“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

but

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

anymore

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

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

music

in my reverie

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….