Author Archives: Molly B.

Q-final performance poetry

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.

through hands.

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

(Sunshine folklore)

cultured fibers

Q- Because I am alone reverie week 8

“Child too nostalgic and feeling sad


Child who never played, child to good

Child whose soul was too caught up in the North

Ah! that noble, that pure child one was

And whom one remembers

All his life…” (Bachelard 130)


When you are alone, in paradise, with your thoughts.

with yourself,

will you be free?


When you are alone, in paradise, that is where you are

Is that okay with you?


When I am not focusing on something that resonates in my heart,

I am constantly seeking and figuring the next move.


There are a lot of things that we do in this life that we don’t want to do…

so get used to yourself, in all of your nooks and crannies.


There are an infinite amount of people who are going to tell you what to do and how,

and your not going to be able to run away, no matter how far you go.


So embrace the spirits that they hold, and figure where you ought to be, right now

what does it feel like to dream of a future in the moment? that is howling with crickets, stars and warm air?


You made it princess, sugar babe.

And it is always the same when you go back.


You are just the one who will change is all.


And no matter how far you go away from your original plan,

your initial story of yourself, or your community, or your dream landscape


You will always pick up exactly where you left off

if its worth it anyway


So trust the struggle, trust that there is a reason that this story is being played in the way it is


Trust yourself to be wild and free, uninhibited by any thought of a thought of what people think of you


because it is not even close to being as real as the air and the dirt and the plants


And all of your confusion about where to be, where to go, and when, is based on the fact that there are so many beautiful places to be, people to meet, and things to do


So, just do. Cause its all beautiful.


Every road brings you right back to where you were.

So enjoy the walk, open your eyes— in this very artful moment.

Q- 99% practice 1% theory…

I should have just made the damn quilt.




Pele, yells at me, for taking the easy road.

I am an escape artist. A royal escape artist, with so much fear around commitment.

I am running in the wind, I am free, I am pushing the boundaries.



take notice, take heed.

my legs were so tired from all of the standing still.

Our bodies are our temples

our village, our center, our body

who cares what you are or aren’t doing. You are.


your chaos.


Q- Simply, where I am

I smell the plumeria and the papaya, wafting in through the dusty screens from the hot window square.

Those little holes that syphen in the air from the outside world.

All is alive, here on Kauai.

My skin is bitten and kissed by the hot fire ball of the sun, I am tattooed by that big star.

Sticky is my face, theres a layer of aloe vera and sweat and when I squint everything is moving.

I feel liquified, I feel fresh and I smell like sweaty,

papaya/ grapefruit,



Oozing from all of my openings,

Like a window screen,

I see from my papaya seed eyes, into the water fallen mountains, In to being here now

& I ponder my pieces

as I weed in the pineapples, and water them, and get poked by their pokeys.

On my soft, young skin.

The nursery is outside, with orchids by the monkey pods and I sit there and settle in.

Not sure, where I am settling.

I am in it so hard that I don’t know how this relates to the quilt other than I am in the


I am an absolute, thread.

Observing a way, observing a part of myself that begs,

like the gecco on the wall

(silence and voice.)

Stella the dog has gotten so plump from all of the avocados

nothing has changed around here much, except me.

And I am reminded of the old hippie ways. The old story that is being silent, and being still.

The old story that lives

in my mortal body, looking for my village means

taking care of the inside qualities in which,

I own.

I can’t help but owning and looking out

my papaya eyes.

The essential oils that smell the best are in Mama Linda’s bathroom,

the ornate persian rugs on the ground, the orchids and the noticing

of the ART

that is EVERYWHERE, and all around.

In circles of wisdom and compassion,

there are crystals and books and surfing and mind expanding experiments, art, acid tests

and opening, and opening, and thriving

and fun

cause its all we can do today.

All I can do today is sit down, move around, pick the grapefruit from the top of the tree

make love,

imagine making love to a mango tree,

to the mountain, to the waterfall, to my story

My unfolding story

of following the pumping heart organ,

that rings sounds off the hill.

Someday, when I have a village to provide for… I will have so many seeds.

So many beads,

for now I must seek the village, seek the story, seek the grandma

and the patience here where the heart


orchids, plumeria, wetness, love, and plump, plump, succulence,

and embracing life.



Q- Nana i ke kumu “look to the source” Reverie. week 7

“Solitude,my mother,tell me my life again” – O.V. de Milosz


My quilt is not made of real fabric, no. My quilt is made out of so much more than that.

My quilt is made out of place, out of my

olefactory senses.

My quilt is a representation of my 21st year, being realized on a day by day spirit journey to the Island in the middle of the ocean, that I have so many fond memories of,



Kauai, is the landscape of my dreams. For years, this place has been my home. I have always tasted the papaya.

Where the dirt is red, where the rain is hard, where I have no plan.

I am at the home birth homestead, where the mothers have taken me in to their home, but I still have more to figure yet. I feel like I have been gone forever, now that the sun is out, and my skin is opening up. Lots of smells remind me, of me. HERE. on Kauai.


For now, I will follow my bliss, I will not be afraid.

I am a strong person, I am not afriad.

I am afraid, to stick my thumb out on the road.

I am afraid, I am not afraid.

I am embarking on the wisdom keeper, far away, learning adventure.

I have no Idea where I am going, I am afraid, I am not afraid.


Colonialism. I am not afraid. I am not scared, I am not afraid.

“I don’t know how long I am going to be here” as if that is something that is positive, that isn’t scary. I am not afraid.

Plumeria, and lots of rain, and crying babies, and roosters, and birds.


I pray, I pray, I pray


Im gonna turn brown.

Im gonna breathe.

Im gonna touch soil.

Im gonna find heart.

Im gonna be active.

Im gonna eat well.

Im gonna laugh hard, dance hard

Im gonna play

with plants, with animals, with people,with babies

Im gonna  “surrender to the flow”

Im gonna embrace the weather extremeties

Im gonna listen

Im gonna pray for sun

Im gonna find a grandma to hold my hand and plant the seeds and harvest the fruits



I am going to pray

I am going to deepen

I am going to calm

I am going to hold

I am going to listen

I am going to be artful, poetic

I am going to release

I am going to find a teacher

I am going to find love

I am going to know my cycle

I am going to breathe

I am going to dream




Pass the aloha, humid, rainy, wet, sun, skin


don’t forget to breathe, don’t be afraid

to be alone. Don’t be afraid.

sweet nectar, plumeria.



today I spent the day with Linda, mama, my grandma.

She has something up her 72-year-old sleeve, I trust.

I am not afraid.

I am alone.


Q- the heart is a pulsing organ,fertile,needle:sperm,fabric:egg

Transcribed from a typewriter:

Today marks a moment where I finally felt the blood pulsing through my veins

all the way from my brain center of my pulsing organ, that is my heart

My Smooth skin is sailing.

feels, tactile (Death. Birth)

I am in my first trimester. Birthing the harmony between needle and fabric (maiden and mother)

into being

I am to embark, set sail, cast off

cast  in

to my

Quilted Pregnancy.

Filled with Harmonic Fertility

My time is being tic tocked on my moon clock. Fabric.                             F A      B       r    i       C


BLANKET. Quilt. Inside of me

inside of me.

Traditionally,  the quilt is sewn to mark a right of passage.


A marriage,

a motherhood

or all of the bible scriptures, old baseball jerseys , a coming of age

a passing

down of log cabin

patterns, and embroidered stories

I am vibrating,Pulsing the needle, with my juicy, swollen, ripe, innocent, beating, vibrating, dancing


The pulsing heart needle drags the thread through the fabric

into being.

Needle:sperm, fabric:egg

a story is born

Q- Beehive/Dream/Reverie/Prairie #2

“Reverie-and not the dream-retains mastery over its splittings” (Bachelard p79)

I am trying to make a quilt, a beautiful cohesive quilt, that represents all of these aspects of my self


I don’t like quilting

I mean, I like quilts plenty

But I really do not like quilting.

“I dream of becoming a master quilter,” (bullshit)

today I just like cacao


I don’t even want to go into what I was about to say about colonialism, slavery, and how quilting is a reverie

I am sickened by my

sweet utterings, that stretch

way too far

Trying desperately to make the quilt dream happen

as beautiful

trying desperately to like the stupid fabrics that are around me

and turn them into something that is dream-like, in this way that

Is not ”My” Reverie.

The fabrics that are scrappy and gross and sticky are just strewn about my whole room and I  don’t even want to do it


I don’t want to touch them, they are soiled

Quilting is about scrap fabrics that are no longer worthy as clothing anymore,

sewed together to make some greater meaning but it is still with a bunch of cloth that you don’t want.

My fabrics are split up, around my room, around my dream of this quilt metaphor

My fabrics are just pieces of my reverie.

My screaming, stupid, reverie.

My quilted reverie looks like this:

Oh, my reverie, ohhhhh my reverie,  o my reverie                                                 Oh reverie, oh my reverie, oh

my reverie, oh, my, reverie


my reverie

my reverie

my reverie

counting sheep

in my quilt

in my dreams and then my morning coffee

my reverie

in my reverie

in my reverie

my reverie


in my reverie



oh home, home on my reverie, a reverie


“To make a prarie it takes a clover and one bee—and reverie. The reverie alone will do, if bees are few”

– Emily Dickinson, fragment 93



a quilt is a beehive….

to be continued….