Betsy Phillips's Blog

Y’all, my dad calls me all the time now to explain gay people to me and how you can go to church and be gay and have a happy life. We are through the looking glass here.

I was supposed to be working on my marketing materials for Dynamite Nashville this weekend. Well, phrasing it that way makes it sound like I didn’t work on it. I did. I just don’t have three blurbers to say nice things about me.

And I’ve been wracking my brain trying to come up with who would be just the right name to pull eyes to the book. And I just don’t know.

I also have been tromping all over trying to find old Benevolent Society cemeteries. I’m looking for Edmondson grave markers and a thing I’ve realized is that this is the missing component in the Venn diagram of where to find his stuff–black cemetery, dead person is someone from his neighborhood or worked in his neighborhood or worked with him at the hospital, and it’s a Benevolent Society cemetery.

This does make the Mt. Pisgah cemetery the anomaly, though, since none of his markers in there are for folks from his neighborhood. I’d like to know how he knew those folks.

Today I’m getting a fish-tank heater for the indigo vat. Who would have ever imagined a summer in Tennessee where you weren’t sitting in the high 80s all day?

Friday night, I dreamed about Rufus. There was some commotion in the back yard and I got up to shut the door to the garage so he wouldn’t get out, but he was too fast and he slipped through the door, even as I felt it shutting on him.

The play reading went great! My parents even listened in and were supportive. I was confused and suspicious, but I tried to just enjoy it.

Last night my dad told me that, even though he has a daughter who is way out in the atmosphere, he still thought women’s rights and gay rights are a distraction from the anti-racism work that needs to be done.

And, y’all, I did not give a shit.

I don’t think that’s progress or anything. I mean, I suspect I’ll be back in a deep funk at some point and the shit he says to me will hurt me.

But not today. Because I am also trying to be anti-racist. I can try to be better about all the things!

My Covid test was negative! And whatever was going on with my eye seems to have calmed down.

I wrote this thing for work and it seems to be generating a lot of good discussion.

But most importantly! The Queer Soup folks are doing a reading of my play tonight! Details are at this website. It’s a Zoom thing so you can watch and join us.

A lot is happening. I went and got tested for Covid on Friday. My parents came back through this weekend. The Butcher may be leaving Arizona.

And I finished my afghan.

View this post on Instagram

Every border is a decision. I’m second-guessing this one. I tried something bigger, but felt like the blanket looked too “grandma.” So, I settled on this, which is mostly not distracting from the squares.

A post shared by Betsy Phillips (@betsytphillips) on Jun 5, 2020 at 8:14pm PDT

I got too far in my own head to remember to show you all what I’ve been working on.

Here’s the scrap afghan I just finished:

View this post on Instagram

Yep, that’s as satisfying as I thought it would be.

A post shared by Betsy Phillips (@betsytphillips) on May 16, 2020 at 4:40pm PDT

And here’s the afghan I’m trying to finish now:

View this post on Instagram

This join is a lot of work (not hard, but attention intensive), but it’s so beautiful. So, even though I’ll be joining these squares for at least a few more nights, it’s worth it.

A post shared by Betsy Phillips (@betsytphillips) on Jun 3, 2020 at 6:48pm PDT

I lived through my parents’ visit. My therapist said I should not try to think like someone I don’t want to be like.

Well, there goes that pastime.

I’m still working on collecting enough urine for my indigo vat. But I have many deep feelings about the idea of creating the thing that will dye the wool, like using my body as the medium for dye delivery.

There’s a kind of physicality that I find really satisfying.

I was looking for the source for my belief that sleeping under an indigo blanket grants you prophetic dreams, but the main source for that on the internet now is Tiny Cat Pants.

But when you get what’s involved with dying something indigo–at least traditionally–every step does feel like magic. You make this liquid that, as it ferments, is perfect for indigo dying. You spin the fiber you’re going to dye. You do the dyeing. Then you sleep under the blanket.

It feels like a circle, like you put out all this stuff that results in a blanket that, when you wear it, dumps stuff back into you.

Also, the occasions when I feel like this body is perfectly suited to do the things I want to do with it are very rare. I don’t need to improve anything or alter anything or suffer in any way.

It just does the thing I want it to do.

It’s weird. Nice, but weird.

View this post on Instagram

Rufus is coming home in a flowery box.

A post shared by Betsy Phillips (@betsytphillips) on May 27, 2020 at 3:08pm PDT

I got the phone call yesterday that Rufus was ready to come home. I went and got him and he came in this flowery box. Which is still sitting in my car, along with his leash, because I both can’t bear to not have him near and can’t bear the thought of bringing him in the house.

I don’t really see how I can bury him in a box that pretty. But, at least, I don’t have to make that decision yet. There’s no timetable.

View this post on Instagram

You say it looks like I’m filling a five gallon bucket with pee. I say I’m fermenting pee in a five gallon bucket. One is the actions of a hoarder. The other is the actions of someone who wants to set up an indigo vat that’s safe for wool.

A post shared by Betsy Phillips (@betsytphillips) on May 25, 2020 at 7:42pm PDT

I’m making a sig vat in my garage, which, basically, amounts to filling a bucket with pee and hoping it ferments. It smells remarkably bad, which is saying something, since it’s fermenting pee. I expected it to smell bad.

This is worse.

My dad sent me a dollar for my birthday. In a card. He asked me to open it on FaceTime so he could see my face. He was disappointed that I wasn’t more disappointed.

I don’t even know what to say about it, really. Like, apparently they’re also going to pay for me to get a new kitchen floor, though I’m going to ask them to help me pay for this air conditioner repair that I have to get done instead.

So, they’re not being dicks? They’re just pretending real hard to be dicks in a way that lets them enjoy hurting me, but they get to feel cool about it because they know they’re also doing this other thing?

Yesterday they called to say that they would be in town at the end of the week. I was worried about what folks would think of a vat of fermenting piss in my garage, but now?

Now I don’t really give a shit. I hope they think I have lost my mind.

I feel okay. Sad but okay. I’ve been working on a new afghan. I’ve been busy at work.

Friday’s my birthday. It’s become a source of annoyance. My parents asked me what I wanted and I told them I thought they weren’t doing birthdays anymore, since they didn’t get me anything last year.

Which, I mean, they didn’t. And I don’t mind. Well, that’s not quite right. I don’t need anything, but it did and does hurt my feelings when they call to tell me all the ways they’re helping my brothers and yet I don’t even get a birthday present.

But also, whatever. I’ve accepted that as long as they think I’m fine, they don’t think much about me.

But now it’s turned into this whole big to-do where they insist they did too get me a birthday present last year. And finally, I was like, folks, check your bank records.

So, last night they called to say that they had, indeed, apparently forgotten my birthday last year, but it’s because they were so busy with the Butcher and helping him get out to Arizona.

And, honestly, the conversations about this have been much more painful than them just forgetting.

Because, of course, I was wrong, then when I wasn’t wrong, well, it was understandable, because some other person needed their attention more.

And no apology.

Though, clearly, from all the phone calls, they do feel bad. But instead of just saying they’re sorry, their coping mechanism appears to be to try to make me feel bad instead.

But whatever. I don’t have the bandwidth to feel bad. I just worked on my granny squares and “uh-huh”ed them until the conversation was over.

I think Saturday was the hardest. Usually, we did something just for fun on Saturdays. Went for a long walk or a drive or to the park or something.

And this Saturday, I finished an afghan and was sad all day.

Yesterday I went for a walk and now my house and walking pants are full of ticks. Serves me right, I guess, for going outside.

I have been hatewatching abstract artists on YouTube. I was hoping they could help me with color theory, but really, just getting into Adobe Color has helped with that.

There are two things I dislike about these artists–the reason I hatewatch. One is that I want them to explain how and why they decide to keep going. Because I have watched a lot of videos where the artist had a really nice painting and decided it needed more layers. And then had an ugly painting.

And, like, sure, maybe we’re having an aesthetic disagreement on what is lovely or when something is finished, but since they don’t (or can’t) articulate why they’re keeping on keeping on, it’s hard to say.

Yesterday, I saw a woman painting on these two olive green abstract pieces. They were ugly. Like so ugly you couldn’t look away. But she was talking through her process of deciding when and how to add more green (no!!!!!) and as much as I didn’t like the paintings, I think I got what she liked about them, what was pleasing her. And at that point, I wasn’t hatewatching anymore. I was just watching the interesting process of a person making some painting I didn’t like. I still don’t get why she liked them, but I trusted that she did and that they were doing for her exactly what she wanted them to do.

So, that was nice.

But the other thing I dislike about these abstract paintings is that a lot of these artists seem to think that “abstract” and “unintentional” mean the same thing. Like, if your painting starts to mean anything, then you’ve failed.

And I think you should have reasons for what you do. And with something like abstract painting, I don’t need for you to be trying to capture, say, the essence of a soul in distress. But “I’m doing this because it’s fun.” or “because I like it.” is good enough for me.

But, like, you must have some reason for doing the thing. And it irritates me to watch so many videos where art seems to happen solely by accident, without any reason from the artist.