A loose thread

Geelong Bay: Caitlin Leishman

It’s not so much that the thread is loose… it’s the weighing potential for it to completely unravel. And it’s not only that it could unravel, but that it could do so at an uncontrollable moment, poking a hole in your somewhat crafted self-assurance. Leaving it flailing.

So, it’s got to be done now, preferably yesterday, with needle and thread. A Sicilian seamstress deftly pricks and dips needle through lace like a daddy long legs repairing a web, the tools and rhythm an extension of their hands. Other, less experienced fingers believe that the tighter a needle is gripped, the more accurate the stitch will be…

…the folds of fabric, thicker than the needle chosen, tense under the pressure of a forced stitch, sending a warning of little sharp pains at the back of the neck. Tunnel vision prevents any pause or reflection.

The space between the nail and the top of the finger, at the threshold where the nail turns from white to pink, in there is where a slipped needle can spark mini bonfires of pain through the whole finger. It’s hard to get the blood out from under there.

Rinsing and scrubbing the blood out… Did your comment offend someone? Desperate for relevance, did you speak too much about yourself?...Glance up and notice a new pimple, leaning in pushing, and testing it with a little resignation, a little indecision. Incessantly picking at the delicate skin. Now there’s blood on your face. Pin-pricked. 

From under embarrassment emerges a new image of oneself. Bathroom mirrors are functional things, but the space about a foot from them, where you plant your feet close to the basin, is one of the more exposing spaces we put ourselves in regularly. Turning them into our own Dorian Gray-like self-portraits. 

The stitching is uneven but strong, and the pain in the finger bearable - but shame lingers.

Sometimes it takes more than a few stitches, more fortitude than is available to re-tune the sensory fronds in the mind that activate, they grip like impossible Velcro.  

Other times, it’s because of these fronds that it’s easy to cry for fictional characters when the plot doesn’t go their way, that the news can be destabilizing to read, that one can understand an acquaintance’s body explaining something different to the words they’re speaking. 

In a certain light the silver linings of anxiety have the potential to prompt intangible contributions to everyday.