Cutting with a dull blade

Don’t think that pressure will change things. It won’t.

It’s hard to remember the last cut. Certainly on those two tables pressed together in the dining room bay window, light in the morning if there was any to be had and through the funnel of the rear hall in the afternoon. That cutting mat was taped down to stop it from sliding. Pressure was a problem then too.

It’s easier to remember all of the actions made to bind things together. At the sewing table in the window that overlooked the island of stones, overlooked by the boughs of the cedar that got scary in the wind—edges round, straight, smooth and rough—then standing with the machine atop a makeshift box in the bay window again. Better light when there was any and a lighter bodily burden too.

There are two extra blades left in the box even thought it looked like one, bound together with grease applied to keep them apart. Remove the time with the grease. The blade beneath is still fresh, its body intact. Up to the task. Pressing threads apart until they break.

Just now the cutting mat slid a bit. The new meter stick has its own backing but the mat just takes it along. It’s the pressure. I applied too much.