I should have just made the damn quilt.
Young.
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.
SENSE THE BOUNDARIES,
young.
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.
enjoy.
your chaos.
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,
banana
cream
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
fabric.
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
beacons,
orchids, plumeria, wetness, love, and plump, plump, succulence,
and embracing life.
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.
(GURTH, BIRTH)
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
Heart.
The pulsing heart needle drags the thread through the fabric
into being.
Needle:sperm, fabric:egg
a story is born
I am looking for this distant land where a grandmother can hold my hand, and put my hands in the mud, and plant the seeds,and hold the dirt.
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.
(IM SAD)
I am a displaced warrior of a heritage that is lost somewhere in the word JEW, where the fabric is held in the old story of three.
Story department stories.
(I REMEMBER)
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 fucking fabric.
FABRIC (n.) late 15c., “building, thing made,” (1)
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 with 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.
1. (http://www.etymonline.com/index.php?search=figured-fabric+loom)
