30 Saun, 721
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The interaction Kotton had in the Sweetwine woods with the tailor-bird made his brain churn with wonder. There was an intrinsic beauty to the flying creature’s work; a natural drive of self perseverance. The ability to craft a home by such means was boggling. Kotton couldn’t help but reminisce back to the days of rudimentary society where homes were constructed solely out of wooden logs, their purpose to provide insulation and protection against the weathering storms. Now, there was more innovation such as the technology of candlelight to illuminate dark corners and fabric to close off drafts from the glass windows; there was sod to clog the pores between cracks in the woodwork and glass to consummate between what could and couldn't be seen through.
But all that little flying creature had to do was utlilise plant fibre or spider silk as string to sew up a masterpiece. Kotton was envious of it. In fact, he wanted to learn from the bird. He had never been interested in sewing and had always found it associated with women’s work as per tradition, but as times progressed, more and more crafty inventions had risen from the use of a thread and needle. One such invention was crocheting, and boy, the fun and plushy animals he saw- he wanted to be able to do that too.
The young man looked to his journal, the one he had taken with him during his venture into the forest. In it, he had captured a rudimentary scheme of the process the bird had taken in designing its home. Along with other anecdotes of arbitrary facts of flowers and sexual parts, Kotton zoned in on the stellar fabrication of a bird’s nest made exclusively out of leaves. If a bird could do it, then so could he.
Fortunately for him, he had a needle and thread. They were part of his basic survival gifted to him from his father. And with the large large expanse of written knowledge he had accumulated as reference, he was sure to succeed in his plans.
From his journal, sewing- yes- but not from a bird. Kotton wanted to reenact the visage in the way people sewed which is why, alongside his notes from the other day, he had borrowed a book from the library that explained the basic process step-by-step.
He had nothing else to do on this fine day, since he was not scheduled to come into work and most of his friends, including Worick, were either off playing maid in their homes or spending their free time with family. Rather than be bored out of his skull, the young man chose to spend his free time learning how to stitch.
He had seen medical sutures performed on an open wound before, but something in his gut told him this was not the same. Besides, different tools were used than the ones from home, next to a hearth, with a pair of ripped pants resting in your lap (or so was the example that was depicted in his mind).
Kotton placed a heavy candlestick holder on his textbook so the page he was referencing remained open. He then observed the first paragraph, paying attention to even the most minute detail for fear of skipping a step and ending up with a piece of disaster.
He cross-referenced the notes of his journal to that of the textbook, finding a common denominator in the midst. The bird had used its beak, thread held in it, to puncture the leaf just as someone would use a thread and needle to puncture a piece of fabric. However, getting the thread to become one with the needle was the tricky part.
His book suggested using a white background to aid him in threading the string through the tiny hole (which was called the eye) of the needle. He fought with the tool for several moments before claiming victory. He needed to knot the end of the thread now, but struggled since the end of the thread was frayed. Kotton glowered, but remained calm. He wasn’t alone here. Surely others had tried and failed at this task. Certainly his textbook had something to say on how to make this part of the process easier. And thus it be predicted, there was. He scanned the words, acknowledging the technique of licking the end of the thread to stiffen it. That or applying wax, but he had a fire roaring in his hearth, not a candle flickering at his wayside.
With that part out of the way, he resumed his reading. He had to knot the end of the thread so it wouldn’t go through the eye of the needle when he sewed. Thankfully, this was a self explanatory task for him, but one he hadn’t done in years since his father had taught him one season many cycles ago. How did it go again?
Kotton squinted his eyes, a subconscious behaviour that gave him psychological help in finding out the solution to any problem. He looked between the page in the book and his own tools to finalise a simple knot. One, two, around and through. Kotton felt silly for having to waste a moment perfecting such a novice assignment.
Now the pressure was on. He reconnected his memory with the descriptions he had made of the tailor-bird, how it struck its beak, thread included, through the leaf multiple times, seemingly going over the same stitch time and time again, but with a backwards direction. With this imagery, he returned to his textbook. As he read along the lines, he recognised that this practice was known as a backstitch.
He inserted his needle into an arbitrary spot at the bottom of his pants. Then, he brought the needle back through both layers of fabric a negligible distance in front of the stitch he’d made before. Following the textbook’s procedure to an ultimate, he inserted his needle back into the fabric in the very centre of the first stitch before finally bringing the needle up through the fabric the very same distance he had gone forth during the creation of his initial stitch.
Kotton had a hard time translating the process into words in his brain, much less understanding how they were read and thereby performed. But he had accomplished something- a backstitch according to his reference. But he shan't stop there. In order to make something habitual, or at least concreted into one’s memory, it was essential to execute the same activity over and over and over again. So he did- he continued making an uninterrupted line of backstitches.
He spent the next hour fixated on his project, a newfound interest growing roots in his psyche. He was proud of himself for having found something he enjoyed- a new hobby. As of late his days had been spent lonely, bored, restless but without the motivation or desire to do anything. He had turned to alcohol to make it harder for his brain to process basic tasks, which consequently made them more challenging and thereby fun. Trying to pour oats into his favourite ceramic bowl was a struggle, but in the state of little to no care or inhibition, the process was hilarious. Trying to walk to the bathroom to relieve himself was utterly chaotic and made him laugh every time he fell when normally he would erupt into frustration. What he was doing now was being done whilst sober and he was enjoying it all the same.
Although, he really should be practising his sewing on something other than the pants he was currently wearing. With this in mind, Kotton paused to retrieve a piece of clothing he had worn the other day. Coincidentally, he had snagged it on a wooden post adorned with barbed wire next to the butcher shop he had passed on the way to the library. There, near the sleeve, was a small hole. He wondered if he would be able to stitch up the hole with the new information he had acquired from his self-teaching.
He deposited the sweater onto the floor in front of his hearth and fell into a sitting position behind it. He didn’t give a moment to the cherishable warmth of the fire. Instead, he focused without distraction onto his next project.
He looked back to his journal, to his textbook, to the tools still held with white knuckles, and attempted to patch a hole. It took several tries, multiple mis-uses of thread and a pinch or two of the needle into the tips of his fingers before he was able to muster a half-excuse of a patch job but regardless of the time it took- or the blood, sweat, and tears so they say- Kotton had attempted and accomplished his first attempt at sewing.
He smiled, brandishing his white teeth to the glorious glow of the fireplace. He threw the sweater to the side and dropped his equipment. He made a note to find a box to put his tools in so they wouldn’t get lost. He was going to pick them up again someday, he was sure of it, so long as the energy came to strike him again. Besides, he really wanted to be able to use his newly learnt technique to crochet a cute fox.
The young man let out a sigh and watched the steam from the heat dissipate into the air, consumed by the heat of the fire. He felt satisfied, successful, and in no need of liquor to satiate the listless nerves of someone who didn’t know what to do nor want to do anything.
He pulled his journal closer to him and plucked the pencil that had been hidden against the binding. He addressed the backstitch technique, making sure to include as much information as he could in case he forgot even the most trivial step.
As he was writing down the last sentence, his stomach growled loudly. He was in need of something to eat, and stew was the only thing on his mind.
But all that little flying creature had to do was utlilise plant fibre or spider silk as string to sew up a masterpiece. Kotton was envious of it. In fact, he wanted to learn from the bird. He had never been interested in sewing and had always found it associated with women’s work as per tradition, but as times progressed, more and more crafty inventions had risen from the use of a thread and needle. One such invention was crocheting, and boy, the fun and plushy animals he saw- he wanted to be able to do that too.
The young man looked to his journal, the one he had taken with him during his venture into the forest. In it, he had captured a rudimentary scheme of the process the bird had taken in designing its home. Along with other anecdotes of arbitrary facts of flowers and sexual parts, Kotton zoned in on the stellar fabrication of a bird’s nest made exclusively out of leaves. If a bird could do it, then so could he.
Fortunately for him, he had a needle and thread. They were part of his basic survival gifted to him from his father. And with the large large expanse of written knowledge he had accumulated as reference, he was sure to succeed in his plans.
From his journal, sewing- yes- but not from a bird. Kotton wanted to reenact the visage in the way people sewed which is why, alongside his notes from the other day, he had borrowed a book from the library that explained the basic process step-by-step.
He had nothing else to do on this fine day, since he was not scheduled to come into work and most of his friends, including Worick, were either off playing maid in their homes or spending their free time with family. Rather than be bored out of his skull, the young man chose to spend his free time learning how to stitch.
He had seen medical sutures performed on an open wound before, but something in his gut told him this was not the same. Besides, different tools were used than the ones from home, next to a hearth, with a pair of ripped pants resting in your lap (or so was the example that was depicted in his mind).
Kotton placed a heavy candlestick holder on his textbook so the page he was referencing remained open. He then observed the first paragraph, paying attention to even the most minute detail for fear of skipping a step and ending up with a piece of disaster.
He cross-referenced the notes of his journal to that of the textbook, finding a common denominator in the midst. The bird had used its beak, thread held in it, to puncture the leaf just as someone would use a thread and needle to puncture a piece of fabric. However, getting the thread to become one with the needle was the tricky part.
His book suggested using a white background to aid him in threading the string through the tiny hole (which was called the eye) of the needle. He fought with the tool for several moments before claiming victory. He needed to knot the end of the thread now, but struggled since the end of the thread was frayed. Kotton glowered, but remained calm. He wasn’t alone here. Surely others had tried and failed at this task. Certainly his textbook had something to say on how to make this part of the process easier. And thus it be predicted, there was. He scanned the words, acknowledging the technique of licking the end of the thread to stiffen it. That or applying wax, but he had a fire roaring in his hearth, not a candle flickering at his wayside.
With that part out of the way, he resumed his reading. He had to knot the end of the thread so it wouldn’t go through the eye of the needle when he sewed. Thankfully, this was a self explanatory task for him, but one he hadn’t done in years since his father had taught him one season many cycles ago. How did it go again?
Kotton squinted his eyes, a subconscious behaviour that gave him psychological help in finding out the solution to any problem. He looked between the page in the book and his own tools to finalise a simple knot. One, two, around and through. Kotton felt silly for having to waste a moment perfecting such a novice assignment.
Now the pressure was on. He reconnected his memory with the descriptions he had made of the tailor-bird, how it struck its beak, thread included, through the leaf multiple times, seemingly going over the same stitch time and time again, but with a backwards direction. With this imagery, he returned to his textbook. As he read along the lines, he recognised that this practice was known as a backstitch.
He inserted his needle into an arbitrary spot at the bottom of his pants. Then, he brought the needle back through both layers of fabric a negligible distance in front of the stitch he’d made before. Following the textbook’s procedure to an ultimate, he inserted his needle back into the fabric in the very centre of the first stitch before finally bringing the needle up through the fabric the very same distance he had gone forth during the creation of his initial stitch.
Kotton had a hard time translating the process into words in his brain, much less understanding how they were read and thereby performed. But he had accomplished something- a backstitch according to his reference. But he shan't stop there. In order to make something habitual, or at least concreted into one’s memory, it was essential to execute the same activity over and over and over again. So he did- he continued making an uninterrupted line of backstitches.
He spent the next hour fixated on his project, a newfound interest growing roots in his psyche. He was proud of himself for having found something he enjoyed- a new hobby. As of late his days had been spent lonely, bored, restless but without the motivation or desire to do anything. He had turned to alcohol to make it harder for his brain to process basic tasks, which consequently made them more challenging and thereby fun. Trying to pour oats into his favourite ceramic bowl was a struggle, but in the state of little to no care or inhibition, the process was hilarious. Trying to walk to the bathroom to relieve himself was utterly chaotic and made him laugh every time he fell when normally he would erupt into frustration. What he was doing now was being done whilst sober and he was enjoying it all the same.
Although, he really should be practising his sewing on something other than the pants he was currently wearing. With this in mind, Kotton paused to retrieve a piece of clothing he had worn the other day. Coincidentally, he had snagged it on a wooden post adorned with barbed wire next to the butcher shop he had passed on the way to the library. There, near the sleeve, was a small hole. He wondered if he would be able to stitch up the hole with the new information he had acquired from his self-teaching.
He deposited the sweater onto the floor in front of his hearth and fell into a sitting position behind it. He didn’t give a moment to the cherishable warmth of the fire. Instead, he focused without distraction onto his next project.
He looked back to his journal, to his textbook, to the tools still held with white knuckles, and attempted to patch a hole. It took several tries, multiple mis-uses of thread and a pinch or two of the needle into the tips of his fingers before he was able to muster a half-excuse of a patch job but regardless of the time it took- or the blood, sweat, and tears so they say- Kotton had attempted and accomplished his first attempt at sewing.
He smiled, brandishing his white teeth to the glorious glow of the fireplace. He threw the sweater to the side and dropped his equipment. He made a note to find a box to put his tools in so they wouldn’t get lost. He was going to pick them up again someday, he was sure of it, so long as the energy came to strike him again. Besides, he really wanted to be able to use his newly learnt technique to crochet a cute fox.
The young man let out a sigh and watched the steam from the heat dissipate into the air, consumed by the heat of the fire. He felt satisfied, successful, and in no need of liquor to satiate the listless nerves of someone who didn’t know what to do nor want to do anything.
He pulled his journal closer to him and plucked the pencil that had been hidden against the binding. He addressed the backstitch technique, making sure to include as much information as he could in case he forgot even the most trivial step.
As he was writing down the last sentence, his stomach growled loudly. He was in need of something to eat, and stew was the only thing on his mind.