10.18.2006

Travels

Fingers struggle with the pinched clasp of the clear plastic box. Release. The contents explode, fly out into the room. Multicolored beads scatter to the floor. A light tickle of sound echoes off the linoleum.

The creator lowers to her knees, stares, takes in the arrangement on the floor, reaching for a needle already bound to string. As if collecting a predestined bracelet, she starts poking the needle through the beads’ tiny holes, pushing to make the evening deadline she promised, the sun already setting.

To maintain momentum, to stay interested, she sees herself crawling through the teeny holes and coming out the other side into another world. With each bead, she takes a fresh journey as a creature on the tip of a needle, emerging and becoming life-size only long enough to absorb the scene, enjoy, and depart.

She wants it to be that easy to move from life to life, to collect memories upon a strand of string. Glancing down upon the dangling beads, she sees that it is. And she knows she must close the loop, tie the knot, and hand over the very personal creation to a woman who will toss it into a box of countless other pieces of jewelry unaware of where this simple bracelet has taken its maker.


1 comment:

jen said...

aahhh. nice.
reminds me again of the thought that the only way out is through...and the eye of a needle (or bead as it may) is an awfully tight fit at times.