Quite eight, eight months rolled farther, beyond my shoulders, since I wrote the last lines here.
Eight months, woven together with my fearful dreams, my urgent wish to take off in flight, and that absurd fear of looking myself into the embracing scent of my clothes, to find my eyes printed on them, among the leaves, and having to admit that just yes, all I look for it’s always been there, at the bottom of that gaze.
Eight months of new pleasures -such as my works going exhibited and appreciated also internationally-, but also of projects seemingly shipwrecked far away in foreign lands -a website in place of this blog and a photograph portfolio-. The god of perfectionism sent the storm, thundered clanging to scare my wood, pushed my thin nest against the wall. “No high seas for you as long as each detail is not perfect!”.
I quit writing waiting for the raft being polished, new pure white sails being placed instead of the original clothes -creased by much mending-, a nice rudder to head the waves. I waited, bundling words as leaves and leaves as words into bottles I left to water, untill yesterday when a marvelous nest really fell down from on high instead of thunders, exactly between my hands. A bit bruised, but whole. One of the best fiber art works I’ve ever seen! Woven with white brown grey feathers, leaves straws little twigs and hair, moss and black plastic strings.
Of heterogeneous materials, woven into the immaterial matrix of a dilated spiral. Finally, after eight months of voluntary exile to the island of my totally personal Circe, witch of the perfect shapes -perfectly dead because unreal-, I bring back my raft to water. The old rolled clothes are ready to catch saltiness again, the wood, smoothed by use, strokes trustworthy waves, the rudder is not needed… I’ll sail by instinct!