I go back to these pages. A lot of flow. Where do ideas come from? Birthing, the obvious metaphore. Chances spilling. It comes to me. I fail to fulfil all of the ideas, always ill these days.
When you become a mother, you have to get up in the night and at any time of day your child can call upon you. Every resource will go there. I feel bled out today. It’s funny, I will sit and knit, and finish Kay’s socks, but the words which call out these ideas remain simply two pages. I used these two pages several times; to make a statement for a show, to draw out more words. But I have not made the objects, the drawings, work which is twined in these two pages. You have to let it call on you, like a child in the night.
Some old movie, watched long ago. The man preferred the younger, shyer sister. He has a serious talk with her, as they lean on either side of the fireplace. “That cardigan is ruining your life.” I loved that line! It became a little catchphrase between me and my sister.
There is so much making in motherhood. Making dinners, making beds.
I used to teach. That drained me, too. Make a list of what must be done.