Terminal Startitis

Today tastes like . . . clay and chalk. Not the sweetish modeling plastecine—this is the nasty gritty stuff clawed from the ground, cold, clammy, stale.

I have startitis so badly, they’re going to break down the door and slap me on life support soon. Tubes up the nose, incomprehensible but scientific sounding labels flying thick as bulky cotton cables, medical codes and abbreviations shouted at leather-lunged volume. Someone will undoubtedly yell “Stat!” often.

It all began with the deep disappointment over the weekend spent wrestling with the sleeves of the Queen Anne’s Lace. I’ve been pointedly ignoring it as it snivels in the Carry-me Bag o’KIP, pleading that it’ll be good this time, that no one understands me like it does, that baby if I’ll only come back things will be different this time. It hasn’t yet sent flowers. I haven’t yet filed for an Order of Protection. We may reconcile yet.

But right now . . . oh, right now I’m cruising the singles bar of my stash and the knitting blogosphere. Hmmmmm . . . that Ribby Cardi on Bonnie’s blog looks mighty hot. Ooooh, look at the lovely smoke ring patterns at Heartstrings. And I’ve been deep (o so very very deep) in lusting love with Jenna’s bad boy, that Rogue. I’ve gone to third base with him, recharting his cables so they run . . . all . . . the way . . .down. He’d be so, so lush in rayon chenille; all I need to do is knit a swatch and re-gauge him (and nobody can re-gauge a sweater like I can, baby. Nobody.)

And the other night, as I kicked the Bag o’KIP to the curb (ok, by the front door, work with me here) I got a bit too close to the bookcase, and fell into my copies of _Bauerliches Stricken_ (gesundheit!) where I began paging through all the wondermus Bavarian twisty cables. And I recall in _Folk Vests_ that they’ve got a nice one where the triangular clock pattern runs from the waistband up to the shoulders with a neat little fill pattern in between . . . and I’ve been reminded how much I adore cardis . . . and how neatly cables pop in chenille . . . and now I need a cold shower. And a cigarette.

Hoo. So I guess it’s about time to go sink an hour into the Queen Anne’s Lace. And about halfway through that hour, I’ll see once more the vision she was when she came to me in that coffee house, and that memory will be enough to see me through this project. We have a history after all. I’ll just have to chuck Rogue under the chin and say, “We’ll always have the workshop, kid.”