would be good for garments. Some would be printed and turned into little quilts.
I’ve been working on product photography and put some new jewelry in my store.
Deb's Art 