After so much ado (about nothing), I preferred to embroider in silence.
I walked barefoot across the damp clearing and crossed the threshold of the forest where stowed thoughts dwell. I sat on the riverbank to watch them wander in the mist: they chased each other confusedly, rolled and provoked me, but I remained detached, yet a little drained. Without energy, without the will to act.
Distracted in these months by my own affairs and those of shameless people, I didn’t notice and I observe now, recapitulating embroidery shows, events and social movements, that this paralysing restlessness seems to have slipped under the doorposts of so many doors, gnawing energy and enthusiasm, like the rampant Nothingness of The neverending story. What is happening? Is only my gaze on the alert? My gift (and my condemnation) is that I was born atrociously pragmatic… And I take note. Of many things, sometimes too many things. In silence or almost.
There are those who say that we create our own reality. And so I make myself responsible for this black fog that obliterates and I go back to basics, just by embroidering, writing, drawing and embroidering: if we find the unlit stub and give it a spark back, the fire might perhaps disperse the fog.

I don’t like cryptic messages either, but I was out of beer…

“Rasatello” stem stitch with one mulinè thread.