One Three Two Four, 2020


In between hours of work and school I make my way to the studio. Unpack my bag, taking off my shoes and sit at the loom. There’s a smell in the air that’s only amplified with the heat of the radiator, it’s a mixture of grass and wet animal, sometimes our dog would smell like this in the rain. I sit at the loom, this stool who’s rolling wheels I took off at my mothers suggestion that I’d gain more stability grounds me, allowing me to push down on the treadles with ease; my weight teetering on the edge. I press down the treadles and throw the shuttle between the yarns. The bobbin spinning makes a twirling sound, I bring down the beater and the loom rattles.


It’s as dark as a city gets outside, there's a humming sound of cars driving by and street lights beaming. It’s raining and I contemplate hailing a cab home, but the walk is only another 32 minutes, I have to be at work pretending to be awake in 5 hours. Ira Glass introduces a story of a Black journalist who’s family moved to Russia from the states searching for a better life, I make a mental note to look her up later. My feet are waking in the motion of the treadles, I feel like I haven’t stopped thinking in weaving for a few months. I woke up yesterday feeling like I was already at the loom.


There’s a juvenile joy in eating a pink popsicle on a white couch.


My mother is sitting beside me so I can listen to her while I work away. She tells me stories of when she moved away from home with my father to contrast my frustrations of being an adult. She tells me that seeing me weaving reminds me of her father weaving on his barn loom, but makes an observation that while I’m weaving blankets, he wove sarapes. I find this both hilarious and troubling. I’ve been trying to find this knowledge and somehow missed an important detail. Her voice fades as I imagine long sarapes cascading down from ceilings.