finally

I think I've got a banner I'm happy with. Why, oh why, did the other ones I made keep coming out so frickin' huge??

Anyway, it's over now. I can get rid of the folder of picture attempts I had named "battle of the banner." No, I'm not kidding.

I forgot to put Newton in it, though . . . 

poem in your pocket day

Today is the last day of National Poetry Month, and Poem in Your Pocket Day. It is a day to share poetry with others, maybe those who would not ordinarily read it, in a variety of ways - not just poems in one's pockets (though I find that concept thoroughly charming).

I have to confess - I fall into that category of people who would not ordinarily read poetry. I certainly have read poetry, and I recognize its value, but for the most part . . . it isn't what speaks to me.

So what does speak to me? Don't worry; I am not going to rhapsodize about a perfectly elegant geometric proof or a deviously, deceptively simple physics problem - though those things have their charms as well. I think I am just more attracted to the visual. Color speaks to me, and form speaks to me - it's a big part of why I love knitting so much. I could have stayed at the Peabody Essex Museum for weeks when J and I went last November. During the fall I am simply a hazard on the road: a brilliant yellow tree against an equally brilliant blue sky and I kind of forget where I am.

So, in order to share a poem today, I am posting some of my favorite song lyrics. I like song lyrics a lot - perhaps the poems themselves do not readily give up their rhythms to me, but if you show me those rhythms, I can get it. Even now, the words look a little flat on the page to me, if I'm being honest. But I will share them, and I hope the rhythms come through for you. This song is called "The Dumps," and it's by my current obsession, Elvis Perkins.

And yes, I realize sharing song lyrics would be so much more authentic if I passed them to you in a note in French class, but I'll work with what I've got. :)

The Dumps

The heavens are smiling upon us

The great, white, toothless grin of the newborn and the dying here among us

We are starting the living again

You have stopped your shivering

You won't go to the lake in the mirror again

The sea stops tonight and all her little children are hanging tight

As I have stopped my moon-walking, glad to say

It's oh so tired, and so am I, of stalking yesterday

The past will rust in peace

It's been one lousy couple of months, but now we are coming out of the dumps

And everything is calling our names, though the sunshine units are here to stay

Like Adam makes small talk with Eve on their six-month anniversary

They will go home in separate cars

Yes, they will sleep under separate stars

As the heavens are smiling upon us

The ghost white, shit-eating grin of the newborn and the dying here among us

We are starting the living again

insert spinning pun here

I completely fail at being monogamous. In craft, I mean - sorry, no salacious confessions forthcoming here. I have been trying, really I have, to commit to Reese's sweater, but the endless stockinette just puts me to sleep. Literally, sometimes. 

So I've cheated. I've played around with felt and embroidery, which has been a lot of fun. Some of the results of that are in the shop, and some of it ended up as gifts. I've especially liked cutting up cashmere sweaters and turning them into scarves:

I've also gotten back behind the wheel, so to speak. I started working on this merino top forever ago. The original plan was to spin half the singles on the wheel and the other half on a drop spindle, then ply them together, the intent being to keep from forgetting how to use the drop spindle, I suppose. What I did forget, apparently, is that drop spindling is a slow process. After over a year of spinning a little at a time on the spindle, with the pile of fiber not getting appreciably smaller (or so it seemed), I gave up. I am, perhaps, a slow learner. I finished it all on the wheel and oh boy is it pretty and squishtastic.

I'm debating putting it in the shop; I have no idea what I'd ever use it for. But I might have trouble giving it up. 

Having launched a bit of a spinning kick, I've started this too:

That's a 50/50 soy wool blend that's also been marinating in the stash quite a while. I'm trying to end up with chunky singles, though I'm not great at that. I like this fiber a lot, though. It's very soft, and a little shiny. I can certainly see why the soy fiber is sometimes called "soysilk." Mmm.

Oh, and one last thing! I have somehow ended up with two copies of At Knit's End by the esteemed Yarn Harlot. If there is any knitter left who does not have a copy of this book (!), leave a comment and it could be yours!

proof that coordination (or lack thereof) is hereditary

J, aged about 14, is riding his bike down the street. He sees a friend from school, waves, and . . . rides his bike into a parked car.

Sam, aged 11, is riding his bike down the street. He aims for the driveway, misses, and . . . rides his bike into the neighbor's hedge.

the scribbler

I'm writing a real post, honest. It's taking me forever; lately I've had the attention span of a gnat.

But in the meantime, I found this, and it's neat, and I wanted to share.

I'll be back soon, honest.