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