The Rhythm of Crafting.


That is an admittedly crappy cell phone picture of my latest crochet project. I haven’t yet decided if it’s going to be a horizontal striped scarf or something else.

When I’m on my way to or from work, (almost two hours each way) I listen to audiobooks and crochet. When I’m doing simple stitches there is a rhythm (god damn it I cannot spell that word worth a damn) and I find myself spinning thoughts to the beat. or I just stop letting thoughts spin.

I forget now what I was going to say. I started this hours ago and forgot.

I started an essay earlier on paper called ‘I’m fat and no I don’t want your opinion.”

All true. I am in fact a fat person and no I don’t want or need anyone’s opinion about it. Since I became more aware of anti fat people biases in the world there are people I don’t enjoy as much anymore.

My patience for what I know to be silly bullshit has expired.

I kind of want to start an all fatties stripper revue, I know so many people who would simply die to see a show like that. However I have neither the time nor the money for such a thing. I also kind of wish I was still stripping because putting out the fat signal would net me some good damn money.

While I’m thinking about sex work, I got a rejection for an essay about how I did some sex work by accident when I was 21. Apparently my looking back with fondness and a little wink and smile wasn’t what the editor wanted. I get really tired of editors who want pain porn. It wasn’t painful, it was a sweet innocent and funny experience. I wish more people understood that not all sex work is traumatic sex work.

Sometimes I wonder is there room for the funny and nostalgic thoughts in sex work narratives? Does it not count anymore since it was all years ago?

I’m having some issues. I want to write more about sex work experiences, things I learned, the funny things that make me shake my head and smile at my young self.

Actually it’s not even really about sex work or talking about sex work. It’s more about my (I’m working on it) constant shyness about my own narratives. That’s what it always boils down to.

Fears of all the things. Inadequacy, mediocrity. Bad writing.

Right. Go cry emo kid. I’m going to crochet tonight on my way home. Finish my new essay and cease giving my fucks about whether or not my stories are valid or not and just write them down. Fuck it.


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