am back at work on alison’s deep dish after (yet another) slow turn out. the women before alison and me have cooked and fed – not just for nourishment, not just in the spirit of caregiving, not just in the sense of obligation or duty but as a gift. a creative, heartfelt gift.
you know i’ve been having trouble leafing out my tree, so this morning i got up early, whipped out my oh-isn’t-it-the-cutest-thing-why-don’t-i-try-using-it-for-something-other-than-a-fashion-accessory studio journal, and sketched me out some leaves. initially the plan was to do green leaves in different stitches. but when those colored pencils hit my hand, i came up with more biographical leaves. huh.
when the call came, doris mager (commonly known in audubon circles as “the bird lady”) said yes and went to pick up the adorable baby owl who had recently survived a wing amputation. baby is now one year old and learning to talk. one night baby owl hears a dog, listens intently for a while, then begins to bark. but somehow that doesn’t feel quite right, so baby stops barking. next, baby owl listens to a nearby elder screech owl and mimics the hooting. but that doesn’t feel quite right either, so baby stops hooting. over and over it goes: baby hears a fetching sound and tries it on to see if it feels right, comfortable, native.
tonight we had the great fortune of stumbling into one of doris’ bird talks where we met e.t., the 25 year old gorgeous pet owl, a sparrow hawk who allowed himself to be paraded around while he showed us the gorgeous underside of his wings, a vulture that was surprisingly beautiful (if severely angular), and this baby owl with one-and-a-half wings who is currently learning to talk.
as i stitched leaves today, took them out and stitched again – and again and again and yet again – i couldn’t shake the notion that i’m on the verge. like the baby owl in search of his native language, i search for my stitching voice.
and i sure do hope it shows up soon ’cause this one teensy little ole’ piece is starting to make “slow cloth” look like the leader on the nascar circuit.
when nearly finished with roots, i decided i wasn’t happy with them. no matter how hard i tried, i couldn’t talk myself into liking the 3 colors. told myself that there are numerous shades of red clay. offered as how it created textural interest (or might to others, anyway). only got close to dissuading myself (translation: justifying convincingly) that there was no need to rip out all that stitching when i postured that the various shades might represent in-laws – and then only because the stitches were so intricately interwoven. they overlapped each other and wrapped around each other and scooted under each other so, that it was near impossible to disentangle and pluck them all out.
.
working on roots now. the part of the tree that provides water and nutrients. the part of the tree that anchors it, grounds it. the part of the tree that is mostly beneath the surface. had root system finished last night, but alas: ’twas done all in shades of charcoal. sure, it might be visually accurate when viewing the trees providing a/c for our house, but we’re from georgia . . . so it all had to come ripping out because roots are that important. like jude (jude, do i remember correctly that you once said this or am i putting words – or in this case threads – in your mouth?), i am enjoying the backstitch. so easy to go where i want to go. so easy to curve and curl. so appropriate to go one step back to go forward.
this sign indicates both my past and my future. i’ve been relegated to the turnout lane the past 6 weeks. kitchen-sink weeks, i call them: crammed to the brim, leaving no time for stitching or blogging or anything else particularly creative. this-coming week, however, i look forward to days of slow, leisurely respite as i tuck away with cloth and creative writing . . .
i needed to create a tree, but the pump hasn’t been primed in so very long, i angsted over how to do just that . . . thinking almost to the point of shutdown. recent occurrences out of her control have trimmed my friend acey’s wings, leaving her to enjoy what i consider creativity at its best: limits. acey, of necessity, has worked only with materials within her reach, and with that in mind, i reached out this afternoon, picked up a piece of fabric that didn’t require traveling even so much as across the room, and began cutting what i hoped would eventually resemble tree branches. haven’t appliqued in years and was relieved to find that i don’t detest it nearly as much now as then.
whew. glad to put that last piece to rest. have begun transcribing (transtitching?) my next dinner party piece. when driving a big ole’ rental truck filled with the son’s belongings from california to colorado, one has to improvise when answering the call for cloth.
resourcefulness is, after all, a type of creativity.
and pink fabric is pink fabric, right?
the piece is finished, writing still surfacing. interesting development, though.
some speak in purple silk using flowery, witty, ornate language as they voice their angst at the vicious, mean bullying taking place. wringing their hands in private emails, assuming that by saying nothing to the venomous gossip spewed to and around them by the bullies, they are not contributing to the attack.
okay. this particular place at my dinner party is called w.i.t.w. which stands for woman’s inhumanity to woman. not a pretty thing from any seat at the table. my daughter and i fell victims to two particularly nasty emotional thugs a month or so ago.
such women seem to feast on the weakened and the vulnerable. can anyone explain that to me, please?
so much viciousness, so much meanness. well, i really don’t want to recount – shoot, i don’t even want to remember. words are beginning to surface, but not enough yet. am still stitching my way through to situating the tenacious event since i know understanding and clarity is and will forever remain impossible.
yesterday acey commented on the BULLion stitches. (thanks, acey.)
you know, there is something metaphorically therapeutic about wrapping the thread around and around and around the needle, then pulling and sometimes even yanking it so all lie down orderly, perhaps even prettily next to each other. it’s in the tension, i think. wrap the thread too tightly around the needle, and experience stuck: can’t pull the needle through. get nowhere. don’t guide/manage, and threads quickly escape then poof – they’re gone – requiring one to start all over.
