As the needle penetrates the fabric, as the pen inks the page, as the warp kisses the weft, The worlds meet as one.
me got lots of stories, lots of patterns, lots of fabrics,
me hold numbersome fabrics in my closet, on my bed, in my life.
me touch them in moments of inspiration, Like when me hear a distant fiddle, or when me smell a breeze of goat.
me hold fabrics of color, of sun, of intricate stories,
of elaborate fairytales,
of crumbling brick,
of fishing towns. Of the distant kitchen in my minds eye that I wish to cook in.
The thread that is my reverie, holds together all of the meaning made memories that are of my fabrics. So many fabrics.
I am a displaced warrior of a heritage that is lost somewhere in a word, where the fabric is held in the old story of three.
Story department stories.
In an effort towards belonging, I will weave.
I will weave the shit out of synthetic fibers, made into a repetitive pattern in a cosmic culture of so much fabric.
Fabric is not fabric.
Fabric is animal,vegetable,mineral- it cycles.
FABRIC, in its glory, in its truth is what sets us apart and brings us together.
all civilization uses fiber, fabric, to survive.
all survival is in the fabric.
We are hand made, only.
We have handmade a culture that endures, in its fabric.
To claim a place as ones native home, one must have an intimate understanding of its fabric.
To be a mother, a digger, a harvester, a sower, a crafter
me must seek the source.
(what is source?)
the source might be the music, or the holding of babies, or the food, or the wet, or the dry…
the source is the way
the wet, the raw, the blood, the sweat, the fibers, the grit, the earth, the dirt, the sewn materials, of comfort.
The Patterns in Nature : The Fabric