I bought a lamp on the weekend, which is the size of a small child. One and half years of unrequited love for this lamp, and last week I was driving by the store and saw they were shutting their business. Only a few lamps left, including the mother of mothers. After assuring the owner that I would have space for it (I don't really), and a relatively modest exchange of cash, it came home with me. For the last time. A beacon of light during the darkest days of the year, a week before the winter solstice. When I stumble to the kitchen in the dark at 6am, I put this light on, and I feel warm and safe, bare feet on the camp floor rugs. A drift of the souk in my dining room, I want to hum and listen to sufi music, call and refrain, light hands on a doumbek, sink into the dark with my coffee, and watch the light patterns on the ceiling. Morning, morning, remember? Music off, CBC on, suduko puzzle in hand, light grows, lamp off, day begins.

November. Not good. Could you tell? Between dark cold rainy mornings that make me feel guilty for sinking into my armchair three hours after waking still in nightie, work inertia and crying about Rememberance Day and my Mom, and spending sobby Saturday mornings reading books about bad daughters, I was hard-pressed to be an ambassador of joy on a blog. Years ago I got sober at the end of a November, washed out by those same cold rainy mornings and the lonely evenings that preceded them. %$#%$#%@.... walk to the light... After Naditu ended, we of the beginner twos, diehards, greater than the sum of our parts, beacons of light, burbling flows of joy (etc, etc), still came together on Saturday mornings to continue our meditations on infinity and peace and love, all while undulating and mayesculating our hips. Samira is a wonderful teacher, enthusiastic and articulate, and her meditations and readings can often reach right through my soft belly to my shiny spine. Now to the blingbling, raison d'etre, inner glitter girl motivation... we're dancing on December 15th at the studio Christmas party. It isn't a Naditu recital, but we get to jangle and slip with bright colours and happy music to a room of ball-room dancers. Reason to live through November. Reason for happiness#1.
Reason for happiness #2 - a new rug.














Reason for happiness#3 (actually this is #1)

A Vest. What a good idea. A loose vest, wool socks, stretchy pants and a buffet lunch. Just roll me out when you're done. Very much in contrast with how I felt this last Saturday. I went to a great b-d class with 15+ minutes straight of undulations, with partners, across the room, to slow music, to fast music, until all belly sinew (if there is any ached). My brain connected to a rolling belly right down to the tip of my inside scrunching woman parts. The meditation that class was about infinity, universal rythms... going with the flow. Sometime after that great class, I lost the tow line. I had one of those "just passing through" moments, and I felt weepy thinking about how mere stuff would outlive me, that all the hoarding that I could do wouldn't keep me from dying, or be anything to remember me by. You know, you can't take it with you, and the undulation at a Saturday morning belly-dance class is the truest you're ever going to be. I don't think I can explain that again. Since then I've just wanted to stay warm and covered and eat a lot of chocolate.

Hand knit socks #8

Inspiration for a gansey, gurnsey, geurnsey, seedstitchy type sweater. I scanned all the little photo booth pictures I used to take of myself recently. Photographic evidence that I did exist as an 11 year old gamine, photos in my family of origin being a rarity. I didn't have many clothes, but I do remember this sweater, probably some low grade Simpson's department store synthetic turtle neck. I remember loving one other sweater when I was a kid, also an aran/gansey type cardigan. I liked the fineness of the pattern. Years ago I stashed some authentic gansey wool, tightly twisted navy blue, ready for a sweater like this. So many ideas, so many sweaters, so much yarn (stashed), so little time...

Handknit socks #7

Hand knit socks #6

A week ago I got all excited by how cold my new office is. I had one of the guys go out and get me a thermometer so that I could coo about the new lows in this little space that has no heating vents and single pane windows that leak hissy wind (and possibly snow). I felt the cold would mark the need to wear wristies, as demonstrated in picture, that went beyond being affected to de rigeur computer wear. I made those for a co-worker last year because she had a propensity to write or take phone calls outside mid-winter. I made the second pair for another friend who works outside, scribbling away in the dark and cold. Last I heard, her daughter had appropriated them. Finally, my turn, to have wristies, Dickensian scribbler gloves, justification for another cup of hot coffee and a cookie, a pink nose, and chilly martyr complex. There was a reason for all those socks (which are on the feet under the desk). When a cold front started to move in, the same front that buried Buffalo, I started knitting a pair (with leftover mourning boyfriend sweater black wool). I even brought them in to complete on the morning that I anticipated the temperature in my little abode away from home was going to dip below 60F. I unlocked the door, waited for the cold to slide out and hit my knees first... nothing. The wind had shifted back to the west, and apart from a slightly musty cool, there was no freezer burn, no paper shifted in the inbox from blasting winds. Bah, h....


This woman was knitting in the Forbidden Palace in Beijing, outside, in January. Beijing was as cold as Montreal. No doubt she was knitting wristies.

Hand knit socks #5

Hand knit socks #4

I think I knit like I drank. Anything goes better with knitting. I knit to calm myself down, to dispel rage or when mania takes hold. I have celebratory knitting, lifting needles loaded with expensive yarn in a toast to getting the job or losing the man. I knit in groups, I knit alone. I knit first thing in the morning, and bleary-eyed and wobbley late at night. I knit in grief and depression, rote mindless plain blanket or shawl knitting, seated in the captain's chair, not changing my clothes or bathing or even getting up to eat. I knit at the beach on a sunny day, and on the front veranda when the sun is going down on a summer day. I am stirred by lanolin rich smoky Ontario yarns, trill to rich Italian merinos, and trash out to Wal-mart crayola synthetics jewelled toned pop wines. I hoard wool, stock it, cool and dry. I'm greedy for wool, dumpster diving for it at the goodwill. I negotiate and manipulate for yarn, insuating my way into the lives of non or part-time wool holders for purposes of relieving them of their meagre stashes and redistributing them into mine. I knit when I'm bored, hungry, lonely, angry and tired. I knit when I'm elated or serene, enthusiastic and focused, panicked and scattered. Knitting is my other.

Happy 45th Birthday sweet baby girl sister Lynn!!!!!!

First known knitting picture of moi, circa 1984. Taken in a very cold apartment in Parkdale, in which I slept in hand-knit sweaters from September 1st on to stay warm. The landlords were cheap, and one year the furnace conveniently broke and wasn't turned on until December (that was the month of sleeping in a sweater and a hat). I was knitting a pair of mittens in this picture, some burgundy silk/wool tweedy brit yarn, flecked with fushia. My boyfriend K took the picture. At the time the only sweaters I knew how to knit were some variation of a lopi icelandic sweater, body and sleeves on a circular, decreasing to neckline. I knit him a "like" sweater, with a coarse blue wool flecked with white (like little snowflakes). Our relationship was very on and off again, for many years. When I was reacquainted with him twenty years later, for another round of on/off, he told me had just lost the sweater in a divorce. Tossed in a box into the basement with all his other belongings after his leaving the family home, the sweater had likely been tossed by a pissed-off ex-wife or disappointed mother. But it lived for twenty years after we had been together. He held hands with his wife, walked his children in ravines, tossed the frisbee, raked leaves, skated outdoor rinks and smoked a joint in the backyard while he wore that sweater. Which is a question I and many others have posed to ourselves, where do all the other old boyfriend sweaters go to die?

Hand knit socks #3

Handknit socks#2 - a lesson in not wearing boy shoes. A tan might not be a bad idea either.

Always good for a wooly shot

My grandmère, Mémé, almost uniquely knit socks for my cousin François. She was among other things a stage actress, who was taught to knit by someone who worked with her at the theatre. To calm nerves, pass time. She also smoked Viscount cigarettes, and lit them with tiny elegant imported Italian matches that had slim waxed paper matchsticks. We fought over blowing out the match, and the boxes the matchsticks came in. Each of them had a different picture, formative classical art education I guess. I remember my grandmother only knitting once for my sister and I, these two sweaters. They fit us for one cold August, and were promptly unravelled and knit into socks. I came by the sock thing honestly.

Handknit socks#1

Lake Huron, August 2006

Cottage sock knitting memories from August. Leaving a Toronto heat wave for Lake Huron. The first thing I did when I got there was to put on my bathing suit, and get smashed by waves for a couple of hours. I was able to breath again. It felt like I stopped oozing and expanding into a heat where I couldn't tell where I stopped or started. I could feel my lines, my perimeter, my skin, my organs. My brain shifted back into focus. And then I came into the house, dishevelled, cool enough to wear a jacket, and I resumed sock knitting. what else?
Today is a sock day, cool, autumnal stirs, maybe rain. A summer of heatwave sock knitting, and I can finally enjoy the product. Yeah!

Done, done, done. Dancing in the recital was fun, looking at the pictures after was difficult. Fat and hypercritical, bad combination. This is a picture of me and the ensemble in the mumu gulf state rich fat chick dress with great hair and nails dance. I wish my intellect and self-image were meshed. Mouthing off middle-age defiance about youth culture, and shaking boobs and jelly bellies is a great release in the present tense. The evidence is wrenching, to me. "you're as young as you feel" makes me "feel" like I'm living an arthritis commercial. I feel seventeen, but I look like what I am. Big disconnect. So what was good about it... my friends came out on a school night and sat in uncomfortable chairs in a very warm room, hooted and whistled, and I loved them for doing that. I danced with some wonderful wonderful wonderful women. Who all looked beautiful and lush to me. Not an intellectual or aesthetic beauty, but a juicy life-giving and breathing sumptuousness. Seeing the age and body type spectrum of women all dancing together was happiness. I loved being hot and sweaty, and going outside onto the Danforth in my bare feet to cool down, occasionally catching the eye of some guy from the hood stunned by the vision of all these half-dressed women out on the pavement on a cool September evening. Forget what it looks like, it felt good to do it.

This weekend... the recital... I'm in three numbers, and I have yet to finish sewing one of my costumes. I finally came out, of my t-shirt that is, and exposed my bare belly in a class. I don't have the confidence to carry it off, whats more my shark white belly acts like a light bounce on adjacent dancers (or some weird beacon of fear) so I'm sewing some gauzing sequined thing that will make me feel better about sort of showing my belly. If in form only. Squirm. I'm far better prepared than I was for last years rehearsal, and hoping that I might enjoy looking the audience in the eye, whooping and taking up space. It isn't enough this year to "get throught it". I want to really get it, to feel the music and include the audience in my joy. Joy that I'm still moving, that I can shake it, and move my hips, that I have flesh and sweat and hair, that I'm still alive. Far from perfection, just trying. Now here
's some gauzey disguised belly for you...

We've been debating the value of blogs at work... who reads them, who has time to write them, if you write a blog don't you have anything better to do, and generally "who cares what you think". I'd love to keep up with a blog a day about knitting and bellydancing, and be eligible to joins one of those knit-rings. As it is, I'm jotting down life minutae, maudlin musings, and pictures that appeal to me. Nobody really knows I'm here, no-one can connect this blog to the real flesh and blood me that loves parts of my family, goes to work, has friends, and generally fumbles through it all. I think writing a blog is akin to emailing a friend, takes about the same amount of time. Blither to anyone who doesn't know you. So when the kid in Montreal shoots up Dawson CEGEP (my sister's alma mater), what is left of him but a blog with creepy pictures and less than an explanation for why you're so angry and disenfranchised that you'd shoot some innocent little girl dead (and not the "villified" jock). Maybe we would have all been better off if he'd shared his head and heart with a person in flesh, and not a fantasy community of pixels. yeah, yeah, debate media, inernet isolation, idle youth. Just look someone in the eye today. Like my dear departed good boy Mason. xxx

end of august, end of august???? why it was only weeks ago that it was deep winter and I was wondering what work prospects would come in the spring, only days ago that I wrote my last confession to this blog, only hours ago that I went to my last mid-week dance class before I traded in the leisure (I use that word loosely) for employment. Yeah, I just got a job! But d*rn, summer is over. But, I've been dancing or rehearsing most days, and I have seventeen pairs of socks to show for all my time off! I got five years of tax returns done, ripped my way through ten feet of magazine piles and pulled the most beautiful images, had my house parged and stuck back together with cement goop, had good swims with good friends, travelled to Paris, walked the beach boardwalk early in the morning (more mornings than in the past ten years combined), rode my bike in the ravine, saw movies, figured out the cabling and connections on my TV so I could get an HD signal, wrote a letter that was twenty years late, held my cat when he was sick, learned how to use my serger again, danced and listened to music after years of putting it in the background and forgeting that I ever knew how to move, sorted my shirts by mood and colour, bought a lot of wool and even more sock wool, went to DKC meetings, went to my book club meetings (and read the books before), bought a sari every time I went out to lunch for Indian food, baked pistachio biscotti again, talked to my sister most everyday, indulged in good cheese, road-tripped to Montreal et environs, commenced a correspondence with a long lost relative, archived pictures, made movies, and suduko'ed my brain off.

Wish I had written more here... but this month has been crazy busy, like I always wonder at this point in my between gig status how anyone can work and get anything done. But very soon I'll be back to that life, 70hour weeks, time at home to sleep, have a coffee and do a few rows. But August... I worked on a friend's short film (or was the July?), my cat got sick and almost died, I went to a friend's cottage on Lake Huron, and I danced or rehearsed almost every day, and until my walking pal went back to work I was walking with her most mornings. And I bought enough wool from Briggs & Little to knit twelve pairs of work socks, a nostalgic favourite of mine. And that was the month?!?! Nothing like a deadline. Five days before I have to be back; and in that time I will sew a belly dance bra, a modern Egyptian cabaret narrow slit skirt, embelish said items with all the glittery bits I can fit on them. And put everything away. And sundry administrative tasks. And a visit to the ex. And try to do better on living the next go around on my show. Stay tuned.

I sense, both with regret and anticipation, that my eight month hiatus from work is coming to an end. I'm rushing to get my costumes worked out for the bellydance school recital on September 17th. Here I am in the Khaleegy dress (oh my - what to wear underneath, probably harem pants and a choli). As illustrated, it is a matter of delicateness grace and skill to dance with these dresses to full advantage, swishing and tsking, sweeping hair and arms, and enticing mothers with sons to notice your full hips, glowing skin and sweet (ahem) smiles, without tripping, ripping or getting lost in it (as illustrated). I'm in two other dances, one where you have to wear a peasant skirt, tight tank (for full display of beginner undulations and belly pops) with a coin scarf and all the bling you can manage. The third dance is the most challenging. It's from the beginner 2 class, has the most complicated choreography for me (involving dropping to bent knees a couple of times and undulating back up), all while wearing a modern Egyptian cabaret get-up. Now, belly-exposer I'm not. Sort of a contradiction in terms I guess to call myself a "belly" dancer. Don't worry, the belly is undulating and moving under the sweat shirt at all times.... just nobody can see it. But now it's time to put it out there. I went in search of materials to sew my costume, and several hundred dollars later I have enough for 10 costumes! Plenty of space to make mistakes in design and execution, but limited time to get it right. The idea is a fully-beaded red/black cabaret bra, meshing for the belly, and a tight narrow lycra skirt. Ta-da, modern egyptian cabaret dancer. What did I get myself into? Usually I don't put much preparation into anything. I just jump and go. As I've gotten older, i've observed that my nerves get jangled much more when I'm rushed, whether it's a dinner party, interview with an employee, or travelling. Everything is so much more enjoyable when I've carved out the space to enjoy it, and eliminate pesky details like "WHAT TO WEAR!!!?!?!??!?"

Exhaustion. My ex-husband and I have just witnessed a catty miracle. Hector, black killer boy, was critically ill with a brain tumour or some sort of brain infection (our bank accounts being too small to buy the diagnostic tests to be definitive). It's been comatose cat duty for the past six days. Without the gory details, we dug his grave and were taking him to his "last" appointment, when we saw a bit of life (one last chance to try feeding him, he licked his chops when I opened a can which he promptly turned away from). His death sentence was commuted for another day, while we waited for some or any more improvement. Two days later he is his old yowly self, insensed with me that I won't allow him out, yelling for an A-team rescue from every open window, hissing at his pills, and consuming 3 cans of stinky cow gut beef gravy cubes in the past 12 hours. But this week, I sat with him outside on the front veranda with his little dish rag body and 1000 yard stare. I picked up some mindless knitting on an unfinished sweater from 3 years ago. I call it my Jamestown sweater. I travelled to New York State with a couple of friends to a picnic on a very hot and overcast August afternoon, and convinced them to go to a wool store with me. It turns out the wool store was in deep woods, quaint but sparsely stocked. I was jonesing for fibre, not having developed the habit of always always carrying a small project with me (like this week at the vet when we were juicing up Hector on a fluid IV every morning because he wasn't drinking - out came the socks). So at this country woods wool store, I bought the "local" stuff, which turned out to be Maine wool. Scratchy, but hardy, a good outdoor under the down vest sort of sweater. I picked all the colours I liked, and thought I'd figure something out later. Each colour band is four rows, and the gradation is mostly consistent. Pretty boring knitting, and I guess I hadn't figured out a complete plan for it. I went to the Interweave book of sweater patterns, worked the numbers, figured out how much yardage I had, and committed to a plan of action. That would make it the Jamestown funky public boy school sweater with the split t-neck and semi inset sleeves. Wait for it... the experience of showing bd teacher the stash has me interested in finishing a couple of things. That and it's cool here, finally. More about the new thrills of my bd life tomorrow...

1982 - 2nd knit object, first pair of socks. Never learned how to darn. Knit in 100% wool, some hippy-dippy natural stuff. Of course the perspiration from my feet could rot out steel wool when I was younger. Loved these socks, wore them with holes for years, haven't been able to get rid of them, hoping for a "new" use - tea cosy, arm warmers perhaps?

I've been to two dances classes since I last posted. My newest bd teacher came to my house to look over the stash and to knit on the front porch. A bit of home-made chocolate cherry icecream, and the stripping down of stash and works in progress. Looking at it from an outsiders perspective, I am rather ridulous in my obsessions (for wool, rugs, fabric, books, music, movies, etc). But hey, I live alone, I pay my bills, the pathways are clear in my house. I finish the important stuff; personal hygiene, going to work (when I have it), staying in touch with friends and family. So what if there is an accumulated 6,000lb of wool, textiles, clothing and fabric in this house. Structural engineers haven't condemned it yet. Though it might not be so great for the allergies, and subsequent asthma. Ach.... and all I have to show for it is some holey socks!

Too too hot to knit. And I've been working. Trying to shimmy everyday, and just melt into it. Warm weather is apparently better to shimmy in, muscles warmed up and long, loose. So I try to go with the heat, play my Beirut and Cairo cafe music, close my eyes and go back to somewhere else, just to blur this feeling of heavieness and pressure on my chest into languid arms and hips, and accents with the barest shimmy. to bed, to bed.

I just finished reading Suite Francaise by Irene Nemirovsky. It was a book that I couldn't put down. It described some of my worst fears; the panic of fleeing war, the viciousness, fear and greed that surviving fuels in some (or most) people. Which would beg the question of why would you read something like that - because it described the moments between spilled brains and sleep, cats prowling at night, food, flowers, music, ideas, love, decency. Written by a woman who didn't live to see the end of the war, whose children were hidden away to survive, who described the spectrum of humanity humanely, and shredded the hypocrisy of religion, creed, nationality and social class. I cried for them all, as I cry for people that live in all war zones; countries or neighbourhoods or office cubicles. Be kind, love your enemies, pray or wish for the best for them.
This book was punctuated by waiting women who knit, knit in shelters, knit in the afternoon, knit in the evening, returned to their knitting, pursed their lips and knit, knit mufflers, knit, knit, knit. If I could have done a word count on "knit", it would have been mentioned a hundred times. Not exactly the culture of knitting as we know it, chatty, sassy, defiant, grrrl rebellion, hand-crafted. Their knitting, as described, was terse and dark, utilitarian, forced, the bitter zone.
And that's knitting evolution.....

boo-f#$%ing-hoo. Enough with the Annie Maudlin show... I've been feeling weepy writing about old knitted love objects. Must get back to my belly-dance ambassador of joy persona, shaking the ta-tas, embodying the music, smoky and slow or bright and exuberant. Mind you belly-dancing can be soulful and sorrowful too. arghghghgh. Picture today is me knitting (a sock, what else) under the Eiffel tower this spring, trying to avoid the rain, while waiting for the entourage come down from their ride to the top platform. Enough with the socks....

Love object#10 - this lopi icelandic sweater was probably a Christmas gift I knit for my Dad in 1983. This photograph was taken at Christmas in Calgary 2005. My father and I have spent many years estranged from each other, lots of reasons for no good reason at all, too much muck to put on a blog. There have been regrets and rage and tearful reunions, followed by more estrangement. I think the last Christmas we were together before this year was probably 1992. On this most recent Christmas morning he came over to my sister's house, wearing this sweater that I knit for him in love so many years ago. The stitches were still crisp. It hadn't weathered rain or snow, and pilled up, probably lay folded up on a closet shelf. Twenty-two years later he still had it, and wore it as a peace offering I think. Point taken, love received back. xxxx

Does anybody need a cool swim? That's how I started this morning, in small lake north of Lachute, whoosh... washes away heat headache, lightens my hot and heavy body. I see better, my sense of smell and hearing is more vivid, I feel more in my limbs, in my fingers... this was paradise. I woke up before everyone, must have been before 6am, didn't have a clock. Tiptoe downstairs, espresso coffee on the stove and heated milk, opened the windows, went on the deck, heavy cool and wet. There was a big storm last night.



Our belly-dancing was curtailed by the power going out, and just sinking back into cottage couches and watching the light show while the storm passed over us. The morning after, heavy rains all night and memory of the heat of dancing and showing M and her daughters how to shimmy and drop a hip. Finally, a cool breeze. What else, I sat down and finished another sock, and let stillness seep into me. And then I went swimming. And then I drove home.




Yesterday I saw another old friend in Montreal. The talk came around to arans, and the give it away come back to you nature of the universe. Here she is bashfully modelling an aran sweater she knit for her grandmother 35 years ago, which found its way into her closet again only a couple of years ago by a rather circuitous route. Perhaps one of my wandering arans will come home. But in the mean time, I might have to make it a fall project. That, and just keep giving it away. There is this line from Roseanne Cash's album BLACK CADILLAC- "long after life there is love" which makes cry when I think of a humble knit object redolent with the life, love, thoughts and prayers of someone who knit something for someone they loved, or received a gift in love too. I wish I had a piece of my grandmother's knitting.

It was my birthday yesterday. Two of my underemployed friends helped me celebrate at a lunch on the Danforth. Later we came back and enjoyed the warm breezes on my front veranda (hint - no ac at my house), while eating chocolate/carmel goddess/goldflecked cake from Altitude. Of course a bit of harmless bra modelling had to occur. I don't know if J had the stomach for it, what with the heat and quivering ha-has.

All in all it was a good day. I'm so prone to pitty potty hysterics on my birthday, that I try to take care every year to avoid an outbreak of the wah-wahs. So I bought the cake I wanted. My family called from across the country first thing in the morning, my Dad waking me up at 7am, even though he was awake at 5am in Calgary. Sister and niece sang me a happy birthday from Calgary, reminding me that I wouldn't be choking on the heat and humidity and having asthma attacks if I lived in the cool and dry foothills of the Rockies. My ex-husband came for a coffee first thing in the morning (and I modelled my coin gyrations). My pal and ex-assistant sent me a beootiful bouquet of flowers. Here I am modelling my massive prosperity and mirror covered bosom beside dz's beautiful flowers. And my Mum called from Montreal, my tante Monique left a message, and the outlook inbox was full. One of my best high-school friends called too, and with that I'm on a road trip to Montreal et environs tomorrow after bd class.

I'm not crazy about knitting in heat, and my output is way down. I did drop by NAKED SHEEP to replace the lost dps, and of course left with 2x more balls of eek "black" sock yarn. I thought I might do some heels and toes, to ground all the twinkles toes I'm covering. Before I get too out of control whiny about heat, it was put into perspective by a newspaper article this week; 58 days of "summer" per Toronto year. I guess they meant heat. Anyone can do 58 days, and with that I just make better plans for fan positioning, ice cold showers right before bed (to mimic the evening skinny dip at a lake that makes you drop into a deep sleep in spite of musty bedding), and fantasies of x-country skiing in Finland and long dark winter nights.

Apologies to diehard tribal dancers today. I'm totally into the ambassador of joy coin covered shimmy with a smile school of belly-dancing. Maybe one day I will be able to wear it with a smudged eyes, and a piercing and tat, mysterious and reverential to snake goddess culture. But for now I just love the sound and weight, and the bareness of it when I'm by myself. We all gotta start somewhere!

Aran sweaters... I've knit five of them, but I don't have a one of them (I can wear). This is a picture of one of those aran sweaters, a kit from Sharon Country Designs (which I think calls itself sweaterkits now). I knit this sweater over a five year period. I adapted the shoulders, and knit from the neck/sleeve down. I hate sewing, so it was done in one piece. Of course I put the work down right when I was fiddling with the pattern, and spent a good day figuring out my notes a number of years later. And it was all but finished except for the clasps not being sewn on. Then my sister swooped in for a weekend visit, and a shop in my clothing room. The sweater went home with her, minus the clasps. She did this a couple of years ago too, when I finished an unfinished aran sweater that my mother had started for me (she had done the back and one front). Before that I lost the love sweater I made for my ex-husband in our first year together. He loves the sweater, and even what it represented in terms of work and committment, but he doesn't want to ruin it by wearing it (hummmmm). I caught him storing it on a hanger with a couple of moth balls rolling around on the floor. Suffice to say, it is now stored flat. Then there was the aran sweater I knit for myself to commemorate a new job (buying wool yarn at the time was a big purchase). It was a mauve heather from Philosphers Wool, itchy but durable, perfect for the outdoor aran. I finished that sweater, but gained 30 lbs, and it now stretches across my bosom, and packages me like a sausage. Not pretty, so I keep it in my closet as a reminder of leaving a hose bag job and getting the big nirvana career of my early thirties, and in the event of another ice age (isn't that going to be the paradoxical result of global warming?). The other aran sweater was short and red, and I just knew I wouldn't like the result, probably having sized it incorrectly (yes, I never knit swatches), so I ripped it out, and the red wool remains to this day in my red/fushia/pink wool bin.

So, in my knitty dreams, I think about an aran made in a soft ivory (to oatmeal) wool, a v-neck, front pockets, shoulder saddles, inset sleeves, gooey with cables and texture (no bobbles), no ribbing on the edge so that it doesn't grab my bottom and slides a bit... dancing cables.

Detail on the last aran I finished. I love this close and personal view.

Thunderstorms, rain, basement flooding, tea with my dearest and oldest (of the duration kind) friend T. We picked through her photos for some shots during the 1980s when we used to live in the same apartment building across the hall from each other. I was hoping that somewhere in there I would find a picture of my old knitting basket. It was large enough to store a body, and before I was able to put my wool stash in a closet (and then a small room), I thought my hoarding capacity was unparalleled. It is so nice to have old friends. None of the catch-up talk on what or why I loath or love. No pretension, just gratitude on my part that I'm still on the journey with someone I recognize and love.
Knitted object today is the very first thing I knit, outside of the yearly half done scarves I did with my grandmother during summer vacation. My grandmother, Meme, died when I was 21. She was my first great loss. She loved and nurtured me and my sister. When she died I was so desperate to connect to her, to never forget her, that I resolved to teach myself to knit. Meme was always knitting socks for my cousin Francois, and I thought that by knitting I could hold onto a piece of her. During those summers as a nine and ten year old, one of my cousins was doing "real" knitting when I was struggling through 3" of scarf, knitting sweaters for her dog. I wanted so badly to be able to knit, that I taught myself from a 20 page "beehive" booklet on "hobbies" that included crochet, tatting and embroidery. I had just graduated from university, into a recession and severe underemployment, and general depression. Learning to knit was a major accomplishment. Translating two dimensional illustrations, and text, into a three dimensional motion with my hands that produced a fabric was miraculous. I attribute that long winter year of mistake, repair, mistake, repair, redo, cast on, ripping out, ribbit, ribbit, ribbit, with shifting the little logic gears in my brain into the "on" position. The development of linear thinking allowed me to teach myself anything from text. With it I was able to read and understand technical manuals, I taught myself to type, all range of "producing" got better. Of course, the linear thinking got pretty strong, and I had to find the other side again, but that's another story. This sweater, is literally the first object I ever knit, in 1979/1980. I wore it as a winter coat for two years when I moved to Toronto. I slept in it when the landlord didn't turn on the heat, used it as a pillow, trampled and mangled it. It was a Chatelaine kit, which came without needles as I remember. Finding needles probably took a couple of months alone. I couldn't understand what ribbing was when I started the body, but I learned what it was by the time I did the sleeves. I knew no-one who knit. But I struggled away for the love of my Meme, and it was the a-ha moments of the fog lifting that kept me going. And I'm beating back the same fog today.

I didn't take this picture. But this is the coin bra I ordered on line. I'm already a hefty babe, so I can't imagine what I'll look like wearing one of these. Oh, but I can imagine how it will feel, and sound. Only in the privacy of my basement of course. As an ambassador of joy, a belly-dancer descriptive I think is perfect, maybe I'll feel the joy and want to share it eventually. Or maybe this coin bra will be art on the boob gallery, aka the dining room. A propos, yes?

Lucious plate of dessert.... went to my book-club bar-b-q in the hills, with the most wonderful group of women. Good food, larfs. Convinced J the host to put on a belly dance scarf, took to a hip drop like a natural, like we're all born bellies, because it just feels right as a movement to make. The food was wonderful and the company was refreshing and inspiring. I met some born again knitters who couldn't believe that the sock yarn I showed them was self-patterning. In the melee, I lost one of my needles, a 2.5mm bamboo short little toothpick travelling needle. Just another excuse for a trip to THE NAKED SHEEP




Put out my laundry this morning to dry. Could the pink/fuschia be a favourite colour? Nah, I only do my laundry every six weeks, so I have to do a more specific sort. But assembling it this way makes it so much more interesting to do... art as life, life as art.








Here is the basket for sock yarn. As indulgent as it is, I'm more interested in the left over bits, and what I might make with them. I was thinking of a pair of winter leggings, that I can wear on some cold day to work in a dank studio, or to slog through snow to shovel out the car, or on a trip home to Montreal. When I went to primary school, we wore uniforms. Under the tunics during the winter we wore leotards, which with one fall on the pavement would run (and I wonder why I hate pantyhose now). So these brown/blue/black leotards were mended many times over, and frankly provided no warmth in the winter. As little kids, jumping snow banks, and walking home (yes that was back when you walked to and from school unaccompanied), my legs were numb red, right up to the little foufouns. Aah, the warmth a pair of leggings would have provided! But of course you wouldn't have been caught dead wearing them at the time... ah the fashion tyranny of 8 yearolds


This is Malcolm, patron sheep of the flock. His painting is right beside the mantlepiece, gazing down benignly on those that flick the sticks. bah











My khaleegy dress came yesterday. Sheer, sparkly, flowing, and airy. Wish my dancing were that too. I know that my hair will toss better when I wear this dress. Failing that, it makes a great "hi honey you're home can I get you a drink" dress. Actually, that's my mother's line.

Ok. found the downside of this blogging thing - daily input. Now, I indulge in knitty and belly thoughts every day. Every day I visually drink in colour, pattern, texture, arrangement of the textiles around me, listen to belly music, roll my belly or flutter or shimmy or hip drop to make a point during a conversation. But every day, I don't write about it. I was a lousy student, a journal writer only when I was squirming with boyfriend angst or existential gobsmackedness. But I sit at a computer every day for anywhere between 15 minutes and hours, and I indulge in the voyeurism of looking at peoples lives (blogs). The thinking was that if I was prepared to look, then I should be prepared to share. But this every day thing.... So last five days - knitting tube socks in creamsicle orange, took delivery of ebay purchase of 3x balls of fancy german sock knitting yarn, brought my sock-knitting to a pool party and promptly lost it under a couch under the backyard tikki hut (though I was reacquainted with a juicy friend who bellydances at this gathering), swam under a night sky lit with fireworks from adjacent backyards and lightening from faraway storms on Canada Day, dragged my red coin scarf around the house as I bemoaned the absence of classes on the long weekend, went to a class yesterday and filled the spiritual belly to speak (and did turn arounds with snake arms while trying to hold a gaze, our khaleegy dance, and camel walks), and ebay delivery of belly dance scarf (made in India) with a teeny swishy bell sound, beaded caps, slave bracelet (yes I'm off ebay for the rest of July). Hope to be able to write in sentences tomorrow. xxx