Meanwhile I'm depressed and moving into anger. I do not know who died, but I'm going through mourning it seems. Into late next year it seems before my lessons make themselves known. Working the quilt has helped. I say that timidly and with much fear. I just realized it and I never knew that a quilt could have so much power in my hands and mind. I remember making the sketch. Finally getting it out of my head and onto paper. A katharsis of such quiet intention, I did not know what I made. Each mark and gesture made sense to me. It was all a mass of notations and measurements for me to confront later. Why confront? Making fat quarters and slim sections slide together and lock in position for an excellent color relativity and motion is not easy. I screamed once for length and similar colors. I screamed till they told me this is how they did it back in the day. When people saved and scrounged for even slivers. My ancestors kept a tight lip while making it work. Maybe so can I. So I'm told my approach takes more creativity. This from women who work the shop and see everything. They helped me see too. I bear through these days. I've been told I've been on this quilt for three months straight. Everyday, practically, completing a new section.
Since it got colder, I've been slower. I've also been desperate to put it down and cower in a corner. Today I almost couldn't take it anymore, till I saw something looking at the skyline I've been completing in needle turn applique. The form I took for granted became my grandmothers house in Easton as the sun turned down. It was the first time I got a good look at the garden in the back of this row house. I was told once upon a time that the house was a gift from the white family she was a housekeeper for. Over thirty years I think, if not forty. One day I'll tell you about the garden. The pears I never tasted and the hydrangeas I see in my mind every summer. And every time I try to by them at Home Depot. They need to much water down here. Far too much.
I looked over more stitches and house forms I started yesterday. I saw my ex-boyfriends apartment thereon the third floor. Then I saw the rest of the house. For some reason a pale grey if not blue in my memory. There we are walking up to the top, entering and me with big eyes looking around. Me eighteen, him, thirty-five. Hmm. I remember the interiors like Vuillard painted his wife in the bathtub. I remember the detail like Norman Rockwell and The Saturday Evening Post. I'm wondering what comes with the next stitch. The garage of a family friend and our walk around the garden. Her pointing out everything planted, grown, weed and seed.
The shapes and memories are starting to associate and flood right now. I've got to stop typing. No tears. Just hunger. If you want, I'll explain other memories another day. Hmm, a night blooming cirrus would be an excellent place to start. Till then.