math

For those of you who are my seven regular readers of domesticat.net, this post isn't for you; this post is a rehash of some previous posts, plus photos, for the Quilt Bloggers' Festival. It's for a lot of people who didn't see this little quilt while it was in progress.

I'd like to introduce you to a pattern that is almost never seen in quilting. It's so similar to what you're accustomed to that it'll take you a moment or two to recognize that something about this pattern is off, and different:

['Finality']

The story of "Chaos Theory" is the story of an unlikely set of friendships, the kind of friendships that happen far more commonly in a far-flung internet age. It's also a story of introverts stepping out of their shells, of red-wine and third-story hotel rooms; of sign language and little girls with big brown eyes and bright smiles.

But I'm getting ahead of myself.

It starts at my desk, at work, about a year and a half ago, as I prepared to head to my first DrupalCon. After years of being swaddled in the familiarity of Dragon*Con, I was more than a little daunted by the prospect of going to a convention where there would be a thousand or so of THEM and only one of ME. Cue Introvert Panic™.

What's the saying — the life you save may be your own?

I've made no secret of my intention to do a large Penrose quilt, but I had a sinking feeling a little while ago that I should perhaps consider doing a trial run first instead of cannonballing my ass into the deep end and potentially ruining a lot of fabric that can't be re-purchased here in Huntsville.

I've been more than a little obsessed with tilings ever since Jacob pointed them out to me a few months ago, and I've been quietly storing up tilings I think would make great quilts. At first, I asked myself why other quilters hadn't tackled these visually stunning images for quilt purposes, but eventually it sunk in — because they're hard. They're demanding. Their continual broken and rebroken lines mean you never get the luxury of straight, long seams or 90° angles. They require piecing odd and funky angles on small pieces over, and over, and over again.