amore perduto

there's this place in me 

where your fingerprints still rest, 

your kisses still linger, 

and your whispers softly echo. 

it's the place where a part of you 

will forever be a part of me...

-gretchen kemp 

amore perduto. love lost.  or perhaps even amore spezzato. love shattered.  indeed, some of the stitching adorning the heart looks as though it may have been shattered. once. twice.  i'm finally taking a moment here and there to dip into jude hill's whispering hearts mini series...  it feels wonderful to have the time free from work to allow my participation.  though hearts are not my first choice of subjects...  perhaps the series will assist in a transformation of this? if it had already...perchance the stitching might have read, "il mio cuore è per voi" instead of amore perduto.  but lost, for the moment, it already is... and so... andiamo!

there is still more to do to this piece.  more stitching. some embellishment. i'm uncertain what at the moment. so it shall rest a moment or two while i tackle another heart...

namaste'



edit - 4:40 a.m.:

already, i find myself feeling fickle toward this piece and have decided that i didn't care much for the text.  a simple wool selvedge mask seems to be a good start. a little stitching.  soon to be more.

 the message is still there.  only hidden.  like most heart scars.  there will need to be more layers...or more embellishment, for we are frequently good at masking pains of the heart...

 and some additional stitching to the heart and it's crown, just for good measure...

it's interesting to observe how one's mind makes unexpected leaps and diversions when one allows it some measure of freedom...

namaste'

darkness and light

you can't have a light 
without a dark to stick it in. 

- arlo guthrie

all this whispering about fog and shadows had me thinking about the dark. darkness.  which led my thoughts toward light.  even at night there are few shadows right now, with the countryside blanketed in blaring white snow.  even the cloths i am stitching are centered around snow and light in the night. moons radiant.   

light can be gentle. harsh. dreamlike. misty. dangerous. dark. sensual. poisonous. soft. bare. hot. violet. cold. calm. radiating.  penetrating. concealing. all of this and more. so can dark. and yet, without the other, none can exist.  it can even be said that the quality of their opposite influences the nature of the other. not unlike the way the fabrics influence each other in our cloths. i gaze at the fabrics i've been weaving and stitching into cloths for jude hill's c2c workshop and they no longer resemble the garments they once were.  they have transformed into something altogether different and been influenced greatly by the fabrics they've been intertwined with.  even the simple blues that make up the sky in the small cloth i've now named sky flower have been transmuted:

as you can see, i've done quite a bit of stitching on sky flower since yesterday.  added a tangled gossamer moon, filled with random stitches, finished stitching the tree (for the moment), added some stitches in the snow, as well as a forgotten blue flower which looks as if it has fallen from the sky... or perhaps disremembered by a jilted lover. there is still much to do before the small cloth is fully realized, but it may need to rest and reflect for a short space.  the larger, woven cloth from the c2c workshop has been whispering stories into my ears as i lay in the dark, sleeping.

on that thought, cat is meowing for attention, so i shall leave you with this one:

there are two ways of spreading light;

to be  the candle or the mirror that reflects it.

- edith wharton

random thoughts

sink back into

the welcome depths

of morpheus' velvet embrace -

reality dissolves

with alarming ease -

resolves into strange

new landscapes -

salty heat of a 

thousand tongues

gives way to quiet frost -

      -joe madl

stumbling through scraps of old poetry and long silent musings, my eyes tasted this fragment and memories surfaced from darkened layers... like cat's rough tongue scratching at my mind's ear, the words licked their way into the moment.  exploring. savoring. questioning. wondering.  whisperings of fog and distortion over on jude hill's blog echoes these quiet mumblings.  strange landscapes rub their backs against dry skin...raising goose flesh...sending tingles up spines...teasing imagination.

walls are slowly growing landscapes of cloth. seeds are planted deep, though not dormant.  the man in the other room sits comfortably, the needle between considerate fingers softly murmuring through woven fragments, fabricating cloth. cloth for whispering stories. stories for expressing ideas. ideas for expanding minds. or not.

tonight, shielded from the cold, keen air by the warm embrace of cottage walls and crackling fire, my fingers cannot mimic the man's in that room. gossamer ghosts of cloths yet to assume tangible form crowd too close. feeble attempt to warm unmanifested bones by the hearth.  better to let the imagination roam beneath frozen stars tonight.  the needle, silenced, will chant again when the sun illuminates snowdrifts in the morning.

for now, good night. sleep. dream. be.

namaste'