I began with a twisted tangle of string, collected hair, wandering knots of grief. Then turned to transforming locks, combed to order, and swelling with possibility.
Now instant film fills my drawers, and ever so slowly the lines begin to stretch out tentatively probing, is it safe? In short bursts of confidence they streak out unfettered, literal power lines. Here the lines cross and caress, momentary echoes of warp and weft. Looking up at the sky and placing myself just so, I am weaving with my eyes and drawing with my camera.
The lines begin to meander, veins casually snaking out to explore the blank landscape alive and wanting. Without knowing my destination I travel toward it, for the moment unhurried and strangely unafraid.
Yesterday, I knit ordered knots of grey wool and considered perhaps we were not molded from the clay as so many myths claim, but woven instead.