I’m wasting my time. Stitch by stitch. It’s itching. I get stomach aches. I think of better things to do, but I refrain from doing them. There are machines invented to do this. Spring and summer is raging outside, I sit still. There are good books to read, papers to write, laundry to attend to. I force myself not to do better things with my time. I can stop but I don’t. It takes a lot of discipline to waste precious time. Time is money and money makes the world go round in circles. Some get more, other get less. I am an honorable upper class woman, and embroidery would be a suitable pastime. My head bowed respectfully, my hands kept busy with soft silent decorations. My hands imitating work gives my mind some space to wander about. The absence of reason creates new exits. My head bowed respectfully but my mind defying all authorities. Taking up little space, weighing lightly, worth nothing, is nothing, but the amount of time invested (or wasted) gives me a sense of power. The meaninglessness is revolutionary. There is nothing more provocative than minding your own business. It’s the best way I know how to say fuck the system without having to risk my place in the system. The utopia is not worth the effort, but the effort is our only hope. Black line by black line, stitch by stitch, second by second. At some point the stomach ache turns into butterflies.
