Filching From the Masters Series: The Next Installment

Today tastes like diet peach-flavored green tea. Flat. Chemical. Harsh.

Although I have been hard at work on the red shawl (my fingers may be permanently tattooed with dye on the index and middle finger of my right hand, like a nineteenth century clerk's mark) completion continues to be elusive. I knit on the thing going to work. I knit on it on the way home from work. I knit on it at lunch. I get about six rows per day, which is half a repeat (more or less) and at this rate it will take . . . twenty days to get to the edging. ( whacks head on the keyboard in hkj.fcdahdhewkhd; DESPAIR.)

And, of course, the Project Fairies have not taken pity on me and worked on some of the objects which have been quasi-abandoned in my quests to complete the projects that fill me with passion right now. Gareth's binkie is a forlorn charcoal heap. The Castle binkie languishes in a clashing swoon. The bowls remain unfelted and un-knit. (I refuse to discuss the books that await covers, pages that need polishing, and the unbound signatures stacked in the garage. Nope. Not gonna talk about the ATC's and decos that just need glue and postage. NOPE. NOT GONNA.)

Thus, everything is pretty much the same as it was when I posted pics last week. I'm not sure why I feel like there ought to be a whole lot more. Perhaps that will change--I have the Fourth off, so plan to be up burning the midnight oil on the red shawl and the Scarf of the Apocalypse. And then burning daylight in front of the DVD player clicking away on both projects. If the internal alarm clock (or the cats) get me up at the usual time, I may just give up and haul my carcass onto the couch to play podcasts and knit and knit and knit until Gareth gets up and we can work on the Netflix backlog.

Meanwhile, I'm going to follow my rule regarding what to do when you have nothing new to show--steal a dead poet's work and filk it into knitting. Y'all know this one:

Choosing the Next Project From the Growing Stash

Whose list is this? It’s mine, I know–
Scribbles and arrows to and fro
Footprints of a rambling mind
Potentialities all aglow.

To knit for charity would be kind,
Each stitch with a prayer entwined.
Or to wrap a friend with loving arms
Of lace. Or socks. But they wouldn’t mind

If I yielded to the charms
Of a shawl for me. Ah, but the harm
Is that it’s very late. I should keep
To the schedule set by the tyrannical alarm.

My bed looks warm, my pillow deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And yards to knit before I sleep,
And yards to knit before I sleep.

Indeed.