Sometimes life's washing machine catches you in the wringer. You are wrapped centrifugally, caught further into the machine, something is broken so the wash comes out with holes and tears, the soft fabric shredded.
Suturing the outer skin with thread and needle, as a buttonhole stitch, my thoughts meander to a new path far from the newly formed lake of space. Little thread footsteps show me new ways to visit old ideas and old ways of visiting new ideas.
I don't make the shirt whole, but I make it interesting, with its own maps of where it has been. Like laugh lines on a face or bites scratched to form a scar.
