I'm carrying my hobby on my back.
Like a macrame snail, like a wicker bustle basket.
Like knitters, knotters, shuttle loomers and metal embroiderers. 18th century Wonder Woman cos-players, hand stitchers of stays. Happy quilters, natural dyers, spoon carvers and painters of faux Elizabethan miniatures.
Who did I leave out? Makers of Roman segmentata, mini medieval trebuchet aficionados, lucet cord braiders. Hatters (mad and sane) huskers, for dollies, tatters for doilies and on and on and on.
We all have so much stuff. And now we are told it's a bit shameful, that a kind of modern asceticism is the way to live well (2 sheets on your bed, is that necessary).
Your collection of gilded lilies should give way to the contemplation of a twig in a simple box.
I have been getting rid of a lot of things, but I don't want nothing. I don't want to sit in a joyless cloister warmed by my lack of a blanket. Well, well, enough MAY be as good as a feast.
For now, I will practice Rococo reticence, to this I will add, why are closets so big?
Ever Your Thimble Servant,
Miss Brilliantine
