(from my previously unpublished journal of a half mile knit to the sea, begun last May 2012…)
Sitting here solitary as a crow in my black coat while real crows cawed at me. One flew with a string to her nest…The need for ritual. Knitting as a practice. Knots. Tying and untying knots. Positive knots–interwoven, versus negative knots–bondage. The line as tears. Cry me a river. Rivulet to the ocean. The artist as lunatic to be avoided and ignored. The nonplace of contemporary art. Who cares? One person appreciated the poetry of it–she said that I looked like a perfect snapshot of life in the Northwest, waiting at a bus stop, knitting in the rain. Who is my audience? Ultimately, it’s G-d…and anyone else who cares to pay attention. The need for enchantment. The ordinary extraordinary. The act starts to take on greater significance now, in rain and as the line begins to spill over onto the pavement.