windthread

my stenographer's notebook,  where i talk to mySelf.   This morning,  waiting for tea water to boil.  Looking at this latest Cloth.  It's my birthday.  I'm  not much for birthdays.  since a child.   This one though for reasons i don't even really know yet,  i am paying attention .    the 75th.   Seventy five years alive.  All the ways i have been Me.   Maybe these cloths are like cairns.  Marking a way to be Me that i  want   to look at closely.  Nothin for sure here,  it's still coming.   75 is old.   It's all so cliche.  

the satisfaction of this  is indefinable.   All these scraps…invisible baste…Jude Hill…..this is now ONE Thing.   It knows its self in the bibical sense.  

why are these so different.   I've made so many Cloths.  I love them all.    Why are these so different?   FEEL so different?    Easy answer is that they are just random form.   Nothing recognizable.   Not literal in any sense.   so that's one thing.   But there's more things  and i am imagining that it might have to do with what i was thinking when i woke this morning…something about just being Available for happiness.   Not,   uhhh,   imagining that i can find a sense of happiness …..by achieving something,  accomplishing something and specifically here,  with clothmaking.   

a lot of questions.