Sharp, metallic, hard. Soft, flexible, bright. Steel and cotton, working together. Across and up, across and up. Right to left, right to left. Endless repetition. Carefully counting each time the needle pierces fabric, watching the rivulet of thread pool in place, filling the barren beige landscape with a sea of green. Left hand clutching tapestry, right hand, muscles, tendons aching, pushing the needle on, and on, and on.

Left to right, left to right. Back again, the way we came. Retracing steps in time to reach the beginning. This is the way it has always been done. Women sitting meditating, hypnotised by the gentle rhythm of stitching backward and forward, backward and forward. Shoulders stooping, head edging closer to the work, eyes straining to make out fine details in dimming light. The length of the needle leaves an imprint, red with whitish banks, on fingers that grip. Push the needle till it is half through, shift the hand to seek the needle again underneath the work, pull the needle all out, dragging three strands of liquid with it. Push the needle up from below at the next point, and repeat till the thread can be felt under the skin, a small river of fire running up through the arm. Release the needle. The cramp will ease.

The left hand too is sore. The fabric is fine and smooth, difficult to grasp. Tension must be maintained. It flows from stitcher to work, ensuring each stitch looks the same as the last. To let go is to lose control, and watch the work come undone. Can not. Will not.

No knots at the end. Other stitches hold ends in place, thread being broken with a small bronze, circular cutter.

I break the thread.

© Janine Gredig 2006

I'm sitting in Starbucks on a corner in Asakusa, Tokyo.

It's a grey winter day. In here, the customers all wear woollen jerseys.
Out there, they all wear parkas or long cashmere coats and scarves.

Outside there are modern rickshaws, with steel frames and pneumatic tyres,
being towed by strong young men in short red coats. They look warm when
they are carrying passengers, but when they stop for a break they stomp
their feet and blow into their hands to warm them.

Across the street is a building. It is a restaurant of some sort. On the
outside wall, there is a three-story, stylised, concrete shrimp. Maybe
it is a fish restaurant.

There is another building round the corner and up the street. It has
flashing neon fish on the second story. Perhaps it is also a fish
restaurant.

Middle aged men stand at the corner and wait for the lights to change.
They smoke as they are waiting and as they are walking. They smoke when
they are riding their bicycles,and when they are driving their mustard
yellow taxis.

The shops are full of sales at the moment. 50 percent off things you don't really need. Middle-aged men walk past with a cigarrette in one hand, a
designer shopping bag in the other. At night, when the sale shops have
closed, and the men with the designer goods have gone home, other men set
up their homes, in boxes on freezing concrete sidewalks. They lie in cardboard shelters, under neon fish, and blow into their hands to keep warm.

I am here, waiting for the cleaners to finish with our hotel room.
Customers come and go while I sit and write. Any minute now I will brave
snow scoured winds and return home. But for now I will stay in the warm,
and contemplate concrete shrimp.

© Janine Gredig 2006

Grandma
gave me
my temper,

gifted to me
in a beautiful
ebony box,

wrapped in an
expensive
red, silk bow.

It exploded
as soon as
I touched it,

fragmenting,

leaving me
moody,
and
restless.

© Janine Gredig 2006

Experimenting
with Haiku, for the writers
group I belong to.

Rain comes from nowhere
spoiling the mild winters day.
Black cloud shrouds the land.

Cold wind numbs my soul.
I wish I was in Brisbane
drinking in sunshine.

Cat refuses to
go out. He prefers it next
to the fireside now.

It was dark when I
went to work, and dark now that
I leave. Missed the sun.

Ice particles on
exhalation. Winters spur
my expiration.

© Janine Gredig 2006