Rage against the machine

As is utterly obvious, I contain huge amounts of inner rage.  However.  Inner rage fails to consume me and reduce my teeth to stumps through endless gnashing*.  Despite having permanent fingernail grooves in my palms, and a tense, peering expression most of the time, my blood pressure remains at a constant 120/70 because…….  I mess about with fabrics.

Fabrics have the soothing, fascinating allure of small babies.  All different; representing every possible design and colour:  fabrics feel nice:  fabrics are inspiring and they haven’t learned to answer back.  Fabrics remove the urge I sometimes have to run outside, point to the sky and start screaming.

I love to cut fabric into shapes, (I’ve finished the baby analogy now), and combine them into new combinations with my poor old Brother sewing machine which is older than two of my adult children.  Chop and change.  Create and unpick – sobbing.  That machine, all overheated, dusty and shuddery, brings back tranquillity like it’s hard to describe.  That machine has kept my murder tally, (to date), at zero.  That machine absorbs my rage, and transforms it into lovely, if lopsided, things of great gorgeousness.  Like babies.  Again.

*Actually, the state of my teeth puts me into a blind fury at least three times a day.  The more rich people pay fortunes for slab-like, blue-white ceramic ones, and normalise a look which was known as, “Nana’ s New Dentures”, as recently as the 90’s, the worse my wonky, mismatched, beige collection look.

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