Too many things are racing through my brain. They night is too long and morning is too soon. I am trying to remeber to "sit with my breath". I pull a needle through soft cotton fabric, each small stitch the legnth of a grain of rice. Simple lines cross to make intricate patterns. I borrowed the image to show the eleganance of Sashiko. It could be a zen practice its like yoga for my hands and thoughts.

It’ long time since I have written, as usual. I always read about famous authors that hate writing but feel compelled to do so. Am I caught in that cliché’? It would seem my creative thoughts have paralyzed me; I have too many ideas and too much potential, too gifted. What a ridiculous thing to complain about. I have to laugh. My first sewing machine died. It is a 40 year old Bradley with zigzag and 22 decorative stitches. My MoM gave me the Bradley. The weight of it always felt real. I wish I could bottle its scent. When I was small I would lie under the dining table and feel comforted by the sound it would make. I was trying to make doll clothes when it began to give me trouble. Dan at Renton Sewing and Vacuum broke the news carefully. The cams are cracked and replacing them would be difficult and costly. He advised me to invest in a new machine. Joe at Esser’s Garage told me the same thing about my first car 22 years ago. I have a 53 year old 221 Singer featherweight. It is beige and gorgeous. But there is something about your first something that means everything. My brother gave me his machine. It’s a man’s machine, an Alcon. I call it Big AL and it’s incredibly heavy and meant for serious business. My Aunt Joan sent me her 86 year old 221 Singer featherweight; it’s worn, graceful and simply hums. MoM and I went to Sew Expo to shop for a new machine. Women expressed their condolences for the loss of the Bradley and offered suggestions. The models and options were overwhelming, but I had done my research and set my budget. We found a Brother 9500SQ, needle down, walking foot, 100 decorative stitches and most importantly purple trim. Yes, I said purple. Like a big grown up girl and presented my credit card, the saleswoman smiled and took my MoM’s instead. My Mother gave me another Brother. My Mother gave me sewing skills, fabric, tools and encouragement Does it sound like I am expert? I am not. I am puzzled by the sewing process and enamored with machines. Old machines have a history and purpose. I think my fascination with them feeds my search for my history and purpose, one stitch at a time.

The new zoo revue.

I have the urge to put the presser foot down and lay some seams. Both my sewing machines are whining for a tune up but the need to put needle to fabric is too great and really what else do I have to do?

I bought 2 patterns by Valori Wells that are fun and relatively fast. The little wallet and cell wallet sewing cards are well written and concise. They are a great way to use scraps or a fat quarter. I used a medium weight stabilizer for the little wallets; if I make more I’ll switch to a light weight one. I would also invest in a different snap setter. The Dritz plastic snaps I used are a little bulky. I really like clear sew on snaps but I am not sure they will stand up to long term snapping. The only thing I really had trouble with was the 1/8 inch top stitch on the flap. But that’s what I get for trying to sew and watch NCIS.

Valori’s website (valoriwells.com) is well designed and easy to navigate. She integrates quilting, painting and photography. It’s inspiring to see how she incorporates all of her interests into her projects.

Notes for short story.

It smelled like tuna and rotting peaches. She could not see the bottom of the basin. The retching began when she slide her hands into the fetid water. Fingers pushed aside cutlery and felt for the drain. Greasy pasta and orange rinds swam past her wrists. The taste of dumpster filled her mouth.

Unwinding

Unwinding
I am overwhelmed by the amount of yarn I have accumulated. I have dozens of balls of cotton yarn that I bought for no other reason but I liked the color. I have the yarn from projects I planned but never started and projects that were started that I have no desire to finish. The guilt of such excess bores into my skin like a rash.
I wish I could be more like my brother and hold on to those things that can be neatly and thoughtfully packed away. I get tied up in ideas that I don’t carry out. I could knit a hat for everyone I know. I could buy all the yarn, choose colors and then resent the work. I used to think it was funny, now I know that it is pathologically foolish.
I like to knit, but I love to crochet. I love my crochet hooks. I have every size. I have a complete set of Boyles in a zippered case. They are precious. They were a gift from my brother.
My mother taught me how to crochet. I used to watch her crochet with a #7 hook and ecru thread. She worked on intricate doilies and table runners. If she found a mistake she would rip the work out, no matter how far along she was. It used to drive me nuts. I understand now why she pulled all that thread loose and started again. It’s not as much about a perfect motif as it is about a peaceful mastery.
I have finished projects and rushed through them and been unable to let go of a poor result. I forget to enjoy the process. I can’t enjoy the project I am working on knowing I have 50 more unfinished in a large Rubbermaid bin. .So, I have decided to empty the bin. I will save all the yarn that was given to me as a gift. Save yarn for the next two projects and donate the rest. Just the thought of that empty Rubbermaid container is a little weight off my shoulders.

Chronological Upset

I think its Thursday, for the computer tells me so. I lost July and my new Starbucks super sized Sippy cup. I hate losing things. The fleeting thought of losing some object or another can keep me up indefinitely. If I remember that I have a small green hi bounce ball and can’t find it, I’ll search for hours. It seems I have spent the last 40 years looking for something. Is anyone every just content? I have never been able to sit in stillness and endure quiet. It’s too late to learn to meditate. Maintaining a conscious presents is exhausting. Reason ponder fret. There is really nothing else. In high school I used to listen to my walkman as loud as I could. It would almost drown out the constant criticisms that 17 year olds are plagued with. I can’t seem to regain that skill. The music is never loud enough. The sound is never enough to transport me. I suppose it is all as much self engradizement. I can’t seem to find the center of myself to center myself. I the purple polka dot top carelessly stored in one of a dozen of disintegrating shoe boxes scattered about. Most of the time when you pull the whip string the top sputters, turns quickly rather than spins and skips underneath the table. The whip string is the impetus and the catalyst to motion. With the right wrist motion you can get the top to spin fast and upright. What motion am I missing?

Patience is a virtue

I see my patience as sands in an hourglass pouring quickly away. Applying for jobs is an exercise in futility. I can’t stand the look of my resume any longer. I don’t want to be reminded of all the jobs I have had and the stark realization that they have afforded me little more than a long and useless history.

How many phone calls have I answered in the last twenty years? It seems a lot of wasted effort in making other peoples lives easier. I can’t help but think of Oscar Wilde in prison, sentenced to hard labor. He was forced to walk on maniacal treadmills for hours on end, going no where and achieving nothing.

My mother has always said, “Patience is a virtue, keep it if you can, often found in woman seldom found in man.” It has always made me shake with frustration.
It seems more relevant these days because my hands and wrists hurt so much. The pain wakes me up at night. Maybe its carpal tunnel, it could be arthritis. The terror of losing the use of my hands or having to restrict my activities has left me enraged. My needlework has sustained me. Writing with a pen and paper has cleansed me. Turning a steering wheel has given me freedom.

There are too many projects unfinished. Stories that have lain dormant for years should have been scribbled long ago.

Perhaps this missive is nothing more than display of self pity. Inspiration is too hard to find and in scarce supply, maybe I should try to embroider that on a pillow while watching “My Left Foot”. I need to wrench myself from this malaise.