Evolution

In the fall of 2010 I danced my little heart out, performing in Shagara Moon's THE RED SCARF.  I rehearsed and sewed and ferried people and bits about for a couple of months between paying gigs as a television production manager.  It culminated in four performances over one weekend, at a University of Toronto theatre.  A total high.  A total relief to have done.  A total awareness that I am an introvert, and performing for anymore than three people is a stressor.
A couple of other things happened too.  I expended my physical resources, which made me really sick in 2011.  Girl issues, iron deficiencies, nothing drastic.  I just couldn't walk a block without stopping three times to catch my breath.  Only in 2012 am I finally regaining stamina, but after not dancing for what is now close to eighteen months, parts of my body have almost rusted stiff and away from non-use.  Originally because I was home on modified puppy maternity leave I had been able to give my attention to this endeavour.  It's been a long slog to move from enthusiasm for a fabulous career and being well compensated for lending my skills, to hoarding my best energies for me.  My resulting boredom in negotiating kit rentals and lunch receipts for entitled film technicians and walking a tightrope of controlled chaos  reached its zenith in the spring of 2012.  So i quit.  Not really quit quit walk out the door, but I called uncle.  This disturbed the well established order of my working relationships, in particular with the producer I had worked for for over 20 years.
I had to face the loss of a good working relationship and a good job, by taking a peon job across the hall as an accounting clerk.  Another quasi police show being produced by an American network with money.   In the eyes of my old colleagues they probably think I slutted out to the evil empire.  But  the experiences has been good.  I've  mostly laughed my pants off so hard everyday I peed.   That felt good.   I've refocused what I can give and what I would like to do, and what I want to be paid for it.  And it only took five months to figure it out.
So now, waiting on my next job,  I'm back in the basement, the basement I so desperately tried to avoid 14 years ago.  I'm with large dog, knitting needles, fabrics and sewing machines, and a handsome apple iMac.  I follow my selection of lifestyle porn blogs, now emboldened to share my own visual aesthetic.  I've thought of starting a "journal" blog, a food blog, a quilt blog,  a bullmastiff blog, but I think I'll stay with bellydance knitter.  There is something disturbing to me where one's life and interests are compartmentalized.  Where knitting Turkish stockings leaves off, collecting Persian rugs begins, and where sitting on a rug ends with a meal adapted from Paula Wolfert's writing, discussing Edith Wharton and where the Arab Spring meets Occupy Toronto, and my family's well trod path through alcoholism and addiction to wellness and healing, and wholeness.  Not wanting to be too scary here, but the blog is a package deal I think, what I would share with a stranger in a coffee shop, or co-workers by the monitor.  Maybe I'm too open a book, too shallow, too concerned with pretty colours and nice flavours, too messy, too much rage, too much dog hair.  et bien.

So writing on the bellydance knitter blog continues.

Seven Year Cycle. Repeat.
THEN:
Almost fourteen years ago I was in the basement watching COPS reruns with my now ex-husband. I wasn't very happy (mind you, my nature is irritable restless and discontented). I was mulling over a possible opportunity to push through to the next dimension in my career. My textile aspirations at the time were humble, daily offerings of stitches knat, and I had only begun to crave the large scale of colour, movement and pattern satisfaction that quilting offered. So I weighed the prospect of staying in the basement, with the now ex-husband and toodling away at my craft, or going big at work. I chose the little red sports car, big budgets, men and machines, and staying out all night. For a very long time my new chosen life was a lot of fun. Along the way, I divorced the husband, found mid-life love for eastern textiles and belly-dancing after I thought I'd never love again, and continued to nurture my passion for yarn and fabric. In that time, I found the like-minded in knitting cafes like THE PURPLE PURL, and online communities like Ravelry. After a seventy hour week, knitting with my friends was my social life. I stopped debating the guilt of stash acquistion, craft or art, and indulged every textile whim I had. Five hundred knitting books, three rooms of wool and fabric, seven bins of belly-dance costuming bling, two new sewing machines and one serger, two hundred and fifty rugs later...I sold the miata, quit the big job, and live with a big bullmastiff boy puppy named Edgar and date my ex-husband. Honey, I'm home!

NOW:



























NOW:

Shagara Moon performed at Riverdale Park on July 1st. The stage was this painted black plywood contraption, which was burning the feet of the dancers in the first number. Blistered and limping, the remaining dances were done on the grass in front of the stage, which was better on the feet and a more intimate performance I think. The khaleegy dancers were like coloured bejeweled butterflies floating on the steep green hill falling down to the Don Valley. So beautiful.

More of this please.

Bellydancing is a fact of my life. It is not a fad, not to be put aside like some of my other pursuits; beach glass mosaics, speed-walking or calligraphy. I can turn my head away for a little while, but somewhere a string of music or a rhythm always catches me. The dance troupe that I've ingratiated myself with is real. As much as I try to fade to the back of the room to observe the pretty young women with bendy bodies, I cannot ignore that I'm taking up space in this room. My body moves, not like a seventeen year old, but it moves. It wants to dance too, heavy and swollen, but with hips that remember. I can summon the zills heavy rhythms in silence. My hips pop, my arms swim, my chest drops. We rehearsed khaleegy yesterday, and I didn't even have to think about how I would drop to my knees. My brain didn't think creaky knees, it just went down. My hair swirled. I'm not here by mistake. Every flaw my body carries is part of my dancing. I am a dancer.

I went away to a cottage this weekend for two days of summer and swimming. We pretended as best we could that it was warm, but here is a picture of me wearing fleece warmups while drinking my morning coffee and knitting. The ghost of Daddy was close by when I did the "e-e-e-e-ah-ah-ah" cry before submerging in still northern lake waters. When we used to sail with my Dad on Lake Champlain in Vermont, he always had us off the boat in the water before the first cup of coffee, no matter the weather or wind conditions or the temperature. When I woke up Saturday morning on Mink Lake, before a thought bubble had formed over my head, I tripped into a wet bathing suit and stumbled to the lake edge. e-ee-e-eee-e-e-eahhhha -ach. Into still waters I slipped, warming with every stroke, pushing through the top layer cooled by night and finding yesterday afternoon's tepid slick. It was just enough exertion and cold water to wake up, and spur me onto the reward of fleece pants and the first cup of coffee.
We committed the cardinal sin on this trip. Between the two of us, neither of us brought socks. It was cold at night. It was cold after the morning swim. We needed socks.
And I knit socks, continually, religously, obsessively. Thick, thin, working, art-y, plain, cabled, bright, dim. My friends have been giving me gifts of store socks for years. When my mother started to knit again, she gave me socks, of the thick acrylic blend of faux Christmas sock slipper variety. When I go to the ONE OF A KIND show every December in Toronto, I buy the Quebecois mohair bed socks, and of course I buy every other bit of mohair product they have, including short tall mens' womens' black blue natural mauve single double mohair socks and mittens. I give these bed-socks away, and I've kept enough pairs for personal usage that I've managed to stash a pair in all my suitcases and travel packs for "visiting" emergencies. There is nothing worse than sleeping away from home, and being woken by cold feet. There was no precious little knob of mohair bed socks tucked into my bag this weekend. Whimper and wail, no socks.
The ultimate irony was that this was a sockknitting weekend, and between us we had five pairs of unfinished socks. Never again. Je me souviens. Je me souviendra. I'm putting an emergency sock stash everywhere this week.

sorry Miko...need I say more...the book is going to get it....

xx

am

.....last post in March 2008....yes, in five months there has been knitting, dancing and rugs....again, with the punctuation.....again, with the half-thoughts....

I purchased a rug, while showing a co-worker how to bid on ebay. Ali was turning forty, and she appeared to like the rug, so when it was delivered I gave it to her as a birthday gift. The rug that we had spread out in the office and dug our toes in, lived with us for only a week. Here, it lives virtually and for as long as there are bits and bites and electricity. It has the most unusual deep cherry red, a colour I crave, yet never manage to hold onto for long. Like all shiraz rugs, it's filled with little emblems, flowers, medallions, signs from G*d, animals and aliens. One day I'll study one of my rugs, and read it for a couple of months, checking for cast-off symbols, reckless camels or deliberation of design.

Those Scandinavian socks sure got around. Christening Sarah in Hudson Quebec in January 1987, wearing only pantyhose with a skirt was folly...

My Mom's pair of scandinavian socks are modelled by moi, at the base of Sterling Mountain, Smuggler's Notch, Vermont, January 1967. I look at this picture and I feel cold. I remember that thin little jacket, when we regularly skiied at zero farenheit and lower temperatures. I think my wool fixation comes of having been so cold as a kid. Now I'm outfitted with hats, mufflers, scarves, gloves, mittens, thrum mittens, wristies, sweaters thin and heavy, down vests, down jackets, hand-knit socks up the whowho, silk long-johns, cotton long-john underthings, cotton and wool turtlenecks and even electric socks. Those long cold days of eastern skiing ice and rock, frost bite on my face and toes have left with one me with one notable driving force in life; knitting in the chalet at the base with a nice cup of hot chocolate in front of a fire.

...missed last night's belly-dance drill class...cling.shwish.ding.bling....too much snow, too much winter, too dark, wearing winter socks and hiding under a blanket....dulled noises from industrious neighbours shovelling outside...back under the blanket....complete sentences to come....

The Scandinavian ski socks as they were originally worn in 1970 (see January 18th for a 1989 modelling).

Knitting Stash circa 1988...working my way to two closets, five baskets, and an outside storage facility....

I did a wool inventory; 20+ WIPs, seventy lots of yarn sufficient for a large sweater each and 10,000g of sock yarn. after i gave away three boxes and a garbage bag full.... i don't know if I'll be able to finish this in a lifetime, but i'll try ;)

Forgive me blog for I have knit more socks. It's been many months since my last confession of sock completions.... I finished khaki green ribbed socks for Clive, same version different colour (burnt orange/brown) for Lisa, kiddie primary blue/red/green on a white twist for Lynn, hideous white/orange/fushia for me (because they're not going anywhere) . WIP include pink lace from Nancy Bush, briggs&little work socks, and plain socks with selfpatterning mauve,fushia,orange,tan and browns.....

Knitting on a cruise to Central America...ever practical, they were socks for my sister's return trip to the wooly north in anticipation of blowing snow off the steppes of the prairies...

My aunts Monique and Micheline went to Morocco last fall. They were a small group of elderly Quebecoise ladies (average age well over 70), including two very well known Quebec actresses. Their intinerary included camping in the desert. Camp was made for them during the day, and appears to be made with kilim rugs strung over wood frames. Their hosts then cooked and served the ladies a Moroccan feast before leaving them alone in the desert to cackle and twitter, gossip and theorize late into the night. The pee shack was away from the camp, by the tree in the background. Each of the little ladies probably had to make their own midnight toddle to the shack (chamber pots being out of fashion) under a big starry night desert sky. Monique gave me this picture when I was in Montreal last week, and it's formed the basis of my own little fantasy world of making a camp with all my rugs, cooking and feeding my friends in the twilight, and dancing to exhaustion by fire and under stars. The pee shack I'm not so sure about.

This is mourning knitting; rote, predictable, back and forth, mindless, rythmnic. Taking some pressure off my brain, an enforced breathing exercise. Sometimes when you don't know what to do next, you forget even how to breath, and you need to do those dumb knee-bend in/out breaths, to move forward to the next moment, to move forward to the next month, to get to the next hour, the next week, the next year. When I divorced my husband and broke up with boyfriend, I had mourning knitting; blankets and shawls and dark things. I love the colours and texture of Noro Silk Garden, and the distraction of waiting for the next colour combination, so I'm not exactly swathed in black right now. But I when I think of my Dad, I think of blue, blue for conservative, blazers with gray flannel trousers, blue eyes, noxzema hand cream, Italian wool navy business suits, mariner themes, blue sea water, and winter skies in Vermont. When the blue pokes through this blanket, I feel him. In my minds eye, he is moored in an inlet just around the bend. A good supper finished, he's on the deck with a big cigar watching and thinking. And I just knit, knit, knit, knit

My Dad died two weeks ago. Suddenly. We were on estranged side of the relationship curve. Since my sister called me that Saturday afternoon, after I had just finished a dance class, and was about to eat at Udupi, I've travelled many miles literally and figuratively. At that morning's dance class we had done an exercise of dancing carefully with an angel, to commemorate and celebrate a "full of life, woman loving" man friend of Samira's who had recently died. I must have had a premonition of my father's passing, because he was in my mind when I held his spirit cupped in my hands and held it aloft to wave it free. Hours later, emotionally obliterated, in Calgary, my sister and I arranged to have his remains transferred from the coroners office to the crematorium. He was explicit in his instructions about the disposal of his remains; no funeral, plain box, witness the cremation. I was still in my dance clothes. I had brought a pair of hand-knit socks to keep my feet warm on the plane (socks yes, underwear no... I wasn't thinking). We gathered some clothes for my Dad at his apartment and I gave the funeral home my socks, and asked that he be dressed in them. We brought a blanket that was a plaid wool car blanket made in Lachute (probably in the 1950s - I remember it as a kid) so they could wrap him in the event they couldn't dress him, and we also gave him some cigars for the road. Gray tweed sports jacket - check, white dress shirt - check, silk cravat - check, flannel trousers - check, neon orange yellow hand knit wool socks - check.... when does the crying stop?

Somewhere in FranceJune 18, 1917
Dear Mother,
I rec'd your parcel and two bundles of papers today and one letter today and one yesterday. I hope what that fellow says about the war is true. Yes I was in that battle you were asking me about. I was one of the lucky ones. What that fellow says about Raymond DeCoste is about right as far as what I heard. He was coming down a communication trench and a " Whizz Bang " landed pretty handy to him and a piece of shell casing hit him on the hip. He said he had a good " Blighty " and did not think he was hurt bad but he died the next day.
I was out about two miles today to the gas school to get a gas mask. As it was so warm I went in my shirt sleeves. I was just coming back when it started to rain and thunder all in about a minute when the sun was out as bright as a silver dollar.
I was over to see some of the 106th boys. I saw quite a few of them and some other boys from Westville. I saw Sergt-Major Jollymore and Sergt. Dan Adamson. I also saw Dannie Corrigan, Edgar Murray and a Morrison of Westville. I got a letter from Sergt. H. MacKenzie about two months ago saying he was coming to France. I answered it but did not get a reply and I wondered what was the reason as he always wrote regular. They told me that he was killed just after he came to France.
I will close now with love to all from your ever loving son,
Clarence.
P.S. Would you mind sending me a thin sweater with short arms in it. They are the clear thing for here. The cigarettes were good and glad to get them. Am receiving all my parcels, now.
C.G.F.

Between jobs again...spent all Monday watching the Vimy re-commemoration and all related programming...crying...thinking about my great uncle Clarence who was at Vimy and Paschendale as a nineteen/twenty year old, and imagining what he might have experienced. My second cousin posted this letter that Clarence wrote his mother from the front. Note the P.S requesting a "thin sweater". There wasn't a wal-mart in Londonderry at the time, so Mary Jane or one his sisters probably got to work on the thin sweater.... I don't know that as the practical people that his family were, that they consciously imbued the thin sweater with powers of protection, prayer, love, hope and steel... but I like to think Clarence received his parcels and felt the fierceness of kinship from his family back at home, cigs and all.