Unbelievable.

Spam. On my blog. Ick. I feel like I need to wipe my feet now. I've just erased half a dozen spamed "comments". How irritating.

Wondered how I got so many views when so few people know I'm here. It's the damned spammers.

Feeling like...leftovers.

Can't seem to get any work today. I usually spend about 8 hours a day at the sewing machine, cutting table, etc. but today I'm just chatting online with faceless friends. Guess I really feel the need to communicate.

One big show down (which turned out not to be a big show at all) and one big show to go until December. I should be working my fingers to the bone, but nah... It's lonely working like this. I like being alone much of the time, but after a while I end up feeling isolated and misunderstood.

And I never have enough of the right zippers, dammit. Wrong colour or wrong size. Damn damn damn.

BUT some of the new bags are just divine. Can't wait to post pics here and on my website, where they will ultimately be for sale.

Textural thought for the day: the feeling on the tongue of lemongrass and ginger sautéed vegetables over rice. Smooth onions, crunchy red peppers, and the little oblong pearls of rice grains. Chewy zucchini and broccoli (that was fun to type). Thai spices and coconut milk.

Ah, leftovers.

Loss and Ground

The feel of silk through my fingers keeps me refreshed. It's a very textural thing. To see the brush strokes or yuzen designs painstakingly laid out... I don't often have the patience to do something like that, but I can view it and know what it means.

The fabric is patient. It waits for me in a corner of the room. Kimono, obi, yukata, haori, michiyuki, miyamiari, etc. all neatly folded, waiting to be exposed to that touch. Bright little hinagata stand guard over my shelves. Shibori, yuzen, omeshi... so many things. So many lives, so many hands have touched these little creations. I am comforted that I am not the only one. The obi that is cut does not cry for its destruction, it begs to be re-created into something else that will free it from the prison of a life left in storage. It longs to be worn, handled, caressed once again. It wants to be touched.

Maybe that is my connection with the fabric. I touch.