Wednesday, March 9, 2011
new knitting book
im back ...
Thursday, October 14, 2010
Fuzzy feet redux and camden hat too
Thursday, October 7, 2010
Shiny new swift and a new pattern
Sunday, September 26, 2010
Dr Scholl's costs me a 'dime' and more
Friday, September 24, 2010
iblock
Blocking mats, wires, hundreds of T-pins and plenty of finished objects. All soft and squidgy and smooshy. I like soft things. Fuzzy-wuzzies which I can press my cheek to, fluffiness which I can sink my feet in and cocoon myself in comfort. Knit, purl, purl, knit. What a life, and what an art. Wearable as well as creative, so sucks to you, grandma, for calling me old fashioned and my art ‘old housewives sitting on the front stoop with nothing better to do than clack needles and tongues endlessly.’
My stash is threatening to take over my apartment and UFO’s in various stages of execution lay about here and there. A couple inches of ribbing on the sofa, an unpaired sock on the table, a poochie sweater with ends not woven in. Frogged (sigh, it took me so long to do that much) sweaters lying in an ignominious heap inside the telly trolley. And yarn everywhere, fuzzy ends on the floor, tangled and untangled and detangled cakes piled about just anyhow. From creation to chaos and from chaos to a cosmic (well almost) state of new creation. Such is life, as I said before, and here I am, with the fruits of my labor draped about me, cloudy trophies of my art.
You doubt my art, ma’am? Since it seems plebian to you, well everybody can knit of course and everybody, they say, can dance and paint a picture. Everybody is me, and yet, not-me, because I am everyone and I am no one. Sometimes I am an average Someone, point for point an ordinary little homemaker with few ambitions and some fulfilled desires. More often, I am no one because my writing and my words are me and if the well runs dry, then the bucket ceases to exist. Meaningfully, that is. Words and thoughts swirl away as the water does and whispers fade into the air. You don’t believe me do you? All right then, give me back my lost words. Words that used to be and may still exist in some dark, dank corner of the internet. Can you find them and bind them together? I thought not.
Blocking mats and pins and shiny little points, prick my finger and feel the sting. I wish I could block the kinks off myself and be what everyone wanted to be. Frog that. Wish I could block myself into what I wanted me to be.
Tuesday, August 3, 2010
Clouds restarted and some cooking thrown in
Thursday, July 15, 2010
Irony
Here I am, eating crisps, while my husband works out at the gym. Ironic.
Here I am, buying more and more wool until it threatens to take over my closet (and sofa) and I'm frogging every other project. Okay, so the cloud bolero got frogged because I made a mistake in the pattern (ok, a really bad one) but I frogged the vest because I just didn’t like how the stitch pattern was turning out- and the yarn hurt my hands. Okay, I think, no more cheap yarns anymore. I finished a sleeve on the drops pullover, and slid it onto my hand to show my husband who loves the pale pink color. He strokes it and finds it a tad rough. Well, what else can you expect from an acrylic polyester blend?
I’m craving crisps again…not good!
So much cooking- chicken parm and samosa- rajma chawal and pav bhaji- kheer and pasta…sometimes I wonder- should I put up some recipes? Nah, I think- no one reads this anyway. And that’s fine.
I was so lonely when I first got here and now? I still don’t have any friends, but I go to a class occasionally, and I know my next door neighbor now (not well, they moved in a week or so back) but still it’s better than nothing. And I have knitting and watching the telly, dr who (and lusting after david tennant) and classic toons and unlimited Netflix on my DVD player…so yes, I am alone, but I’m okay.
Although I do look forward to my husband getting back- and I daydream about him off and on- mostly the creases about his mouth as he starts to smile. Not dimples, just creases. Intensely sexy.
And drooling over him while stuffing my mouth with lays crisps.
Irony.