Material Witness will focus on extreme textile process. Images will be posted here showing the history of my work, new work, developing projects and inspiration.

Monday, October 20, 2014


Medications in line right now. Body adjusting. Going in for infusions today. Tim and I negotiate injections every day. He gives them to me and sometimes they hurt. I am still afraid of them. I would have been the worst junkie in the world. Just hope the blood thinners are working.

Have learned I need way less pain killer if they are available and I take them with regularity. Down to half when things are managed carefully. This means I can think. Plan. And create. Having all this time has started to fill up sketchbooks with ideas that are cohesive. Having dreams about full projects really helps. Everything there. Including visuals on materials needed. And I can read again. Real words. Academic papers instead of small articles. About fiber, Vikings and burial containers. All directed by a stream of genetic connection and personal history.

And one of the nurses in the hospital heard I was a fiber artist. He came and talked for a long time. About a museum for Islamic textiles. He brought in images of some of the breath taking 700 year old protection garments. Gold and precious metals woven into script. And fragments of the prayer cloths from Mecca.  He is a calligrapher who works with fine vellum made from baby deer. He thinks they can be stitched and have been. My desire to work with the fundamental kicked back in Mayne. I pulled him together a list of contacts. He made sure I had oxygen, shots and medication. And inspiration. And true compassion. Sharing of ideas.

Arthur came by. I insisted I be listed as atheist when asked about a spiritual advisor. I only wanted a Unitarian Universalist who was a humanist or atheist support. Impossible. But he actually existed. And he came. And helped. Really helped shake me from the terror of being in a huge institution and powerlessness.

And a young nurse who just graduated from school in Montreal. Bright blond Irish and from between Cork and Wexford. From my mother's neighbourhood in Montreal. Comfort. When I experienced distress late at night she figured out I needed something else besides Atavan or Hydro-morphone. She scooted down the hall and found some potato chips. And closed the door and shared them because potato water was in our blood. And laughed.  All anxiety dissipated immediately.

Never doubt cracks in the walls where true human beauty pours out.

I didn't die. I was completely ready. But once more life continues for awhile. More damage than before and more challenge but this can be handled. Upright far more often now. Pretty shaky but getting some core energy back. I am so well cared for. Bren. My mother. Christine. Gayla. Birgitta.So many people. And lots of people dropping in. And Tim kicks everyone out when he sees me going under. I have a hard time noticing that. He is very conscious and protective. And more than real.

The sun streams into this apartment. It is a soft and lovely place to do this. Such a sweet little cave.

Old thoughts on Mecca. "Return to Mecca" Portion of a five meter length of velvet. Complex cloth.
 Done by me and in the collection of Christine Basque. 

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