I fought to zero in on the technician’s voice. “Her head is down. So that’s good news.”
Where did she see the head? Up or down, all I could see were shapeless blobs. She was saying something else. I tried to focus on her words. Perhaps she’d clue me into the secret language of the ultrasound.
I’ve never really like crowds. But now, unlike in my pre-bloody brain life, I can’t tolerate them. I can’t process high volumes of information in a timely fashion. All data comes in with equal value, whether it is a loud shriek or a soft murmur. All colors seem garish, blinding, and all tactile input is harsh to the touch. Everything is a blur, without shape, chaotic. I can’t make order out of the chaos. I have nothing to anchor me and my incoherent thoughts. My brain lacks the ability to file information away under recognizable labels.
Our conversations continue. He has been giving me a wealth of information about his community’s traditional products. I requested close-up videos of the weaving of the gudas. “I’ll ask my mom to take one.” She also sent a video of a cousin’s wedding, asking guests to wave at the camera.
Stories are inherent in traditional textiles, about the artisans and their communities, and about their cultures and traditions. Some of the stories are in the process, others are integrated in the designs, through figurative or geometric motifs. Though we usually associate stories with words, many are told through symbols or images, whether through hieroglyphics, geometric designs, or figurative imagery. Stories do not have to have a beginning, middle, and end, and they can take many forms, such as prose, dance, poetry, or even a list.