Sidetracked Charley

Charley's Hideaway   I need to take new photographs. March 2021 was when I wasn't ready to open, but Russell, the handyman laying my floor, said you need to get listed in order to have bookings by Christmas. He has his own vacation rental so I decided to believe him. I ran into him yesterday and he asked how it was going. First I rented the week after I listed. In the midst of things I do not often stop and ask myself those sort of questions. To be utterly honest I figured I did not have to be wildly popular as a vrbo. For one I am five miles from the ski area so in my mind I had written off Ski Season when most other vacation rentals make all their money. Summer and Autumn will be mine. And that was fully booked. I will shut done during winter. Ha! Absolutely no open dates in December. Up to yesterday half of November was open and I had this list of improvements I was going to make. Had purchased materials and had them staged in my entry hall. I was wondering about ski racks a

  Spectacular dawn yesterday. And a busy day. Hoses rolled up, rain barrels emptied. Doggie pond drained. And my Etsy page stocked and opened: Wild Goose Witchery . New venture and lots more to learn. And I will admit to rushing it. I wanted to get it begun. Rather like setting up a booth before the fair opens. You can always fuss with it later. At least I hope you can. And there is the question of what I want to sell on the site. Input welcome. And then I reopened my Twitter account @JBellBinford. And that is very funny. I had an account @JBinfordBell and @BinfordBellStudio but Twitter was being very obtuse about providing me with a new password for either. So having reached my total frustration level I decided to begin again and sign in with my Google account. My Google account is JBinfordBell but somehow it did JBellBinford. I find Twitter rather obtuse itself. Not conducive to long esoteric chats but then FB with its habit of tossing me in jail for the wrong word per its bots isn&#

Reach for the Sky   Griped enough. So have we all. But nobody but us is listening. Nobody human at home at Facebook. It is all bots. I have been typecast because of a false accusation and watched like a hawk. Every detention is longer even if I have avoided speaking badly about hornets for weeks. I certainly cannot run businesses like this. Last solitary confinement I lost a sale. So today I reactivated my Twitter account   and I began the laborious activity of setting up an Etsy account for Wild Goose Witchery. I have seven items for sale now and want to get another three photographed and entered so I can open my shop tomorrow. Christmas is coming and because of supply chain problems I may be able to sell my work. I sent three jpgs off to a printer so I will have more photographs on canvas for sale in my studio and also for when Enchanted Circle Brewery, which shows my giclee prints, reopens before Thanksgiving. Still debating just exactly how to handle my fine art. Websites haven'

  The theory about FaceBook detention is we are suppose to meditate on our sins and become better citizens. It was the same course of action my parents believed worked. And it did not. Any time I was sent to my room without supper I just divorced myself one step further away from my family. I came to a more or less complete separation from my brother when Dad locked the two of us in a hotel room in Texas because we were not talking to each other. He had not noticed we had not really talked to each other for close to ten years. In the hotel room, to avoid being sent off to private and military school, we agreed to 25 words. Those worked until our mother's funeral after which I never had to talk to him again. The first few days of this last FB detention I began looking closely at what I truly would miss about FB if kicked off forever. 1) Only about 1/3 of the people on my friend's list. And one of those died this week. 2) Being able to keep up with about only half of those is ess

  When I worked in what locals call the the real world I dressed for success and spent a fortune at Macy's to do that. Every silk blouse of blazer came with an extra button or two. Some were sewn on an inside seam. Others came in a little envelope manufactured for the purpose. I would put them in a small drawer of a jewelry chest my father made for me. I do not recall ever losing a button and having to search the little bags for the button that went with that shirt or blazer or coat. I still have those buttons, never know when you might need a button, though I doubt I still have any of the clothing items they went with. My wardrobe as an artist and gardener living on 2.5 acres of land in the mountains of New Mexico my wardrobe is quite different. Much of it comes from the local thrift store. I need to go on Saturday because it will no doubt have a wealth of new items donated by the summer residents going back to their "real" homes. Last Saturday I scored a pure wool black

  Indian Summer always feels like extra time; a pause between summer and winter. Like spring fever it makes me lazy. I want to linger on the deck mostly cleared of deck chairs. I look at the hoses and think I need to get them rolled up and stored. But there is still time. I lie. Every day of sun is borrowed and so much remains to be done. The firewood has not been stacked. Not my job this year, part of the price, but if it does not get staked before winter it is me that has to dig it out from under the snow. I got the electric snow thrower ordered and assembled and sitting in the studio while I decide where to store it. If the wood was stacked it would be in the wood shed on the front row. I need to take care of the list. It is not like I have not been busy. Lots to do. Facebook gave me extra time by throwing me in jail for seven days. But it seemed to announce it was time to clean up my internet schedule. I deleted a lot of unused apps on my smart phone. Went through my photo files on

  I ventured on to social networking after my head injury. I was told to practice what I did not want to lose. It was a short list: writing, painting, and photography. I suffered the CBT while teaching skiing; something I had done for more than ten years. But it was almost immediately clear I had skied my last day. But skiing was just a love I did almost like aerobics. It was exercise for my otherwise sedentary occupations; freelance writing and making Mardi Gras Masks. My injured brain was having issues with the masks. Writing, however, was easy to practice on a computer. And I already had editors willing to assist me to continue writing. It was Y!360 then. For me it was therapy. But I made friends while making progress. And when Y!360 crumbled because of an unstable platform I followed my friends to other platforms. Facebook seemed to be where people I knew went. Sure it was not perfect. You had to keep your posts to 140 characters at first and then to 400. But I compromised by keepi

  I am in FaceBook Jail again. To be totally clear I do not belong to the Proud Boys, I did not storm the US Capital with a Confederate flag pole. But one time I typed Damn in a sentence. I am pretty sure since it was in response to my neighbor, the one who mistreats dogs it was her that complained. I assume that got me on some kid of FaceBook Naughty list because that was about the worst of any of my four sins. This time in response to a photo of a huge wasp/hornet next that took up a half of a large window I suggested I would just burn it down. If you have lived with those insects and are allergic to them you know how hard they are to get rid of. One neighbor of mine in NC tried a blow torch and almost burnt his house down. The sin of a century which got me tossed in jail before that was a comment about trading masks. I make masks. I think I was proposing I trade one of mine for one of hers she made. Different style. Absolutely no opportunity to explain myself. But God knows they hav

  Must be getting close to primary time because I got a survey call. I love polls if they are the national ones like Gallup. A well constructed political can make you think. My parents were Democrat, in college I was a communist (or so my relatives from the Midwest believed), some of them were right of Atilla the Hun. I have been a registered Democrat since 2016 because I lie in a state with closed primaries. Before the next I will register Republican because I want to help choose who will run against our little Democratic Napoleon. She made the mistake of call arts non-essential and has done nothing to make up for the damage she and Covid did to destroy them. My party choices in New Mexico are Green, Independent, Democrat, and Republican. I know I am none of those. I want an open primary so I do not have to choose who I am voting for until I walk into the booth. Then I would love to also be able to "split the ticket." First question I was asked on this poll last night was wh

  I had dreamed I had been once again unfairly thrown into the Gulag. Facebook's unfair detention system which allows you no voice to argue your true meaning behind a short sentence without a single cuss word which has been misinterpreted by its analog and adjudicated by its committee of governors. That same group which permitted the preparations for the January 6th insurrection. And which allowed the former guy all that hate and nonsense to spew across its platform for his entire term as or president. So I got up yesterday checked to see if I could find the obtuse declaration of my disgrace I had read in my dream and could not. Not unusual. I have been tossed into solitary confinement before without understanding just exactly why. I had a busy day creating for Fabric Arts by Jacqui . So didn't miss it at all until I wanted to post an image of my new creation. Then I got what I expected BLOCKED. Previous incarcerations have allowed me to find work arounds like Messenger. I coul

  Do bumblebees and butterflies dream? And of what? During the height of Covid-19 lockdown, or is that depth, I dreamed a lot and because it was so unrelated to my life forgot a lot. Now it would seem I dream little but am unable to forget it. Life intrudes on my desire to escape its realities. And it is sometimes hard to know where the real ends or begins. But then maybe that is always true for artists or the creative. The writers, poets, painters, and dreamers whether they are sleep dreaming or day dreaming. If I went crazy would I know? If I died while sleeping would I know. Would it merely be a seamless migration from one level of being to another? This is not what I got out of bed in the middle of the night to write. I woke up, sort of, to visit the restroom and my cell phone beeped. It has several different sounds and some I ignore because they are just pings which say someone liked a post or comment. And some are more urgent. Vrbo makes sounds which seem to require my attention