Today tastes like . . . canned milkshakes and empty promises.
I have always found it painfully ironic that women’s magazines will present a hot new diet and decadent desserts in the same issue. Presumably, after consuming the desserts, one will need to follow the diet to remove the poundage. And I’ve been sufficiently Ayn Randed to realize that it’s all about pushing product, baby. If we can’t hook you with promises of a slimmer more youthful you, then we’ll getcha where you live, fatso, with a new chocolate strawberry shortcake recipe.
And now, with Kirstie Ally in “Fat Actress” where she plays herself, essentially, as an actress who has gained a bunch of weight (aka “she’d be so pretty if only she’d lose that weight) (sidebar—it helps to be pretty BEFORE you gain the weight) and the starfucker magazines are going great guns over her refusal to take it all off right now and try for younger, slimmer roles. They chide her for not repenting and dieting back down to a “healthy” weight and a more “normal” size (is that a 2 or a 4 this year?)
Mary Kate Olsen is taken to task for being too slim, however. Much is made of the revolving rehab door, and she’s encouraged to for God’s sake, EAT something dear child. Hmmm, wonder where the obsession with slenderness came from? Wonder if the stress of being in the goldfish bowl has anything to do with this? And heaven help her if she gains one ounce over the recommended weight for her height (“recommended” by the mainstream media, of course, the same people who made much of a supermodel who was a “voluptuous” 136 at six feet two.)
Perhaps she could give Oprah a run for her money in the weight gain-loss merry-go round.
Friday, October 29, 2004
Wednesday, October 27, 2004
Sweet Charity
Today tastes like . . . birthday cake, lasagne, and quilt batting.
Last Saturday, Judie, the local Project Linus co-ordinator held a Blanket Bee. She does this three-four times a year.
Last Saturday, Judie, the local Project Linus co-ordinator held a Blanket Bee. She does this three-four times a year.
This particular one was special, as we were celebrating the 5,000th blanket donated. Project Linus provides hand-made quilts and afghans to children in the terminal ward and the ICU, as well as blankets to preemies and "angel afghans" for stillbirths. I've been involved with Project Linus for four years now. They're my chosen charity.
The energy at the bees is fabulous and restorative. Not only is every participant self-selected, the degree of creativity and original thinking is high. Quilters selecting squares and rectangles of fabrics that relate to each other—different prints of sports, cars, cats, space themes of rockets and aliens; crocheters fitting granny squares together in melded colorways or finding ways to make stripes of scraps blend pleasingly; knitters trying new stitches or techniques—entrelac, counterpanes, intarsia, fair isle, modular knitting, lace. And everyone is working on something to be given away.
Judie hit on the idea of holding contests to increase the parts of the stash that go quickly or are chronically low. This time, the contest was for blue and purple blankets. I didn't have time to get a dog in that fight, but the winning knitted/crocheted blanket made me want to go grab my hook and figure out how that was done! (Done in granny squares, with the featured motif being little hearts in the square. Baby afghan sized, sport weight yearn. Too cute!) March's contest will be "boy" blankets, since boys are the sex more prone to illness (just structure) and injury (just nature).
I participate because for me, a blanket is a great huge canvas for me to work with. No fitting issues, no worries about a carefully chosen motif vanishing into an armscye or being bitten into by a seam. I can play with color, I can doodle with technique, and in the end it will go to be someone's woobie, thrown in the washer and returned to be chewed on, drooled on, cried on. I get the fun part, the planning and the making and a chance to give directly to the people in my community.
I have issues with groups like the United Way—I've seen their plush offices! Every time they advertise, I recall a meeting I attended in their office—we were just using their space, mind, we weren't affiliated in any way. I recall the oak table all fifteen of us sat around, how there was room for another ten without getting cozy, and oh, yeah, the wet bar. So now every time I see them shilling for bucks, the first thing that comes to mind is "Bud or Coors? Or would you prefer Dewars?" How much of my dollar is going to support flummery like that so they can wangle the big bucks from corporations?
Yes, just like getting a loan from the bank, you have to look like you don't need it in order to get it—but my ‘nads still get frosted thinking about it.
But the economics of a blanket are in MasterCard's "priceless" category. You can't sell it for booze or trade it for drugs. It gives someone in a distressing, disorienting place an anchor to hang on to—and hospitals are distressing, disorienting places for a healthy adult. For a very sick kid, whose bottom line is that strangers come in and stick you with needles, make you swallow vile concoctions or make you take pills, all while you don't feel well at all—yuck. Anything to make it a little better.
And also, to some extent, I feel that charitable contributions should be made in private. If you don't, is it for the sake of your fellow man, or for your ego? "Look at me, everybody, I give and give and give! Aren't I SWELL?" "Look at me in my fur coat, jewelry, and designer dress! I'm only going to wear it once, to this dinner which costs $300.00 per plate! All for charity; aren't I magnificent?" "You should thank me for taking a whole day to come here to the soup kitchen to ladle out stew for you. You should be grateful for your bowl of brown, which I am helping to provide. You SHOULD thank me for contributing my time and effort this one four-hour shift per year." And what about the 364 that aren't Christmas Eve, the day after Thanksgiving, or the Annual Black & White Ball? What is the Great Giver doing then to improve the lot of other people on this mudball?
Nothing. Giving at the office, maybe. Or at least saying he does when a United Way rep comes calling. Because after all, he shoots his wad where it can be seen ands exclaimed over. For him, the reward is primarily in the reaction of others who see him doing his annual good deed.
I prefer to take my reward in the act itself.
The energy at the bees is fabulous and restorative. Not only is every participant self-selected, the degree of creativity and original thinking is high. Quilters selecting squares and rectangles of fabrics that relate to each other—different prints of sports, cars, cats, space themes of rockets and aliens; crocheters fitting granny squares together in melded colorways or finding ways to make stripes of scraps blend pleasingly; knitters trying new stitches or techniques—entrelac, counterpanes, intarsia, fair isle, modular knitting, lace. And everyone is working on something to be given away.
Judie hit on the idea of holding contests to increase the parts of the stash that go quickly or are chronically low. This time, the contest was for blue and purple blankets. I didn't have time to get a dog in that fight, but the winning knitted/crocheted blanket made me want to go grab my hook and figure out how that was done! (Done in granny squares, with the featured motif being little hearts in the square. Baby afghan sized, sport weight yearn. Too cute!) March's contest will be "boy" blankets, since boys are the sex more prone to illness (just structure) and injury (just nature).
I participate because for me, a blanket is a great huge canvas for me to work with. No fitting issues, no worries about a carefully chosen motif vanishing into an armscye or being bitten into by a seam. I can play with color, I can doodle with technique, and in the end it will go to be someone's woobie, thrown in the washer and returned to be chewed on, drooled on, cried on. I get the fun part, the planning and the making and a chance to give directly to the people in my community.
I have issues with groups like the United Way—I've seen their plush offices! Every time they advertise, I recall a meeting I attended in their office—we were just using their space, mind, we weren't affiliated in any way. I recall the oak table all fifteen of us sat around, how there was room for another ten without getting cozy, and oh, yeah, the wet bar. So now every time I see them shilling for bucks, the first thing that comes to mind is "Bud or Coors? Or would you prefer Dewars?" How much of my dollar is going to support flummery like that so they can wangle the big bucks from corporations?
Yes, just like getting a loan from the bank, you have to look like you don't need it in order to get it—but my ‘nads still get frosted thinking about it.
But the economics of a blanket are in MasterCard's "priceless" category. You can't sell it for booze or trade it for drugs. It gives someone in a distressing, disorienting place an anchor to hang on to—and hospitals are distressing, disorienting places for a healthy adult. For a very sick kid, whose bottom line is that strangers come in and stick you with needles, make you swallow vile concoctions or make you take pills, all while you don't feel well at all—yuck. Anything to make it a little better.
And also, to some extent, I feel that charitable contributions should be made in private. If you don't, is it for the sake of your fellow man, or for your ego? "Look at me, everybody, I give and give and give! Aren't I SWELL?" "Look at me in my fur coat, jewelry, and designer dress! I'm only going to wear it once, to this dinner which costs $300.00 per plate! All for charity; aren't I magnificent?" "You should thank me for taking a whole day to come here to the soup kitchen to ladle out stew for you. You should be grateful for your bowl of brown, which I am helping to provide. You SHOULD thank me for contributing my time and effort this one four-hour shift per year." And what about the 364 that aren't Christmas Eve, the day after Thanksgiving, or the Annual Black & White Ball? What is the Great Giver doing then to improve the lot of other people on this mudball?
Nothing. Giving at the office, maybe. Or at least saying he does when a United Way rep comes calling. Because after all, he shoots his wad where it can be seen ands exclaimed over. For him, the reward is primarily in the reaction of others who see him doing his annual good deed.
I prefer to take my reward in the act itself.
Monday, October 25, 2004
Things the Guru Never Told Me, Part One: It's the Second Step That's Hard
Today tastes like . . . sugared nails. Jordan nails? Which begs the question, do you suck the coating off and then chew, or bite down from the very beginning?
Listening to: Stephen King's Dark Tower VII: The Tower. Another reviewer called it indulgent, and I agree. King has a tendency to put plot aside while he focuses on character, and this time, he's divided the party and is telling the story from each point of view, so we see it through Jake's eyes, then through Callahan's; though Eddie's, then through Roland's. Hence, the action moves very very sloooowly. Also, as fans who have read his more recent material know, the Tower has been coloring many books, most notably Black House, and the Bobby Garfield story in Hearts In Atlantis. Now these stories (and others) pop up in the Tower series.
Additionally, King also often ends up going for the E.C. Comics gross-out, mixing horror with, well, just icky. Horrific, perhaps, if you are of the mentality that is "horrified" at blood, snot, and other effluvia; but the only thing that comes to my mind when the author writes of pus on the mirror or blood on the floor is, "Great. Something ELSE to mop up."
And this is a pity, because at his best, his villains' voice resonates with the voice of my shadow self's shadow self--the darkest, bleakest, most destructive part of me. When his Really Bad Thing is whispering to one hero, "Kill the boy; cut his throat and wash me in his blood. Then, throw yourself out of the window. If you do this, if you please me well, I will let you sing my praises all the way down." and the RBT's voice is low, and melodic, and reasonable. Ever so reasonable. I can understand the hero listening, nodding along; and the boy who can hear the RBT too is nodding. Whispering back to do it, just to do it, that they've come a long way, but who cares. It doesn't matter; the quest doesn't matter, they'll all end someday, so why not here and now, serving the Really Bad Thing?
And then later we're treated to a round of exhibitionistic phlegmophagia and cutesy euphemisms for sex, and suddenly I'm transported back onto the schoolyard. The part where as an adult, I recall what was REALLY funny then—the scat jokes, the horrified fascination with bodily fluids and excreta—and all I can do is sigh and roll my eyes.
I'm enjoying it, don't get me wrong. But for me, it's kind of like the last half of Tolkiein's Return of the King, right after Strider/Aragorn heads off through the crack to negotiate with the specter kings and enlist their aid. It took the movie to get me to read past that point, because by that part of the story, I pretty much lost interest. I'm holding on because King done give me his gotta—I gotta know if Roland makes it to the Tower, and what he finds there.
Progress report:
Scroll down to last Monday and look at the wimple and castle blan. Haven't knit a stitch on these since they aren't easily carried, simple to work, or under a deadline. Knit happens, as they say.
Listening to: Stephen King's Dark Tower VII: The Tower. Another reviewer called it indulgent, and I agree. King has a tendency to put plot aside while he focuses on character, and this time, he's divided the party and is telling the story from each point of view, so we see it through Jake's eyes, then through Callahan's; though Eddie's, then through Roland's. Hence, the action moves very very sloooowly. Also, as fans who have read his more recent material know, the Tower has been coloring many books, most notably Black House, and the Bobby Garfield story in Hearts In Atlantis. Now these stories (and others) pop up in the Tower series.
Additionally, King also often ends up going for the E.C. Comics gross-out, mixing horror with, well, just icky. Horrific, perhaps, if you are of the mentality that is "horrified" at blood, snot, and other effluvia; but the only thing that comes to my mind when the author writes of pus on the mirror or blood on the floor is, "Great. Something ELSE to mop up."
And this is a pity, because at his best, his villains' voice resonates with the voice of my shadow self's shadow self--the darkest, bleakest, most destructive part of me. When his Really Bad Thing is whispering to one hero, "Kill the boy; cut his throat and wash me in his blood. Then, throw yourself out of the window. If you do this, if you please me well, I will let you sing my praises all the way down." and the RBT's voice is low, and melodic, and reasonable. Ever so reasonable. I can understand the hero listening, nodding along; and the boy who can hear the RBT too is nodding. Whispering back to do it, just to do it, that they've come a long way, but who cares. It doesn't matter; the quest doesn't matter, they'll all end someday, so why not here and now, serving the Really Bad Thing?
And then later we're treated to a round of exhibitionistic phlegmophagia and cutesy euphemisms for sex, and suddenly I'm transported back onto the schoolyard. The part where as an adult, I recall what was REALLY funny then—the scat jokes, the horrified fascination with bodily fluids and excreta—and all I can do is sigh and roll my eyes.
I'm enjoying it, don't get me wrong. But for me, it's kind of like the last half of Tolkiein's Return of the King, right after Strider/Aragorn heads off through the crack to negotiate with the specter kings and enlist their aid. It took the movie to get me to read past that point, because by that part of the story, I pretty much lost interest. I'm holding on because King done give me his gotta—I gotta know if Roland makes it to the Tower, and what he finds there.
Progress report:
Scroll down to last Monday and look at the wimple and castle blan. Haven't knit a stitch on these since they aren't easily carried, simple to work, or under a deadline. Knit happens, as they say.
However, the jacket is coming along swimmingly. One side front and one side back down, the reverse to go, then I can either join the sides with strips, or work the sleeves. I'm thinking it might just be wiser to work the sleeves with the garment flat, then do the last sleeve strip to make the sleeves round and the final side strips to make the sides round.
Past the heel and into the instep. Used a band heel, and I like the way it works with the self-striping yarn. However, am nibbling my fingernails and wondering if I'll have enough yarn to get a sock out of each skein without having to patch at the toes—or having big scraps left over. I found a reverse Dutch Heel for toe-up socks, so after I complete this pair, I think I'll make the self-striped socks from the toe up to avoid this situation.
Yes, I know you can short-row heels and those look good with the self-striping yarn, too. However, they don't fit my feet very well. I have tall heels, and NEED that flap to keep my socks from feeling like they're going to be sucked down into my shoes. Both the band heel (which would be great to put some patterning on, methinks) and the reverse Dutch heel (would that be a Hctud Heel?) have the heel flap thing going.
Yes, I know you can short-row heels and those look good with the self-striping yarn, too. However, they don't fit my feet very well. I have tall heels, and NEED that flap to keep my socks from feeling like they're going to be sucked down into my shoes. Both the band heel (which would be great to put some patterning on, methinks) and the reverse Dutch heel (would that be a Hctud Heel?) have the heel flap thing going.
The best part about being on the decrease side is not just that I’m more than halfway though the blanket, it’s that I get more rows for my time again. It’s also encouraging, after having just finished a center-out blanket (in sport weight, no less) that took over an hour per row in the last few rows; to have a project that gets shorter as it gets longer. It makes the ending part more joyful in some ways.
Of course, that means that post-project depression sets in sooner. I get the blues after I finish a project. It’s been a part of my life for some time, and now it’s off to go live its own life, where even if I keep the object, I don’t see and interact with it each day. I may walk by and pat a shawl in the height of summer, I may even take one with me to a movie, or to a restaurant that keeps it set to 72 even when it’s 105 outside. (72 is WINTER, dearielove, and I can’t go from midsummer straight to Yule and back again in the space of an entrée!)
But at the same time, if objects kept diaries, I know I would just be a minor player in its ongoing life. I conceived it, brought it to fruition, tied off its little endies, and now it’s off on its merry way to be a warm thing somewhere. Is THIS what it’s like to be a parent?
Of course, that means that post-project depression sets in sooner. I get the blues after I finish a project. It’s been a part of my life for some time, and now it’s off to go live its own life, where even if I keep the object, I don’t see and interact with it each day. I may walk by and pat a shawl in the height of summer, I may even take one with me to a movie, or to a restaurant that keeps it set to 72 even when it’s 105 outside. (72 is WINTER, dearielove, and I can’t go from midsummer straight to Yule and back again in the space of an entrée!)
But at the same time, if objects kept diaries, I know I would just be a minor player in its ongoing life. I conceived it, brought it to fruition, tied off its little endies, and now it’s off on its merry way to be a warm thing somewhere. Is THIS what it’s like to be a parent?
Saturday, October 23, 2004
Not Growing Older, Growing Roots
Today tastes like mass-produced popcorn, watery soda, and Jujubees.
I’m beginning to see that getting older is not necessarily a bad thing. (And given that there is only one way to avoid getting older, making peace seems like the only sensible solution.) One of the benefits is that years become much shorter when they aren’t such a significant percentage of your life.
Gareth and I were in line at a movie theatre, me knitting, him reading, standing in the kind of companionable silence we both find comforting. We’re big on parallel play in this house. And behind us, two twenty-somethings were discussing relationships. Since I don’t have earlids, and they were chatting loudly enough to be heard, well, I wound up listening in. (Don’t say it in public unless you want to see it in public, right?)
Ken: I’ve been with Trixie for like, two years now.
Barbie: Wow. That’s a really long time.
Ken: Yeah—I never thought I’d get into such a long-term relationship. I wonder how people who’ve been together for a really long time do it; I mean, how they keep sex interesting?
Barbie: Yeah?
Ken: I mean, like, once you’ve done everything there is to do, how do you keep it fresh?
Barbie: Maybe, well, you know how when you get older, you forget a lot of stuff? Maybe they forget about what they’ve done, and maybe that way, when they go to have sex, it’s all new and exciting again, because they don’t remember it?
As Ken began a diatribe on marital aids/sex toys and counseling, the line started to shuffle forward, so I missed the final outcome. Which all things considered was probably a good thing.
Gareth and I have shared an address for eleven years, and a name for five. We’ve been seeing each other since these kids were playing kissy games on the playground. In all that time, we’ve spent three nights apart (not counting a stay in a hostel that believed in strict boy-girl separation—wedding rings and a marriage license cut no ice with those folks).
I wanted to say, “Sex with a long-term partner is like putting on your favorite pair of jeans—the ones that are snug in the right places, but loose in others, that are so soft they’re like velvet. They’re worn and faded, but you feel wonderful when you wear them, and they make you look hotter than the blacktop in August.”
I wanted to say, “Sex with a long-term partner is like eating one of your favorite dishes at your favorite restaurant. It’s not something that gets old. You know what you’re getting; there are no surprises, only variations on a well-loved theme.”
And then I began thinking that only as one grows older does the value placed on comfort begin to crowd the value placed on novelty. We joke about older people wanting to return to their ‘own little beds’ to sleep at night; about how they talked about traveling to new and foreign places, touring the country, trying new and different things when they retired, only to find that the routine they carved out is now the one they choose to keep.
And I find that true for me too.
I’m beginning to see that getting older is not necessarily a bad thing. (And given that there is only one way to avoid getting older, making peace seems like the only sensible solution.) One of the benefits is that years become much shorter when they aren’t such a significant percentage of your life.
Gareth and I were in line at a movie theatre, me knitting, him reading, standing in the kind of companionable silence we both find comforting. We’re big on parallel play in this house. And behind us, two twenty-somethings were discussing relationships. Since I don’t have earlids, and they were chatting loudly enough to be heard, well, I wound up listening in. (Don’t say it in public unless you want to see it in public, right?)
Ken: I’ve been with Trixie for like, two years now.
Barbie: Wow. That’s a really long time.
Ken: Yeah—I never thought I’d get into such a long-term relationship. I wonder how people who’ve been together for a really long time do it; I mean, how they keep sex interesting?
Barbie: Yeah?
Ken: I mean, like, once you’ve done everything there is to do, how do you keep it fresh?
Barbie: Maybe, well, you know how when you get older, you forget a lot of stuff? Maybe they forget about what they’ve done, and maybe that way, when they go to have sex, it’s all new and exciting again, because they don’t remember it?
As Ken began a diatribe on marital aids/sex toys and counseling, the line started to shuffle forward, so I missed the final outcome. Which all things considered was probably a good thing.
Gareth and I have shared an address for eleven years, and a name for five. We’ve been seeing each other since these kids were playing kissy games on the playground. In all that time, we’ve spent three nights apart (not counting a stay in a hostel that believed in strict boy-girl separation—wedding rings and a marriage license cut no ice with those folks).
I wanted to say, “Sex with a long-term partner is like putting on your favorite pair of jeans—the ones that are snug in the right places, but loose in others, that are so soft they’re like velvet. They’re worn and faded, but you feel wonderful when you wear them, and they make you look hotter than the blacktop in August.”
I wanted to say, “Sex with a long-term partner is like eating one of your favorite dishes at your favorite restaurant. It’s not something that gets old. You know what you’re getting; there are no surprises, only variations on a well-loved theme.”
And then I began thinking that only as one grows older does the value placed on comfort begin to crowd the value placed on novelty. We joke about older people wanting to return to their ‘own little beds’ to sleep at night; about how they talked about traveling to new and foreign places, touring the country, trying new and different things when they retired, only to find that the routine they carved out is now the one they choose to keep.
And I find that true for me too.
Wednesday, October 20, 2004
Getting out while the getting's good
Today tastes like too much coffee. Too much coffee, some with cocoa added to make it mocha, some of it like iced espresso, breve*.
Didn't see anything particularly trendy. One night, everyone was working on ponchos, another, everyone had socks going. Sometimes there are really interesting project bags (can one EVER have too many project bags? Can one EVER have too many projects?) One of my favorites was a baguette bag made from Kool-Aid drink pouches, with the short little handles so it nestles right in your armpit, de rigeur with the Heather/Jennifer set these days.
I thought the idea was nifty, but of course, I want a backpack. So I asked the women around the office with school-age kids to have the kids hang on to the pouches for me. After all, I have no interest in the contents.
*With half-and-half, for those who don't frequent Four–I mean, STARbucks.
I thought the idea was nifty, but of course, I want a backpack. So I asked the women around the office with school-age kids to have the kids hang on to the pouches for me. After all, I have no interest in the contents.
*With half-and-half, for those who don't frequent Four–I mean, STARbucks.
Monday, October 18, 2004
Pilgrim's Progress Report
Today tastes like . . . bananas and nail polish remover. Sweet. Sweet in a way that you thought would be good (and might have been good at one time) and is now just way too over the top one-note, and nasty. Sometimes you get what you thought you wanted, and it isn't at all what you were after. But enough about my off-line life.
Listening to: Dress Your Family In Corduroy and Denim. I actually like essays, and am enjoying the writing style; it's just the occasional paragraphs of subject matter that set my teeth on edge. Scat stopped being the height of humor for me about the time I was potty-trained, and this author still hasn't gotten over the delights of finger-painting with the stuff; metaphorically speaking. And all I can think is that this book spent time on the bestseller lists (and when he's not in the bathroom he's got an eye for detail and an ear for dialogue) and is adored by those whose political agenda I abhor; who tend to spend a lot of time in eternal digressions for those living in the flyover states because we're all a bunch of pig farmers who can't be trusted to think for ourselves. (And did I just do the same thing? Why yes, I think I did. So what? At least I freely admit to my bursts of hypocrisy.)
Progress report:
But first, another digression.
I hold myself to a limit of five works in progress at any given time. More, and nothing gets done; I just spin my wheels. Fewer, and I get bored. If I get bored, I go and start a bunch of things all at once looking for the perfect project, and suddenly I'm back in the quagmire again.
So what's on the needles now?
Listening to: Dress Your Family In Corduroy and Denim. I actually like essays, and am enjoying the writing style; it's just the occasional paragraphs of subject matter that set my teeth on edge. Scat stopped being the height of humor for me about the time I was potty-trained, and this author still hasn't gotten over the delights of finger-painting with the stuff; metaphorically speaking. And all I can think is that this book spent time on the bestseller lists (and when he's not in the bathroom he's got an eye for detail and an ear for dialogue) and is adored by those whose political agenda I abhor; who tend to spend a lot of time in eternal digressions for those living in the flyover states because we're all a bunch of pig farmers who can't be trusted to think for ourselves. (And did I just do the same thing? Why yes, I think I did. So what? At least I freely admit to my bursts of hypocrisy.)
Progress report:
But first, another digression.
I hold myself to a limit of five works in progress at any given time. More, and nothing gets done; I just spin my wheels. Fewer, and I get bored. If I get bored, I go and start a bunch of things all at once looking for the perfect project, and suddenly I'm back in the quagmire again.
So what's on the needles now?
Socks for me. These are my blue box sox--top down, heel flap, self-striping yarn, nothing but miles of stockinette to the wedge toe. The only geeky knitting bits are the kitchner stitch to close 'em and the Zimmerman arch shaping. Love it love it love it--makes my feet look narrower and makes the socks fit better. Gareth the hub-unit has lily feet with arches you could drive a truck under. Mine are just very three-d, with deep heels, wide balls, and highish arches that make boot-buying an adventure.
And number five, another Linus Project blanket. When I made the center, I originally had in mind a log-cabin sort of progression in mind--strips of color round and round. Then I discovered entrelac and fell in love with the technique (look Ma, no seams!) I've charted up a nice lacy pine tree motif for the inner border, and then will finish the outside with garter stitch pennants. I like the look--like prairie points or flags in the breeze.
Friday, October 15, 2004
Mindful Musing
This morning, my mother, the Dowager Empress Odie-Bird sent me a story she had enjoyed regarding one woman’s experience with anticipation—how we tend to believe that there is a better place than we are now, and how we overlook the pleasures of the moment we are in as we rush to get to the next minute, the next Big Thing. We spend our lives in the next five minutes, anticipating the destination rather than savoring the journey. Read the whole thing here (http://www.beliefnet.com/story/19/story_1915_1.html).
I took up yoga earlier this spring—what the hell, I already do the new yoga (knitting), so I might as well take up the old. As the seasons progressed, and the summer warmed up, I would go out on the porch first thing in the morning and right after I got home from work, and stretch in the hundred-degree plus heat. Even at six in the morning, the thermometer would read in the mid-eighties. Stretching was astoundingly easy. I was never this flexible, even as a kid. And the more I worked at it, the easier and better it got.
I had some Really Kewl Moments on the porch this summer—one of the best came on a July morning. The sprinklers came on, I was grounded and twisted, and along came a hummingbird in his little suit of lights. He hovered by the tree, watching the sprinkler spray and rotate, then he darted directly into the line of fire! Splash! He zipped up a foot, watching, watching, watching and hovering, then just as it came around again he ducked down into the spray again. Splash!
I stopped to watch him, wondering if he was dazzled by the sun and spray, or trying to drive the sprinkler off, but then, when that array turned off, he followed the spraying water over to the next head, and proceeded to dunk into the spray again and again. He was taking a birdbath on the wing; a kid flying through the sprinkler in a bright green swimsuit. (And what kind of swimsuit does a hummingbird wear? Speedos!!!)
Now, however, the season has turned and it’s getting chilly. (Yes, compared to the northeast, we’re relatively warm. However, the high temps are now nearing what the lows are in summer. Brrr.) I’ve moved inside where I can look out the back door, but the cold has seeped into my joints and in the morning I’m stiff stiff stiff. It’s hard to get out the mat and practice, especially remembering that a short time ago I was cooked spaghetti flexible and now I expect to hear breaking when I bend.
My ego wants to push, and insists that I make progress each and every time I go to the mat. When you had barely started, it insists, just weeks after you started, you were able to get your head to the floor. Now, when you do straddle bends, your head is level with your tailbone, and your hands just reach the floor! MOVE MOVE MOVE MOVE MOVE! (My ego would make an excellent aerobics instructor.)
But just as you have to learn to have the strength to contain your flexibility, you have to have the strength to contain your ego. It isn’t about having a set of calendar-perfect poses each and every time, it isn’t about being able to kiss your elbows and put your feet on your shoulders. It’s about being with and in your body, with all its imperfections, and being in the minute wherever you are, and having it be enough. Enough for right this minute—because that’s always where you’re going to be.
The Dowager Empress mentioned that this article moved her to practice mindfulness (just for a few minutes, she mumbled). But that’s all there is, is this few minutes, and the next few minutes, and the next few minutes. Just like practicing sobriety; just like knitting. All there is is the next few minutes, the next stitch, the next pose. Flow into it, be with it, be in it. Let the sweater take care of itself. And one day, your feet will touch your shoulders.
I took up yoga earlier this spring—what the hell, I already do the new yoga (knitting), so I might as well take up the old. As the seasons progressed, and the summer warmed up, I would go out on the porch first thing in the morning and right after I got home from work, and stretch in the hundred-degree plus heat. Even at six in the morning, the thermometer would read in the mid-eighties. Stretching was astoundingly easy. I was never this flexible, even as a kid. And the more I worked at it, the easier and better it got.
I had some Really Kewl Moments on the porch this summer—one of the best came on a July morning. The sprinklers came on, I was grounded and twisted, and along came a hummingbird in his little suit of lights. He hovered by the tree, watching the sprinkler spray and rotate, then he darted directly into the line of fire! Splash! He zipped up a foot, watching, watching, watching and hovering, then just as it came around again he ducked down into the spray again. Splash!
I stopped to watch him, wondering if he was dazzled by the sun and spray, or trying to drive the sprinkler off, but then, when that array turned off, he followed the spraying water over to the next head, and proceeded to dunk into the spray again and again. He was taking a birdbath on the wing; a kid flying through the sprinkler in a bright green swimsuit. (And what kind of swimsuit does a hummingbird wear? Speedos!!!)
Now, however, the season has turned and it’s getting chilly. (Yes, compared to the northeast, we’re relatively warm. However, the high temps are now nearing what the lows are in summer. Brrr.) I’ve moved inside where I can look out the back door, but the cold has seeped into my joints and in the morning I’m stiff stiff stiff. It’s hard to get out the mat and practice, especially remembering that a short time ago I was cooked spaghetti flexible and now I expect to hear breaking when I bend.
My ego wants to push, and insists that I make progress each and every time I go to the mat. When you had barely started, it insists, just weeks after you started, you were able to get your head to the floor. Now, when you do straddle bends, your head is level with your tailbone, and your hands just reach the floor! MOVE MOVE MOVE MOVE MOVE! (My ego would make an excellent aerobics instructor.)
But just as you have to learn to have the strength to contain your flexibility, you have to have the strength to contain your ego. It isn’t about having a set of calendar-perfect poses each and every time, it isn’t about being able to kiss your elbows and put your feet on your shoulders. It’s about being with and in your body, with all its imperfections, and being in the minute wherever you are, and having it be enough. Enough for right this minute—because that’s always where you’re going to be.
The Dowager Empress mentioned that this article moved her to practice mindfulness (just for a few minutes, she mumbled). But that’s all there is, is this few minutes, and the next few minutes, and the next few minutes. Just like practicing sobriety; just like knitting. All there is is the next few minutes, the next stitch, the next pose. Flow into it, be with it, be in it. Let the sweater take care of itself. And one day, your feet will touch your shoulders.
Wednesday, October 13, 2004
window on my world
Today tastes like olives and vinegar and oranges--sweet, musky and sharp. Nostalgic with a touch of winter to come.
Met friends for dinner at a Turkish restaurant and kicked myself for forgetting the camera. Laid it out with fresh batteries, then turned my back.
Would have had shots of rugs, pillows, and the vase of Cthulhu in the corner. A dull sullen brass thing about the size of a toddler, with multi-colored tentacles crawling out of the top and oozing down the sides. And they had Turkish socks on the wall, triangle toes and tarantula patterns, afterthought heels and all. Damn.
Ironically, they have a blue ward-off-evil blue eye insignia hung so it watches ever so carefully over the vase of Cthulhu. Do you think they maybe sense something's up?
So tonight's window on my world is of Greer, AZ. The husband, Gareth, and I spent our first get away from the roommates weekend together up there, and were married in the cabin his family maintains in that part of the world. We went up one last time (for the season) just a few weeks ago.
Met friends for dinner at a Turkish restaurant and kicked myself for forgetting the camera. Laid it out with fresh batteries, then turned my back.
Would have had shots of rugs, pillows, and the vase of Cthulhu in the corner. A dull sullen brass thing about the size of a toddler, with multi-colored tentacles crawling out of the top and oozing down the sides. And they had Turkish socks on the wall, triangle toes and tarantula patterns, afterthought heels and all. Damn.
Ironically, they have a blue ward-off-evil blue eye insignia hung so it watches ever so carefully over the vase of Cthulhu. Do you think they maybe sense something's up?
So tonight's window on my world is of Greer, AZ. The husband, Gareth, and I spent our first get away from the roommates weekend together up there, and were married in the cabin his family maintains in that part of the world. We went up one last time (for the season) just a few weeks ago.
Tuesday, October 12, 2004
All Apologies
Am beginning to see why the knitting bloggers are often caught apologizing for the lack of photos or the paucity of posts . . . it's hard to combine obsessive hobbies sucessfully.
Below, although it looks more like a huge crocheted key, is a design for Southwest Trading Company in thier yummiferous Bamboo. I love this stuff. Drapes like linen, with the same heavy cool hand . . . and of course, if a stitch gets away from you it runs like sweat off a marathoner in mile 23. (Transparent? Moi? Like a window, baby.)
Crochet? Why yes, I am bilingual, thankee muchly. Besides, from what I see, crochet is poised to become the new knitting. (So if knitting was the new yoga, is crochet the new Pilates? The new step aerobics? The new Tae Bo?)
Below, although it looks more like a huge crocheted key, is a design for Southwest Trading Company in thier yummiferous Bamboo. I love this stuff. Drapes like linen, with the same heavy cool hand . . . and of course, if a stitch gets away from you it runs like sweat off a marathoner in mile 23. (Transparent? Moi? Like a window, baby.)
Crochet? Why yes, I am bilingual, thankee muchly. Besides, from what I see, crochet is poised to become the new knitting. (So if knitting was the new yoga, is crochet the new Pilates? The new step aerobics? The new Tae Bo?)
Sunday, October 10, 2004
Mother, may I post a picture?
Yes my child . . . but only so long as you sacrifice a black chicken at midnight in your best pinafore.
Below, a fiber interpretation of a madwoman's lunchbox. I can see that this will tax my design skills (such as they are) to the limit when it comes to adding photos. Silly me, I thought it would be no worse than pasting up for a newspaper--determining the size of the gaps to be left in the text, working the text around the photos . . . hell, I did THAT in high school back in the days before desktop publishing.
Yes, all we had were rocks that displayed in orange text . . . (Mutters "Uphill both ways to school . . . in the snow . . . in July . . .")
Below, a fiber interpretation of a madwoman's lunchbox. I can see that this will tax my design skills (such as they are) to the limit when it comes to adding photos. Silly me, I thought it would be no worse than pasting up for a newspaper--determining the size of the gaps to be left in the text, working the text around the photos . . . hell, I did THAT in high school back in the days before desktop publishing.
Yes, all we had were rocks that displayed in orange text . . . (Mutters "Uphill both ways to school . . . in the snow . . . in July . . .")
Origin . . . w/o radioactive spiders
Today tastes like . . . chocolate, chiles, coffee, and a brave new world.
I knit. A lot. Much like I breathe, and it seems like for about the same length of time. This is not strictly true--so far as I know, I began breathing as soon as I entered this world, and it took a quarter-century for me to develop an interest in knitting. My husband, no doubt, would argue that I have been making up for lost time since then.
So my friends often wonder if I ever finish anything, since evertime they see me, I'm working on a new project. (I knit a lot for charity, since to do otherwise leaves one living in a house with padded walls. A madwoman's Martha Stewart, as 'twere.) And I live in Arizona, so there are about three days a year to wear a sweater in. One sweater can last a lifetime, if it's sized correctly. Thus, there are no finished projects hanging about to be admired, and somehow, they never notice my socks.
And then, as knitting has gained in popularity/jumped the shark and people are gathering in public to knit, a knitter gets photo ops. The local Stich'n'Bitch crew went to Knit Out Night at a gallery space being opened by a member, because Nat'n'l Knit Out coincided with a local phenomenon, First Friday. On the first Friday of each month, the gritty downtown Phoenix galleries open up at night to garner some foot traffic. Downtown becomes A Destination rather than a place to work/see a ball game and go home from.
So there we were, seated on camp chairs, knitting away while the ever so self-conciously hip paraded through the gallery. I would have been clicking away trying to catch the zoo walking by--and hell, asking if I could take shots of some of the ones trying too hard, because you don't try that hard unless you want the attention. But I had no place for the photos.
And then, at another gathering, there were people clicking away with digital cams, taking shots for the web site, and one gal mentioned that she would take some photos, but didn't want to have to get them to the webmistress, and then play the popularity game to see whose shots made the cut. "Oh, we won't put Pam's up because Pam isn't really one of Us. We keep her around because she always brings the snacks, but well . . . you know, the poor dear doesn't really belong." (Feh. Do we ever really get out of middle school? That's another topic for another day.)
So here is the Lunchbox, and there are the photos, lined up on the drive, and over here somewhere is the software to get stuff from point A (drive C?) to point B (B for blog, of course, just like Sesame Street 2K says).
And here I am in the middle, hoping the string to connect the two isn't an inch too short. Photos coming soon, I hope.
I knit. A lot. Much like I breathe, and it seems like for about the same length of time. This is not strictly true--so far as I know, I began breathing as soon as I entered this world, and it took a quarter-century for me to develop an interest in knitting. My husband, no doubt, would argue that I have been making up for lost time since then.
So my friends often wonder if I ever finish anything, since evertime they see me, I'm working on a new project. (I knit a lot for charity, since to do otherwise leaves one living in a house with padded walls. A madwoman's Martha Stewart, as 'twere.) And I live in Arizona, so there are about three days a year to wear a sweater in. One sweater can last a lifetime, if it's sized correctly. Thus, there are no finished projects hanging about to be admired, and somehow, they never notice my socks.
And then, as knitting has gained in popularity/jumped the shark and people are gathering in public to knit, a knitter gets photo ops. The local Stich'n'Bitch crew went to Knit Out Night at a gallery space being opened by a member, because Nat'n'l Knit Out coincided with a local phenomenon, First Friday. On the first Friday of each month, the gritty downtown Phoenix galleries open up at night to garner some foot traffic. Downtown becomes A Destination rather than a place to work/see a ball game and go home from.
So there we were, seated on camp chairs, knitting away while the ever so self-conciously hip paraded through the gallery. I would have been clicking away trying to catch the zoo walking by--and hell, asking if I could take shots of some of the ones trying too hard, because you don't try that hard unless you want the attention. But I had no place for the photos.
And then, at another gathering, there were people clicking away with digital cams, taking shots for the web site, and one gal mentioned that she would take some photos, but didn't want to have to get them to the webmistress, and then play the popularity game to see whose shots made the cut. "Oh, we won't put Pam's up because Pam isn't really one of Us. We keep her around because she always brings the snacks, but well . . . you know, the poor dear doesn't really belong." (Feh. Do we ever really get out of middle school? That's another topic for another day.)
So here is the Lunchbox, and there are the photos, lined up on the drive, and over here somewhere is the software to get stuff from point A (drive C?) to point B (B for blog, of course, just like Sesame Street 2K says).
And here I am in the middle, hoping the string to connect the two isn't an inch too short. Photos coming soon, I hope.
Wednesday, October 06, 2004
not playing by the rules . . . again
This was of course, too long for the profile, but too much fun to consign to ether oblivion. Promise the next post will indeed be the obligatory "origin of the blog" post.
Random Question:
The children are waiting! Please tell them the story about the bald frog with the wig:
The frog peered mournfully into the mirror, the corners of his mouth turned down. Well, they were always turned down. He was a frog, after all, and had no choice in the matter.
"The babes just don't flock to me like they once did," he complained. "They say things like 'slimy', and 'squishy', and 'sick (but not in the good way)', and other things beginning with 's'."
The stork looked at him thoughtfully. "Perhaps if you had a full flowing head of hair . . ." he said.
"Hair?" snorted the frog. "I'm a frog. How could I possibly have hair?"
"With hair," answered the stork, "with hair, they would believe you were indeed a handsome prince under a spell. With hair, they would take you from the pond, lay you on their pillows for a night, and kiss you. Ah, if only you had hair."
"Where could i get hair?" continued the frog, mournfully.
"I could help," suggested the stork. "I could give you this wig." And here he plucked it out from under his wing. "You could wear it, and no one would know any different. You would have hair."
"Give it me!" Cried the frog, hopping from foot to foot in excitement. "Give it me!"
And the stork dropped the wig over the frog, then scooped it back up, with the frog tangled in the luxuriant locks. The wig was was over frog's eyes and in his mouth, so he could not see nor cry out for help until he was dropped into stork's cooking pot. And then it was too late.
Moral of the story--never trust someone who promises to make you into something you aren't. Even if it's something you really want to be.
Random Question:
The children are waiting! Please tell them the story about the bald frog with the wig:
The frog peered mournfully into the mirror, the corners of his mouth turned down. Well, they were always turned down. He was a frog, after all, and had no choice in the matter.
"The babes just don't flock to me like they once did," he complained. "They say things like 'slimy', and 'squishy', and 'sick (but not in the good way)', and other things beginning with 's'."
The stork looked at him thoughtfully. "Perhaps if you had a full flowing head of hair . . ." he said.
"Hair?" snorted the frog. "I'm a frog. How could I possibly have hair?"
"With hair," answered the stork, "with hair, they would believe you were indeed a handsome prince under a spell. With hair, they would take you from the pond, lay you on their pillows for a night, and kiss you. Ah, if only you had hair."
"Where could i get hair?" continued the frog, mournfully.
"I could help," suggested the stork. "I could give you this wig." And here he plucked it out from under his wing. "You could wear it, and no one would know any different. You would have hair."
"Give it me!" Cried the frog, hopping from foot to foot in excitement. "Give it me!"
And the stork dropped the wig over the frog, then scooped it back up, with the frog tangled in the luxuriant locks. The wig was was over frog's eyes and in his mouth, so he could not see nor cry out for help until he was dropped into stork's cooking pot. And then it was too late.
Moral of the story--never trust someone who promises to make you into something you aren't. Even if it's something you really want to be.
If'n I never . . .
. . . get started, then I'll never have anything to say.
And we can't have that, can we?
So here goes; hitting the publish button.
And we can't have that, can we?
So here goes; hitting the publish button.
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