I think I’m going to do something insane this winter and make a quilt.

It’s been in my head ever since I worked for Carol Ann Carter back in Lawrence on a huge sewn piece. This thing was probably 6 feet by 5 feet. I have all this great fabric: black wool, corduroy, linen, authentic japanese indigo cotton, fat slate striped taffeta, and half a men’s kimono CAC gave me…

I love sewing and fabric to much. Fabric stores and paper shops are my favorite places, and I love taking in all the the textures, touching everything, testing the drape, thinking about color combinations, planning things to make, etc., etc. One could say I have an addiction to celulose products (and wool and silk, let’s not leave out those guys). My personal favorite fabric is the cotton/silk voile they stock at Sarah’s Fabric’s in Lawrence. I WAS going to have my textile artist friend Samantha dye it and i would sew my wedding gown out of it, but I was completely crunched for time between graduating college, letterpressing my invites, grocery shopping and online sourcing for all the food, baking all my cakes, making cheeseballs, and in general orchestrating and co-reinventing the concept of “wedding” for Brandon and mine’s most  awesome purposes.

At least I outsourced the calligraphy for the wedding contract…

The fine handwork of Arteriole

Her etsy shop

Right…but I’m bat shit crazy and the urge to sew is creeping in my veins. While I work on my letterpress, I can quilt too.

In front of the limestone fireplace, I am constructing my own cocoon like a caddisfly. Nervous, ink-stained fingers moving over wrinkled cotton and plush velvet. My skin is so dry, the ink has seeped into the cracks and makes them a grotesque of spiderwebs. Stabbing the crisp taffeta, stitch after stitch, I slide into the comfortable hum of the intuitive and automatic. The work becomes everything. With the stitches I race faster and faster, running away from time and invisible monsters. I attack my foes. I compose requiems. I am their rhythm and as I weave back and forth through the layers, I am filled with a great sense of fulfillment of achievement of one-ness and —-

Brandon slides the glass door open to bring in more wood. His beard is wet with sweat and the condensation of his own breath. The walnut in the hearth cracks and spits. A small flurry of snow drifts past the old comforter hung over the door and melts on the concrete floor.

I need to go to bed. I’m silly.


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