“Fisherman’s kitchen” textile art
More on my BLOG
More you might like
i’ve been thinking a lot about storytelling, (of late-night sharing. cheesecake between coffee mugs: a staple to every conversation) — of swapping memories as a way of preservation, as a way to remember a moment in another way, growing another root. i’ve been thinking much about space, conceptualizing home. as we sweep through the attic, the basement, as i see all of my old belongings in the hot, bright light of ninety-degrees and humid-as-hell new york — i’m feeling, somehow and miraculously secure. within my body, within myself, within the bases of my parents, the hatchet-wound of my existence. we are all just human and looking for relief, for small moments with each other that feel like a hand above the heart, without the sentimentality of touch. a table between us, piles of take-out containers scattering the tables. someone always wanting the egg drop soup, too hot for too long in our styrofoam cups, spilling onto our sweating arms. the lot of us stretched on a makeshift dining table unfolded in the middle of the driveway, everyone leaning into their chairs, talking absent-mindedly of bees and hornets. we have never been certain people, or settled people, but i know where i come from, and i know that this is, this has always been, home. that these moments have saved me. that these are the stories that i will pass down to my children, and my children’s children. of cheesecake and coffee. driving through the back roads until it’s dark, singing love songs with a seventeen year-old, a twenty-five year old, and myself at twenty, almost twenty-one — all of us missing someone, something. all of us full of something, someone. full, always. full of our stories. full of these remembrances, the sun so heavy that our tongues feel always new-wet.
Happy thanksgiving from some pals