I’m not making an actual crazy quilt. For that I’d need, I don’t know, piecing skills and patience. The crazy here is all in the fabric. These fabrics have nothing to do with anything. They are loud. So loud. They make me wonder how it is that I have them. The collection of gently faded autumnal shades I was looking at last week has been shunted off to the side, and a circus tent has begun to form. I’ve pulled all the hard-to-use fabrics out of the stash, piled them together, and started another quilt. Here’s something interesting: I notice that the more I have an actual need for something around here--say all the napkins are getting ratty, and I have a cute napkin idea and a perfect thrifted linen tablecloth ready to cut up and all I have to do is spend two hours hemming and I won’t have to wipe my mouth on my sleeve anymore—that project isn’t as interesting as finding out what the heck all these hot florals and 80’s bathroom wallpaper fish prints are going to look like when this quilt is done.
I already know the end of the napkin story. But this quilt? Not yet. Fascinating.