Ah, the New Year. Twelve Brand New Months to Screw Up.

Which, when your future months are numbered (oh, c'mon, 65 is a lifetime, for chrissakes), it becomes a question of how much original screwing up can be done? I mean, at this point, haven't I begun to repeat my self, stories, old habits, to the point where there is nothing new under the sun. So since screwing up no longer is an issue, having been there and done that, as some wag sold on a million t-shirts a hundred years ago, I've decided that it is my turn to just simply turn myself inside out, sort of a pre-housecleaning before the medical examiner has his way with me.

I suppose I'm the last air-breathing mammal to have a blog. In all truth, I've resisted it, mainly because it is so ... brazen, somehow. And beyond egoism. But then, could I possibly imagine that it will be read by more people than I can browbeat amongst my inner circle? At least I won't offend them, they know me that well, at least I would hope.

So hello, and welcome to the world of me. Wear loose clothing and soft shoes. Leave your watch at home. Sit. Be comfortable. Light up. You know what. If you so desire. Or grab a glass of wine. I'm so comforted that box wine is finally acceptable. Shit. One more trailer trash habit becomes chic. What's next, tube tops? But I digress .... put on your favorite vinyl. Or CD. Right now I'm listening to the late Chris Whitely.

A little more about me, if I dare. I'm obsessed with fabric. I live in jeans and t-shirts, but I my world is fabrics, mostly cottons, and I would love to call myself a fabric artist, but I don't have the nerve to do it. I always think the fabric artist police (much like quilt police) are going to jump out and arrest me. I let my friends call me an artist. That way I can both feel good, and be able to be humble.

I used to be totally conservative (in my quilting), but I have stretched a bit over the years, and have begun exploring true art quilting. I'm making some headway, but I just have difficulty stretching out of that cozy heirloom group, where everything adds up, and buddy, you better have quarter-inch seams without fail, or watch that puppy turn into a paint dropcloth. For the most part, NO, it will NOT quilt out. More about quilting later, if you are interested.

Cats. Yep. Cats. Three boys, Andy (the alpha, an 18-lb tiger), Mooch (a buff boy, sweetest face in the world) and ... Bucky. The Meezer. Buckmeister. Buckzilla. Also, on many occasions, GODDAMITBUCKY! He answers to nothing, and recognizes them all. I suspect he's way smarter than I am, which just annoys the shit out of me. He's always just a beat ahead. If he had thumbs, we'd be in real trouble.

So now what? Religion? Eclectic Wiccan. Politics? Well, I love Barack Obama. I now have the first president in my lifetime that I would go to war for. Which may be dangerous. We'll see.

So this is me, and I haven't a clue as to what to do next. If you read me and like me, let me know. Otherwise, my Cancerian tendencies to scuttle sideways into a hole may come into play.

I love this world. I wish I could find a way to save it. Yo, screw the people. I'm talking about the world. And its plants and animals and oceans and mountains. All of it. Like that will happen.

Onward into the fog, as a friend of mine likes to say. And yes, onward into the fog. Always onward, fog or not. Onward.