Playlists of songs and cottons

Fabrics in front have returned to my stash. The rest remain in the tote for now.

I've been breaking down a story as well as sorting through a tote with fabrics meant for the Alexandria quilt. To certain prints I had pinned pencil-written notes about where to use colour combinations, but yesterday I felt it was time to put away many of those fabrics, saving some for a future project. Of the twelve hexagon blocks I had prepped, three remain to be stitched together, and if I add a half-dozen yellow blocks, plus a couple more, I can make a quilt reminiscent of what I made last summer for my brother-in-law. No idea when or for whom such a comforter will be needed, but it's nice to have stashed away the basics of something pleasing.

As for the tunes.... In the old days I used to base a novel upon a playlist, each song representing a chapter. When I wrote The Hawk, that rule never materialized, the story so out of the blue I merely began writing and.... Five years later I was done, ahem. I didn't make a playlist for That Which Can Be Remembered, deciding that element of noveling was no longer required. Yet a playlist has emerged, sort of by accident, and while it's not short, it's also more like a soundtrack to the overall plot. A few extra tunes have landed upon it, but I'm not overtly fiddling, well, a little fiddling. But currently it stands at thirty-seven songs and I can tell you right now this story, assuming it turns into more than playlist fodder, isn't going to be thirty-seven chapters in length.

Is that rash, assuming anything at this juncture? Turks and Syrians didn't dream of the catastrophe that has befallen their nations. A year ago my family had no notion of the alterations approaching, other than maybe my BIL, who never went to the doctor unless the situation was dire. But he must have felt something, one leg riddled with cancer when he was diagnosed in March of '22. Perhaps he chalked up the pain to aging, or the cold. Those details aren't relevant now, his passing starkly reminding that lives are here, then gone, in the time it takes for cancer to overwhelm or the Earth to rip in two.

I'm using hyperbole for the latter, although having just experienced a strong quake, I can imagine the terror felt by survivors, also the sense of loss by those searching through rubble for their beloveds. How quickly our existences, our plans and dreams, are shattered by natural disasters and personal tragedies. How one quilt became mere blocks and a playlist possibly leading to fiction; it's as though nothing can be taken for granted or presumed to occur.

But the laundry still needs to be gathered, dishes washed, entries written. Prayers offered for so many, most unknown to me, yet especially for those I cherish dearly, and those having moved to another plane. I don't know where my brother-in-law dwells, although as I observe sunrises, swooping birds make me wonder is he among them keeping an eye on us here? Is he a small creature in the Midwest, lovingly watching over his widow, is he a spirit wafting through a mosque where those now homeless are trying to stay warm? I have my ideas, maybe he's all those notions. I don't believe his essence no longer breathes; instead he proffers calm and love in some form. Which is all I want to do in my small way with stories and quilts, with my hands and heart. Maybe not as I had wished at the start of the year, but curated fabrics can easily be swapped to another tote, the order of songs quickly rearranged. Chapters possibly written as personal therapy or for a wider audience; I have no idea what happens next, but despite heartache, good awaits on the horizon. Of that I am sure.