as time goes by

That's an interesting question C asks in her blog comments, do these words mean anything to me?
In this Blog. I don't think they do, it's a diary really, fills an hour in the day when I am too tired to do anything else, but rather fulfilling. A feeling of satisfaction at a job done.
So few tasks in life get a tick for completion, they bleed into each other and haver on in the background, sapping energy and confidence.
I love to see the words all printed up on the screen, I feel privileged that 2 people in the world are reading some of them.
A process, like my stitching. I am making something - therefore I am. I make do, therefore - I am a woman?
My gay mentor, sorry, our gay mentor insists that we should ask the question "What is it about" re our work.
A very good question.
I went to Ely yesterday and saw a small textile exhibition at the cathedral, rather uninspired in contrast to the surroundings, tho the work was supposed to be a "response" to the epic building - something ventured - not much gained.
The English stitching group is affiliated to an American one, none of whom visited the cathedral, getting their inspiration from pics on the web.
Inspiration was in low supply that day, it seems.
I liked only one, where she had bleached some areas of black dyed broadcloth so you saw an inspired move from dark into light, otherwise I thought the work banal raising occasionally to mediocre. [Had better hope only two people are reading this blog!]
While I am ranting, there was this ghastly, larger than life painted statue of a golden haired lady in a long clinging blue dress high on the wall above the altar of the Lady Chapel, arms stretched high in dismay, no doubt at the sheer bad taste of her existence.
It was a hot day for April, we slogged on to Oliver Cromwell's house, which was boring and mundane and cost £4.50 each to listen to an anodyne recording skim over some of the facts of his life on one of those machines.
Each room was dark with panelling and drawn curtains, on entry, silent people stood alone, each with a hand pressed to their head - loyally listening to an light weight slip and slide through history, without touching any topic involving the spilling of blood, except poor James and his lack of head.
This is Oliver Cromwell they are talking about!
Mrs Cromwell loved him it seems, wrote him love letters, bore him nine children, cooked him eel stews. Got on and made do.