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!!!!!!