The Patchwork Quilt

Some people use words to embed their woes. Some people use music. Once upon a time I used thread producing patchwork quilts for every stitch I sewed was a word in my mind. As every stitch created every line. Each patch became a story of it's own. Welcome to my patchwork quilt.

Throughout the world of creativity lie many fields with many kinds of butterflies. They all have different colours, scents, moods, surfaces, with corresponding or contrasts, whatever the weather.

The contrasts in art are so vast, that we almost have to dive in, be brave, take a swim into the unknown. Whatever field you choose to run inside has it's own hidden miracle. Each being unique to it's own. I quite honestly believe no artist rides the route in a straight line. Even if it be his intention. Art is never transparent. There are always many hidden linings. The more linings the greater the art work. A simple piece has a story too.

The beauty of the patchwork quilt is there is no one way to stitch. Your stitches can be rock and roll. Upside down, inside out. As long as the end game fits. That's all that matters. Isn't it just .

In a world of pandemonium, I sometimes sit shuffling through heaps of papers. Consisting of dull matters one has to see to. I surmise, in my little eye that we are but blessed to be artists. The contrasting elements of life are very much like a patchwork quilt. One day, before I twisted inside another platform of my life journey. When I had my eyes in theatre land reciting lines from William Shakespeare. To sooth my senses whilst I grit my teeth, so many lines. Not enough time. One never really knew till your fellow actor or theatrical opponents were beneath your feet, whether they'd work. The way one whispers in the play's script staring at you from every corner of your life. For some unknown reason as you lived each line by day as it feeds into your porridge, or your husbands smelly socks. Somehow, you know you will bring it to life in front of a live audience.

The patchwork quilt is a wonderful way to ensure each line is stuck in your gut. For each stitch in those lines have to be embedded within the next line. For certain my needle runs out of thread. There are gaps in time. A undisturbed pause before one can begin the next line. Silence is a beautiful antidote. In itself, silence is a treasure.

Lock up your television, put Beethoven on. Symphony number nine will send adrenaline rushing up your spine. Turn off the lights. Light a candle. Create your scene within a scene. Artificial screens can be detergents eliminating all other textures you are missing. Come inside my quilt with me. I won't spread it on my bed. I might hang it on the wall. Or, it may be used during the curtain call.

The curtain call be a wonderful moment as the curtain drops. The actors resign to the bottom of the stage door. A quick glass of water whilst taking a breath of fresh air. There isn't mush time before the bell will ring. You queue is next in line. You cannot relax for long. Only breath a sigh of relief. They clapped, the audience. You must have done something right, but you never really know. You are inside a patchwork. Just like this quilt. I will never really know if I will complete. I might drop dead before it's truly neat.

Dead or alive, how do we know anyway ? We all might be dead right now. Ok, we have a pulse, a heartbeat. There are many walking dead men with heartbeats. They're not in the real world at all. What is the real world ? Lots of times people have jumped out of their coffins. Buried alive was but a common mistake. I have to be up at the crack of dawn, here I am stitching this patch to you.

The alarm will ring just as I choose my next needle and thread. This is the system. I thread all my needles in advance. Fifty of them for fifty lines. I choose my colours in advance. I also select the type of thread I am going to use. In my patched plan. I have all my lines in my needles sitting in a row laid out upon my work-desk. I make sure I use all the needles up before I give up hope. To finish that patch is the goal with the colours I chose. On the side of my work desk is a big red plump cushion. If the phone or doorbell rings. I stick the needle I am using inside the cushion. Then it's safe till I return. I answer my phone, or door. I return back to the line I was on already. Pick up where I left off. It becomes quite a systematic process. One gets into a roll of lines with stitches. Sometimes I pick up the pace finding I have raced through ten lines without thinking. Thinking too much can slow one down in all walks off life. Sometimes it's much better not to think but just go for things. I think we should create a thinking time plan. Out of hours of Action. I love moments on stage or film when characters think. When, you don't really know what they are going to do next. Suspense is wonderful.

In some works of art, once you get inside the brushstroke of an artist for example, you can almost live with the artist. I often used to wonder when I visited art galleries as a child why some people stood staring at a work of art for hours. Now I know why. Children are like sponges, sucking everything inside without even realising. That's why we have the good the bad and the ugly in our world of grown-ups. 'They know not what they do' as Jesus Christ said. It 's so true they don't. If a child has absorbed a bunch of bullshit, lies and corruption on growing up it's sadly all immersed within his lining. he or she will grow up to be a messed up mess. Even if one of his, her kind does hit the luck. They screw it all up, then go onto to swim with the ducks , if they get lucky. Especially with the current condition of how our governments are stealing children from parents, as parents split-up from moonlight fast track marriages. Either for a quick passport or leg-up. Everyone is racing to get to the next land. To get their next leg-up. No one is content these days with what they have. I do agree it's very good to be ambitious, but sometimes the grass is not greener on the other side. Working twenty-four hours to feed one-self, even in a rich floating bucket of millionaires. Is slave trade relived inside a different sieve ?

They say "it all comes out in the wash", and it does so. Not the colour on my patchwork quilt. How does one wash such blankets once sewed to non-perfection ? Who wants life to be perfect anyway? Would be so damn boring. We really don't want to be snoring everyday when we wake up. There are ways to indulge in our diversities without pricking our fingers. The eye of the needle carries the thread. The needles tip is sharp, it's not for digging into anything but the patch-work quilt I now stitch. Why are people then always killing one another ? I guess it's because it's a slow road to China. Maybe they all want to travel on the silk-road, perhaps ?

One day, a dear friend of mine brought me some beautiful green Chinese silk. It got stolen. Not one too many on this earth is there? Thieves, I am rattling on about. Never mind. My mother used to say, "never get too attached to material things". She lodged students in her house. I recalled her tears when some jewels my father gave her disappeared.

I had au-pairs for my children. When I was a little rich, I had a cleaner. Long gone those days. Now I hold my bucket and broom myself around at least ten rooms, but nothing goes missing. Those bygone days are long-gone when an honest cleaner blows out of nowhere.

I received no sympathy from my last long lost lover when a pair of my diamond earrings disappeared, from a London Knightsbridge love boat we once rocked. Rock-a-bye-baby.

Patchwork Quilt moments.

Burnt love has memories. Burnt toast ends up in the bin. or you might feed the ducks with it. Don't waste love it's like food. I must get back to my next stitch. We have to complete the patchwork quilt

Delila Reddit.

Yvette Louise Melech

copyright

30/07/2021 ( 5.38am GMT)