Archive for April, 2008
Yay. This was just so addicitively lovely. I did not follow BrooklynTweed’s yarn and needle recommendation, but made a 36″ wide blanket using Marr Haven sport weight yarn on size 7 needles. That yarn feels a bit rough when you’re working it, but blocks out so softly, that I might just give the rest of that yarn a wash before working with it again. I used less than half a spool, and will weigh out the blanket once it’s fully dry.
The only harrowing bit of making this is becoming convinced that the strange little octopus thingy could possibly block out flat, and I have to say I have never man-handled a piece of knitting so much as this to get it to flatten. The trick, as for all lace, is to stick with the lines I found it useful to pin out the feather centerlines after the flower was complete, and then work the fan shapes last, releasing the feathers to make a nice inside curve as I worked my way around.
When making this piece for a gift, leave lots of time for the border. For some reason it took me much longer than I expected to get that done. Nice work, a lovely edge, and one I’ll want to repeat…
Found its home with a wonderfully smart woman who’s helped me a lot lately. Can’t wait to play with it when it’s dry before sending it off..
This post has socks in it, so why not put it in my knitting blog? It is last night’s dream. I had to struggle to wake myself up from it this morning…
In my dream everybody — all of my family and friends and acquaintences, all of us — live in a single large apartment complex. Awake I recognize it’s a big nursing home, or elders’ apartment complex, but it was just where we lived in the dream. In the dream I’m helping my father, in his rooms, put his laundry away after it came back from the cleaners. Skivvies in his skivvy drawer. (We were raised by the Navy, and skivvies are underwear.) Shirts and pants in his closet. And then his socks. They were all wet, and they had a kind of wrapper, plastic, saying, Thank You For Your Business, The Ku Klux Klan.
The Ku Klux Klan was laundering my dad’s socks! And badly! And charging us for it!
I got very upset. I asked my Dad, Did you know the Ku Klux Klan is washing your socks? But my dad has severe dementia, so I knew it was a stupid question. He did not know. He just wasn’t happy about his wet socks.
The rest of the dream is me encountering all these people I know and people I love, and asking, Why does the Ku Klux Klan have the contract for cleaning our socks?! We should not let them wash our socks! I don’t want them washing my socks. Why is it okay for them to profit from our business? And they’re terrible at it besides! I asked the kid at the gym counter, and the guy behind the front desk and the lady serving jello salad (lime with shaved carrots) in the cafeteria… why? How can we abide this? Asked my friends, why? How can this be? How can we let this stand? Everyone seemed kind of pestered by my questions and very shruggy. It didn’t seem very important.
And I woke up very frustrated.
Of course, it’s a political dream. I’m pretty sure. And I feel just as strongly by daylight that the Klan should not be allowed to wash our socks. Kind of scared to go back to sleep tonight…
Trying blogit. Because I can't sleep.
Hey go rate my kitteh, will you? She’s a selfish, murderous, destructive, and very soft cat. Maybe living a public life will make her consider her behavior…
It’s National Poetry Month. And the month is honored starting at midnight when poets and people who like poetry around the world paste up poems in unexpected places for people to find, quite by accident. And so, here is a poem by the amazing Bob Hicok, who sent this to us when my mother died. I’ve printed it entirely without his permission, but in the spirit of the day. So if you like it, go buy a book of his and enjoy so much more…
One of those things we say
My thoughts are with you.
They’re the left sleeve of the white shirt in your closet,
at the far end, away from the other disguises of flesh.
The twist-tie in your ponytail when all else fails.
I am here, weeks of walking away, Ohio and skin
between us, West Virginia and strip mines, I’d hate to count
the rivers, how many other women
with their dying mothers,
their long nights at the picnic table
with stars and the stars of cigarettes again
after so many years of no.
But my thoughts are there and my thoughts
are hands washing the oatmeal pot, taking out the diapers, breath
should come with a warning,
YOU WILL RAISE YOUR MOTHER INTO DEATH LIKE A CHILD
but you would, anyway, breathe.
Breathe and drop a red ball into a lake,
breathe and go to the prom,
breathe and throw a party for the house when the mortgage
has lost its teeth.
And there you are, old.
And as everyone else quits breathing, you keep on.
And then it’s your turn to stop.
And in the second you do, you know something you can’t tell us,
about after, about the story of here.
And your daughter, looking at your face, has no idea
you’re trying to comfort her.
And you have no idea I’m trying to comfort you.
I love how intimate I’ve become with failure.
That leaves, having given up green for brown, sky for earth,
say things when I walk through them.
Gibberish, I think it’s called.
Like my thoughts after six hundred miles of travel,
that shutter banging in wind, that dog
barking at nothing
because every time he’s barked at nothing,
nothing’s gone wrong and why not
keep it that way.