how much I continue
to love making
these little books--
there is always
the moment
when it feels like a chore.
"Almost out of pages, Sarah!
Stop spinning
and make a new book.
NOW!"
(so bossy)
once I actually start tearing and folding paper.
And once I've made or found the cover
I'm immersed until done.
The cover thing has been growing on me.
My first coptic bound diaries
didn't even have them,
the top and bottom signatures
having to do the job.
Then, to save that lovely paper,
I covered the books in scrap cardboard
gleaned from the backs of pads.
It is only in making the last three
that I've been brave enough
to try a thing
I'd been consciously avoiding--
stitching tapestries onto books
not as decorative objects,
but as paper protection.
was that tapestry covers
would make the books feel precious--
would strip both the pages
and the act of drawing in them
of the relaxed status
I count on.
Transforming them
into untouchable artworks
about which I might be
vaguely reverential--
and thus not use--
would do me no good at all.
I was also concerned
that it would be painful
to watch my precious
tiny tapestries
grow grubby
with dailyness.
Are they not works
to go on walls?
"Be careful, be careful, be careful."
Who needs that?
has been warranted.
(for which I'm hugely thankful),
though I'm not sure why.
that drawing myself
as a cartoon character
every day--
taking a step back,
seeing this person called Sarah,
noticing how she behaves
what she thinks,
what she has been making
(and of course gently mocking as necessary),
is as helpful and addictive
as running.
are now well established
I am no longer intimidated
or embarrassed,
or stopped
(injury or unavoidable circumstances notwithstanding),
by much of anything.
that using a thing I've made--
be it sauerkraut, sweaters,
shoes or a skirt--
transforms it back
from precious object-hood
so that lacing up my shoes
(oh that moment
when the grubby, familiar cloth
snugs up around my ankle),
or opening up the diary
and watching the marks appear
(so that's what today feels like),
becomes an pleasure
worthy of anticipation--
a daily gift
that cannot be matched
by anything purchased.
the fathomless joy
of surprise:
--how today's run
is different from yesterdays,
--how the thing I draw
is never the thing
I think I'm going to draw,
--how the same route
and the same apparent image
(me blogging, or weaving, or spinning),
rendered over and over and over
still feels like a miracle,
--how the word
"and,"
upside down and verso,
looks like the word
"pug"
in mirror writing.
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