Back Home Again

Today tastes like flat peppermint, oily and cold.

Listening to George R.R. Martin's Game of Thrones, the first book in his Song of Fire and Ice series. I don't know if I like the narrator's voice much in this--at times, he's so perfectly what I heard in my head it's spooky; and at others, well, my disbelief has left noticeable dents in the ground from where it fell.

I know several people who don't like the world Martin set up--it's feudal. Women have no power save what they can grasp and wield in the shadows through thier influence on the men in their lives. The arguement I've heard is that if you're going to create a world of fantasy, why not fantasize that true equality between the sexes has been achieved? Why place such a premium on inherited power, and male succession, rather than on the capabilities of the individual?

Because the interesting characters are the girls/women. They can't hack and slash their way to victory--but they can work behind the scenes to mold their world. They can choose to be the dutiful daughter, marrying a stranger for the political alliance the match brings, bearing trueborn children to inherit their father's lands and manage that particular chunk of the country--or they can choose to cuckold their husband for ego's sake. One of the girls becomes a tomboyish hero within the limits imposed by her youth and strength, another is a pawn of the court still peering through scaled eyes and believing in romance and fairy tales. I'm looking forward to what happens when the latter gets her act together and figures out that she's NOT actually a little frail paper boat; that she has a rudder and oars and can steer herself. She can't completely ignore the wind and waves of the world she's in--but she could very much learn to tack into the breeze and ride the swells.

If the world were fair, I'd have three-four pairs of socks and photos of both the Queen Anne's Lace Cardi and its companion shell to show off. Unfortunately, the Shell Shell (Shell Squared?) turned into a Penelope project--I worked on it all day some days, then ripped it all back at night. Two rows forward were countered by three rows back.

Most of the front is done now--but it's at a really awkward point. I don't have enough yarn to finish the front completely, and will not have more till Wednesday evening. Sigh. So I'm going to punish it by not taking photos till the front is complete.

Of course, having met with my muse the week before I left, I have all kinds of ideas to follow up on, and I'm feeling stymied because I don't want to get started on more more more.

I have an idea for a lace moebius scarf that's started in the center with faggoting and then knit to the edges in long long rows. Terpsichore showed me a crocheted scarf that another designer made--but that designer had to go take care of two seriously ill family members before she could write up the pattern. I think I've got a handle on how it works, and Terpsichore is dying to be able to offer it--but it too has to wait till Wednesday.

I'm dying to realize the Arizona shawl that's been kicking around in my head since I first laid eyes on Schroder's Oregon shawl. I have the materials, I have the charts, but I have to clear my magnet board first. Grrrrr.

And did I mention that I'm running out of handknit socks? Slowly, slowly, holes are being worn in them, and frankly, I have zero interest in learning how to darn them. Love to knit them, hate to mend them, so they never have little thin worn spots. No, they have great gaping voids which would require real mending skills, not just grafting, but nalbinding.

Wolf, cabbage, goat--banana, cat, mouse, pipe organ. I need a bigger boat, dammit. Or more hours in the day.