Sometimes I'm mortified by what I write here.
Mortification. Shame. Self-loathing.
Part of me tells me that's the lesson. Be you. Expose yourself. It's the only way to build armor against a world that is designed to dislike you. Or should I say a species built entirely different than you and designed to dislike you.
The snark is just armor too. Yeah it's learning to be funny and quick and highly intellectualized, but it's still fucking armor. I was beginning to fool myself that it was something else. And I'm scared and proud to have derailed that subterfuge.
So what interesting thing has derailed me this week? Jane fuckin' Austen. Last week I read a few chapters of Mansfield Park and the world was right again. Light, crisp snark. Every sentence a gem. As I read I let the precise perfection of her prose envelope me. Until it abruptly stopped and I was unwittingly unmoored (why is this not an antonym of moored?), untethered, disjointed, jarred.
"Admiral Crawford was a man of vicious conduct, who chose, instead of retaining his niece, to bring his mistress under his own roof; " ~ Chapter 4, Mansfield Park.
Out of nowhere, amidst the cynical, bright, bird's eye view of the human drama, Jane got personal, and she took me with her. And I have nowhere to turn with this information. I am alone again.
I've been here. Always. But it's when I have these ideas that I feel it and am disheartened. You can't have your cake and eat it too. I vow to prove that wrong.
Saturday, May 29, 2010
Sometimes I'm mortified by what I write here.
Thursday, May 20, 2010
OMG do I need to get that self important drama llama ding dong from Tuesday off the top shelf! It hurts to look at it, but look at I do and do and do. I'm obsessed with my own experiences. I'm obsessed with squeezing every fucking drop of meaning out of every gosh darn thing.
Hello, calling Mrs. M. Umm, that's how you roll. So deal.
And deal I do. But today (yeah!) I am beginning to grasp at the fringes of self mockery and it feels awesomesauce. A.W.E.S.O.M.E.S.A.U.C.E. Ring around the drama llama.
I've decided to blame Wharton for this recent setback. I finally took out a book and used my eyes to read it and it wasn't about Bella fuckin' Swan. Miracle of miracles! (OMG! what's that song?!? - "vanity of vanities the
whole thing is a vain parade" - Hand of God, Soundgarten.) (Yes, welcome to two knits, the home of the vain parade. Snerk.)
I haven't picked up Wharton in many years and my perspective on her writings has changed. I love that. Someone always suffers greatly in the works I've read of hers. And her snark is subtle. Not like Jane. Jane bites you in the ass and then let's you get married to the man of your dreams.
I love Jane but I haven't been able to read her in over a year and a half. I miss her terribly, but I'm not ready yet. (Or am I? I think I just felt a hankering for the first chapter of Mansfield Park.)
And I may have finally grasped at Jane's chronic need to deposit erectile functional happy endings amid so much acidic social commentary. I don't have the words yet. It's probably best I keep my clumsy fumblings to myself.
I now leave you with another set of beautiful skeins dyed by Sundara:
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
It is the fate of a sarcastic bitch to be, well, considered just a plain old coldhearted bitch. Our humor is dark and oftentimes inappropriate; inappropriate in pitch and inappropriate in content.
I've changed a great deal in the past year. I feel I am both a better me to me and a more selfish me to everyone else. And I'm happy about that. But there remains a part of me that feels responsible for everyone and everything. If someone hurts, I need to make that hurt go away. Even if it is my enemies' hurt.
I want to snark and cut things down to size but then I don't want to hurt anyone's feelings. Politically correct and snark spells o.x.y.m.o.r.o.n. Or just plain moron.
This morning I followed my heart down a road it's been too timid to travel for two decades or more.. I drove past a cat that had been run over and I did not keep driving. I sated my impulse to care and to be responsible for this helpless creature. I cried at the trauma drama this event stoked in me. I cried for the loss of this kitty's life. I felt compassion and love and acted upon those feelings.
Fuck work. Fuck responsibility. Life is made of these tiny choices. So long I have made choices against my heart. It hurt like a mother fucker but I still feel so much better that I took that cat to our vet and made sure he was no longer suffering. And I'm lucky to have a vet that has a protocol in place to deal with these situations.
They told me I was very kind to do what I did. No one ever does that, so I must be a wonderful and great person. My one coworker who I told and swore to secrecy echoed this sentiment. And though I think these folks mean their words very kindly, I know they are not true about me. And I've learned not to throw these kind words back at their owners. I accepted their praise, thanked them, and moved on.
I don't believe in altruism. Ever since I devoured, and purged, the works of Ayn Rand at around age 20 I formulated a theory on altruism that has wavered very little in the intervening decades. I don't believe in the goodness of people in general. I do believe people can and do do good.
What I did today is not because I am a good person. It was not a selfless act. I saw that cat and I hurt. I needed to help the cat to help my hurt. Helping that cat made me feel like I was doing the right thing at the right moment. And now that cat will be a part of me forever. I did it for him, but I did it for the me that was once him, metaphorically speaking, of course.
I could not stand by and allow this life form to be flattened by the tires of rush hour. And I didn't. And if this cat has an owner, maybe my small act will reunite him with them. That is my last hope.
After I had shared my experience with my coworker, crying and hugging, and letting loose the pain, I could laugh and make sick comments about how beautiful the cat was, as long as you looked at him from an angle that hid his flattened skull. She probably thinks I'm a freak for bawling like a baby one moment and mocking the physical shape of this poor creature, in another breath.
Hopefully someday I may be a good enough satirist to no longer offend but enlighten. Atruism smaltruism.
Sunday, May 16, 2010
Went to the movies, saw Ridley Scott's Robin Hood. WTF was Scott thinking with this reimagining of the Robin Hood myth? I haven't wanted to walk out of a movie since 1999.
The penultimate mis en scène: It's aproximately 1199 AD and it been hours since the movie started and Robin has yet to take to the wood. That's because:
1) The French are storming the cliffs of Dover in transport boats, a la Omaha Beach, aka D-Day. Look at the picture in the link and then watch the movie. I am not shitting you. It was D-Day in the theatre tonight!
4)Robin preHood gets stuck in the water between two colliding landing boats. Will R2D2 be able to save him in time?
5)Oh yes he does, Jason rises again!
6)Because the Frenchies surrender to
Gratuitous yarn pic! Now in a bigger size!!!
Monday, May 10, 2010
Does fiber have a sound? No, but I swear it vibrates. Hmmm...now that I ponder on this, it's me that vibrates, not the yarn. The yarn just sits there all stuck up and aloof and perfect and je ne sais quoi. I turn to mush and worship at its feet.
I went to the NH Sheep & Wool fest on Saturday and I bought only three skeins of yarn and three buttons. I was good. Very good. And not in a deprivation kinda way at all. In fact, I have become such a narrowly oriented yarn stasher, there were very few things there that sang to me. (Oh yes, I went to Volterra this weekend, why do you ask?)
For yarn only one vendor stopped my breath, Mocha's Fiber Connection. She had a lovely two plied fingering silky merino, as well as some worsted or aran singles, in the same vein as Sundara's FSM and ASM. The pic above is the one purchase I made of the FSM in a colorway called Ashes of Roses. The yarn base on the tag says Kizzie's Toes/sock. This base of theirs isn't yet listed on Rav yet.
I caked it up within hours.
I also found some buttons for my Tea Leaves Cardigan. They're animal bone and a little heavy, but absolutely simpatico.
Friday, May 7, 2010
There are changes afoot at Two Knits. Usually change is very difficult for me. In fact learning how to make the upcoming changes has been difficult, but when the change happens, it should be easy as pie for me to acclimate.
You see I've been trying to teach myself a little html in order to redesign my blog. Every few weeks or months I get wholly absorbed in the project, pore all of my time, and 110% of my mental energy, into learning this trade and then before I know it I become super saturated and loath everything I just learned. Time passes. Rinse. Repeat.
But I haven't given up. So maybe it'll be this weekend, or maybe this summer or fall. Who knows, but the cyber home of chez Yarn is getting a facelift.
Thursday, May 6, 2010
That's seven yarns. Seven iterations to express my joy, my love of my yarn, and my love of my current project (no matter how bad it turns out).
I am knitting the Tea Leaves Cardigan (<--- rav link). Oh yes, you read correctly: I am knitting.From.A.Pattern. Moi. (Geesh of all the German I've ingested, I haven't learned how to say me? How can that be? Is it mir?) Mir!
But true to form I am hacking my way through it already. My first hack was to replace the garter stitch with seed stitch. I love the way garter stitch feels, but I'm not that into how it looks. Garter stitch is bold, where I prefer seed stitches' coyness. I prefer to project dainty and demure rather than what I am in actuality, loud and brash. 'Tis my prerogative.
I tried something new. I cable cast on in ribbing and I absolutely adore the x o x o look of this trim. On the neckline. I'll probably do a basic bind off on the wrists and body. Someday I hope to garner the patience to learn and use the tubular bind off. Hope is good.
And I end this by sharing the yarn I thought I should be knitting with now. It is the wisteria colorway of tosh DK. So fuckin' yum:
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
Many, many, many moons ago I went through a Herman Hesse phase. I devoured, rather than savored, each book of his I read. So it is no wonder that I remember very little.
Only one idea I came across in his writings took root in my chaotic mind and this was the supposition by a character that the act of biological reproduction is a necessary psychological step, or evolution, for man. The narcissism of youth must make way for the selfless devotion, an all important transformative experience, of parenthood.
Now that I am an adult, and a little less naive, I can plainly see all around me that birthing babies doesn't cure narcissism. My birth sure as heck didn't cure it in my family. But that doesn't mean there is no truth to Hesse's belief. I still believe in his theory even though I was never able to test it out myself. By the time I was healed enough to embrace motherhood my body no longer could provide for me. I am both proud and angry about the four years I endured fertility treatments, where I subjected my body to the legal maximum dosages of drugs and tapped into a will of steel that subjugated fear and, good sense, to this all consuming goal. Four years of relentless bodily and psychological torture. Me. The whiniest weakling of them all. I did it willingly, with nary a second thought.
So it is with myriad emotions I embrace my narcissism and wade through the wax and wane of envy that surfaces when I turn my eye to women around me, both in the real world and on line. I don't fit and I'm no longer unhappy about it. Wistful, on occasion, yes, but on the whole happy to explore me and my inner landscape. Instead of wanting to steal other women's babies, I can be happy for their good fortune. I've come a long way, baby. LOL.
This brings me to the next thing I've been musing. My muse. My muse and how there are always obstacles between me and she. I've spent so much time wondering where my square peg can fit in this round world, I wound up not exploring me, but exploring how to make me more palatable to the world so that I can make a living and support myself and not get my freak flag noticed.
The tools to make myself happy weren't cultivated, or so I'm learning. And not making myself happy made me a resentful, covetous, bitter bitch. And not in a good, Dolores Claiborne, way. (Seriously, Dolores Claiborne has been one of my favorite role models.)
And in clear Dolores fashion, let's not wallow in self pity, but turn my mind to what I need to do next to get through the current manic mood I'm in. I now understand the frantic crazy that builds when my Muse is blocked.
Last night I cleared out my WIPS bin. I finished up three projects, one of which was very, very outstanding. This brisk spring cleaning left me rejuvenated at first, but then empty and doom filled shortly thereafter. I have no active comfort knitting and no inspiration for any. I was so single minded in my desire to complete projects, I failed to anticipate the crazy that would come to squat in the void.
I'm lost with out an anchor project. LOST. LOST. LOST.
Oh yes, I have yarn. Lovely lovely yarn:
But this does not soothe the beast. Only productivity does.
And so I tossed and I turned in my bed until I realized what I wanted and why I was thwarting the desire. My rational mind is thinking, it's spring, it's time to knit light and airy things. But my muse is saying fuck that, I want to knit a sweater with this:
And so I shall. Why do I need to conform to the seasons? Uh? Hello? I don't. I don't have anything from stopping me from doing what I want but me. Now I've realized this, my brain went off happily on its way designing a tank cardigan.
I'm not sure I'll be successful, but wtf. That's not the point of life. Life is for living, not being cautious and conforming to arbitrary societal rules. Duh. Sometimes I'm such a dope.
So I brought my four skeins to work, alongside my swift and winder, and I'm gonna map out the skeins and wind them up during lunch. Thank you, Muse.