” A word moves about in the shadows
and swells in the draperies.”-(Bachelard, p49)
I am sitting and sewing, in and out, in and out.
I am sitting and sewing between substance and void, in and out, in and out.
My thoughts are shadows that get lost in the sewing together, in and out, in and out.
The quilt is a blanket, a cover, a protector and is merely that.
I am sitting, quilting, thinking of this day that I participated in an act of domestic art at Jan’s home. A surrogate grammy:
(IN, anima, thread)
I washed the temple walls. I washed them and all the prayers dripped down, as the breeze hummed through the window into the room. I washed the temple walls.
I washed the temple floors, hands and knees, on wood, with sponge. I washed the temple floors and saw all of the feet away into the clean. I washed the temple floors.
Oui, Bacon. This morning my chest’s breath whispers to me that it yearns bacon and coffee air. I am journal-less, this cold morning, having fallen asleep at the wheel. The words that describe beautiful cream blazers and almond croissants fill my body with many texturally pleasing thoughts. I hear the words of gruyere, of fresh, of food, of farm , of fancy. But I know that in my future of closeness, I will be delving into the huipil, peruvian, color journey rediscovering the tales in spanish, and weaving my way more south than that. I have yearned for a long time to be among the tapestry of tanned faces and beaded lizards and soil wetness amongst the colors of a culture that embraces the mother.
(OUT, animus, up)
What about the pain?
What about suffering?
What about the craft, that was stolen,raped,pillaged?
Where is the mother in the woven?
(in, anima, in)
And what about the violin? and the viola? and the oysters? what about the olive orchards? and the pasta? and the ancestral kitchen that I long to cook elaborate recipes in? With sheep’s milk and cast irons to the sea. I want to learn how to cook fish. I want to gut the fish of waters un known yet. I want to gut my fears. I want to be there for the babies of a culture whose waters are un known yet. The relevance of my research can only go as far as the place that exists just before my taste buds do their own research.
What about the story?
the old story of pain?
I know that somewhere out there is a terra cota kitchen, with a loom and a family that is going to hug me and feed me fresh corn and meat in a stew of old recipes, fresh pasta and wine, singing and hovering over the pot all day. I know that there is going to be a place where I can catch culture, that I witness enter into the colorful tapestry of tradition, into modernity, in integrity.
And I will go there with my remembrance of he who peddles the bread, she who threshes the wheat. In his white teeshirt and white skin. With his chain smoked hair and the cracks in his face, I will remember to bring the fisherman, and bring the fashionista, the suffering and the sufferer and bring the gardenia and bring the foreign films to the already foreign place in Right Relationship. The essence of what I want for breakfast must be brought to each day as a thread. A thread of silver lining, of whichever color represents the flavor of my tapestry. A slow brewed quilt that will hold me through the mile stones. Viajar en los piases que inspiro mi vida, mi hupil, mi amore es solamente una ves que ir. Language barriers are not barriers if you are carrying a handmade tapestry of all of the parts of you that make you feel inspired and holy no matter
How hard you hurt.
he hurts, she hurts, we hurt.
(in and out)
I will quilt it, I promise, gently so that we find comfort again.