12/19/09
Frustration. Wrapped in her little world, that’s all she came to think of. All the promises the world made to her and didn’t keep. She’d done everything, played by the rules and had little to show for it but a couple of useless degrees and growing debt.
In the quiet moments, Art called to her: music for the unusual voice given to her, writing for her ever active mind, fabric, textiles of all kinds, yarn, thread, anything was in her reach. Design and lace work, past and present, with a little thought she could see it, do it all. Think her way through the hat, as the saying went.
Yet she had done nothing with this, with any of it, lost in the daily bog of dead-end retail jobs she slowly forgot all that she could do, wanted to do. It would reappear again briefly in the form of an application for a slightly better shitty job. With each form rejection letter, with each bog day, she became more and more frustrated.
She wrote scraps of moments in spare seconds at the register, crocheted hats, sang to herself in the car and felt it all slipping. The promise of youth fading in the face of rent, groceries, oil changes, until it was all washed to bland and disfigured in the haze of frustration.
The Extraordinary beckoned from the periphery
Making her flesh pull and writhe at
The commonplace path she plodded
