two knits of ivory

LOL. What a whiner. I've been concerned that my last post was a little too bitter in tone. I wanna keep things light around here, and this morning I found the humor in it: Me. This is one of the reasons I identify with the wall flower Bella, everything is do or die with this character and here I was whining about how boring she is as if it were do or die. Me: "Mirror Mirror on the Wall, who's the whiniest of them all?" Mirror: "Well Dear Knitter, you don't have to be bitter, as it is you the whiniest Drama Llama queenie pie pie." I've been contemplating other things besides Twilight. No, really. Watching myself knit my recent FO, the Strange Fruit Clothilde , an interesting thought occurred to me. When I knit, in particular, knit lace, my hands are actually graceful. It's like hand ballet and it makes me feel lovely inside. Being short and squat, in body and digits, and congenitally poor at most hand crafts such as drawing, painting,

I've been stuck on the 24 hours after Bella becomes immortal for dayzzzzzzzzzzzzz. OMEdward this part is so boring. Each and every time I force myself to read the section where she and OMEdward go hunting for the first time, I contemplate water torture instead. Some reason water torture loses. Why? Why? Why? Seriuhsly. There's no humor in this, no drama. Bella's perfect, her love is perfect, she has expensive clothes, a perfect daughter, and her inlaws built her a cottage to make a lover of fairy tales beam. Her true shallow colors come shining through when she beholds her immortal beauty. But damn, I'm bored bored bored bored. And yet I still read on. Just really more slowly. Well, I'm actually not reading this tripe, I'm back to listening to it. I am unable to force my eyes to suffer the torment. My ears, well my ears are accustomed to crap in a way I refuse to allow my visual field to be. I'm shallow enough to look at this all day with delight

The remaining cake of a skein of Dream in Color Smooshy, in the Strange Harvest colorway. I still want to knit one more repeat of the Strange Fruit Clothilde and then I'll be done. When I see/saw the name Strange Harvest my mind instantly connects the phrase to my emotional memory of the Billie Holiday version of the song Strange Fruit . I'd never read that wiki entry before, but I have known a long time of what type fruit Holiday sang. The song was always a favorite of mine. Once I learned of the meaning, it became part of the mythology of my life. Was it only 40 years ago our country looked the other way when men of color were lynched without due process? Mankind is a shameful beast. I feel weak and ineffectual. It is a grandiose hope of mine to change the latter and be able to make a dent of improvement in the former. The new year awaits...

It's almost Christmas, theoretically my favorite day of the year, and it's all I can do to not be reabsorbed into the Twilight saga. I haven't knit a stitch since Sunday. I'm reading it again, not listening to it. I'm at the windswept lee, on the cusp of the confrontation between Jacob and Bella wherein she realizes she is in love with Jacob, as well as Edward. It's not monomania. Yet. I'm not concerned. Yet. (I thought I was querulous, but I'm actually) Just quizzical. Last week it felt superfantabulous to 'fess up to my Twilight obsession. Shame is one of the demons I need to conquer. Like Neo , I am congenitally compelled to look for The Source. There are numerous signposts. I don't understand all the metaphors, but their gravitational pull is unmistakable. One of these signposts is the Laurence Olivier/Merle Oberon Wuthering Heights . Even though I don't understand it yet, I just know this movie is one of the sources of my c

Yesterday I was all gung ho on getting the Christmas package to my sister wrapped up and ready to mail, as well as putting a dent in the gift wrapping, in general. My guest bedroom is a wreck with the gift and wrapping overflow. And most importantly, my cat Grissom is not happy his lair has been taken over by a five foot long, pink, stuffed pony . (I should get a picture of that.) If he doesn't get in 16 hours* of this... OMG the dirty looks would make Edward Cullen look like the poster boy of happy . Anyway, I carved out some time to devote to wrapping and shipping and when I got down to it I couldn't find my nieces' gift card. I automatically assumed I lost it and in the third of a second it took to go from "Christmas wrapping FUNSIES!" to "FUCK! I lost a big fat gift card," my Christmas mojo evaporated. Like poof, gone. Like, I am a failure, I better just pack it in now, take a couple of Tylenol, chased with some Advil, a tension headache is co

I am a narcissist. A real one, like textbook real. My narcissism doesn't conform to the textbook definition, as well it shouldn't; personality disorders aren't one size fits all. So, with an "if you can't beat 'em, join 'em" mentality, I do spend considerable time performing mental gymnastics to make said narcissism less, well, narcissistic. It does make sense. It does. So Friday and Saturday I had a ferocious need to finish up my first Clothilde . It came out beautiful in the last of my Sundara Sport. I told myself that as soon as this was done I'd finish up the last bit of my Christmas knitting. Midnight Moon Clothilde This is what happened after I finished washing and blocking the Clothilde: Strange Fruit Clothilde And I did it with a chuckle, instead of disapprobation. A woman's gotta knit what a woman's gotta knit. I think part of my problem is that there is too much blue in my knitting basket. The original Clothilde and the C

I was all gangbusters on my Christmas knitting. Until I wasn't. You know how it is, don't you? I'm trying not to paint myself into the "selfish hoar" corner, but depending on the moment, I'm either successful or I'm not. My mind knows I've been working on gift socks since October, and thinking and stashing for them as early as September. I'm on my last pair and I know I could do them if I just stick my mind to it but I donna wanna. "Selfish hoar." "Awwww, shutuppayouface." All I can think about is that I haven't knit myself a pair of socks since May. Waving Lace Socks Sundara sock, Marina over Icicles. And what good are buckets full of sock yarn if they're not being knit into socks for memememememe? "None" would be the answer, but that would be incorrect. Sock yarn is good in and of itself; it doesn't need to be anything, it just needs to be. "But still" she whines forevermore.