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.