in watermelon sugar: Braiding and Quilting

Monday, May 21, 2012

Braiding and Quilting

I just taught myself to cornrow. I'm very proud of myself. It's a very belated right of passage. I've wanted to learn forever. I grew up in a family with all boys and I never learned. I felt like I missed my window of opportunity. But as a teacher I have to believe that anyone can learn anything (right?). So I bought a (very scary) mannequin head and watched some youtube videos (neither of these worked by the way). Why am I posting this on a quilt blog you may be asking yourself. Braiding reminds me a lot of quilting because they are both repetitive in nature and sometimes it's more important to maintain a pattern than to necessarily be precise. And they are also both labors of love. I've began envisioning a quilt with a cornrow pattern...

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My Name by Richard Brautigan

I guess you are kind of curious as to who I am, but I am one of those who do not have a regular name. My name depends on you. Just call me whatever is on your mind.

If you are thinking about something that happened a long time ago: Somebody asked you to do something. You did it. Then they told you what you did was wrong-"Sorry for the mistake,"- and you had to do something else.

That is my name.

Perhaps it was a game you played when you were a child or something that came idly into your mind when you were old and sitting in a chair near the window.

that is my name.

Or you walked someplace. There were flowers all around.

that is my name. Perhaps you stared into a river. There was somebody near who loved you. They were about to touch you. You could feel this before it happened. Then it happened.

That is my name.

Or you hear someone calling from a great distance. Their voice as almost an echo.

That is my name.

Perhaps you were lying in bed, almost ready to go to sleep and you laughed at something, a joke unto yourself, a good way to end the day.

That is my name.

Or you were eating something good and for a second forgot what you were eating, but still went on, knowing it was good.

That is my name.

Perhaps it was around midnight and the fire tolled like a bell inside the stove.

That is my name.

Or you felt bad when she said that thing to you. She could have told it to someone else: Somebody who was more familiar with her problems.

That is my name. Perhaps the trout swam in the pool but the river was only eight inches wide and the moon shone on iDeath and the watermelon fields glowed out of proportion, dark and the moon seemed to rise from every plant.

That is my name.