October 2008 Archives

We have now entered the time when most or all knitting is being undertaken in secret, and thus you have More Pics from the Place of the Rhine. And of the cat, and maybe some bridges if I can ever remember to stop when I'm on one of them.

Today I didn't stop because I was riding over it with a hot boy, and that means the blog gets screwed (I don't, but that's a whole other story) (actually, no, wait, that is this story). This particular hot boy, who shall remain nameless to protect both him and me (and don't go trying to guess, Boywich, because his name isn't common this time) (long story, private joke). Anyway, enough of both those parens and that paragraph.

This particular hot boy, as I was saying before I so rudely and extensively interrupted myself (which I'm doing again, in case you hadn't noticed), grabbed my ass yesterday. By accident.

And, as one of my friends remarked upon hearing the story, the funniest part is that I didn't even notice it.

In my defense, I was wearing padded bike shorts under my regular shorts. In his defense, he was thinking of his girlfriend when he did it (or so he said).

Anyway, it was all very amusing, though I suppose it might have been more amusing for me had he actually intended to grab my ass, since he is, as previously mentioned, a hot boy.

Okay, enough of that (or more than enough, as the case may be).

No, riding over the bridge is not a euphemism for other sports that involve ass-grabbing, though again, I might have preferred it if it had been. I'm just sayin'.

Yes, Juno, it's that boy, and no, I am not re-getting my hopes up. No really, Shan, I mean it.

Yes, I saw the other boy, and he's doing okay. And I saw that other one too, though I am really just not interested in that one, even though he's the only one who is technically available for the sort of sports that involve ass-grabbing. Yes, I know, it figures.

And, apropos of nothing, it also figures that the first time in many years that I actually have a costume (and a rather badass one at that) and a place to wear it, the party I was slated to attend has been called off. Sigh. So now I get to ponder the wisdom of cycling around the city wearing my silly costume, and maybe heading over to the west village to look at the freakshow. Luckily, I have all day tomorrow to decide.

PS. Later addition: Woke up so late that I do not, in fact, have all day to decide. I'll be the one riding around in a pirate suit. Though maybe not the only one.

I've had a lot of ebbs and flows of energy this week. I keep trying to post, but whenever I have the time to do it, I'm too cranky. Or I write something and just don't like it.

There's still the ragged edge of a cold wilfully hanging around in my system, and I expect that's why. It's annoying, and I'm inclined to complain about it every time I sit down to post, and then those posts don't make it past my filter.

Anyway. Blah.

The weather turned suddenly radically colder today, and I quite enjoyed it (apart from having cold knees on the way home because I forgot to put on my legwarmers, and didn't want to stop and take off my shoes to put them on en route). I'd forgotten about the unique beauties of winter cycling in the city - chief among them the simple fact that there are fewer people out, which means more road for me.

Also, there's something refreshing about riding in cold air, especially air that's hovering somewhere in the 40s. It's not so cold that your extremities get numb, and a little judicious layering has you quite comfortable while you're underway (you get cold as hell when you stop, of course, because you're less heavily bundled than the folks in street clothes), and there's a sense of adventure about it. I like it. Actually, I love it. And I'd forgotten how it felt.

Another thing I'm loving lately is (drumroll please) knitting. Who knew? After this summer's pathetic trailing away of interest I thought maybe I'd finally killed the yarn muse.

Nope. Just needed it to get cold enough.

See the theme here? I like the cold, just not having a cold. Cough.

Anyway, I also like pumpkins and gingerbread and making soup. In fact, I had a little list going the other day, Simple Things I Like:

Dr. Bronner's Magic Soap (lavender or rose hemp)
Really good apples that grew on a tree nearby
Ink (the kind that comes in little bottles)
Wooden building blocks
Bread
Soup
Rosebud Salve and/or Badger Balm
The colour grey (both of those words must be spelled in British fashion)
Milk cooking in a small white pot
Carving a pumpkin
Bandanas
Violets (the kind that grow wild on your lawn)
Crayons (that smell)
Vanilla
Single-speed bicycles
Sturdy shoes
Campfires
Wearing things I've made myself
Looking at the stars
Really good hugs.

While we're at it, Complicated Things I Like:

Philosophy
Champagne
Curry
Cake
Music
Peonies
Dancing
Tailored velvet jackets
That $500 long purple silk parachute dress I tried on
Fancy train cars
Luxe hotel rooms
Handmade quilts
Outlandish hats
Cameras
Chocolate
Gore-Tex
Astronomy

Care to chime in? What simple (or complex) things do you like?

Oh these gloves came out so pretty. The pics show the color pretty accurately, but can't transmit how soft and utterly luxe they feel, nor can they quite convey the slight glow they have (that would be the 50% silk in there with the Malabrigo merino).

I'm super-happy with the way they fit, too, and can only hope they'll be as perfect on Special J. I used my own arms as a fit model, so we shall see. I realize, now that I see them reclining on their paper towels (very high class) airing themselves out after their run-in with Kookaburra, that this is pretty much the essence of how I knit.

And that maybe I could stop feeling less-than about it.

What I mean is, I tend to pooh-pooh my knitting abilities, such as they are (see?), and to describe myself as not a real knitter, because I knit mostly simple little stockinette things. I mean, I'll throw in a little garter or seed stitch, but for the most part I just make simple stuff like this.

Garments whose appeal is primarily in the color, texture, and feel of the yarn, and in the way they follow the lines of the body.

And it only occurred to me last night, as I was finishing these off, and gently laying them in their bath water (and swooning as I did so - they are really so nice in person), that maybe that's just its own thing. Maybe it's not so much that I suck as a knitter, as that that's my idiom (thank you, Messrs. Python).

The truth is, I probably could knit cables and lace if I tried. I mean, I don't have any trouble with yarnovers or dropped stitch patterns. And knitters with less experience than I tell me that cables are easy-peasy.

I just don't feel drawn to them. When I make something, I am primarily thinking about shape. And I am usually making it out of my own head, with the exception of technical aspects like the thumb-gusset shaping on a mitten (for which I use Ann Budd's Knitters Handy Book of Patterns, with its nice grids in various gauges). I've said before (mostly in comments on other people's blogs) that I can't follow patterns, or at least that the things that turn out best are usually the ones I've made from sketches I drew, and it's true.

That's not to say that I'm anything like a natural-born knitter. I don't even consider that I really learned to knit until I read Barbara Walker's Knitting From the Top, because it was then that I began to understand how knitting works, the three-dimensionality of the medium, and how that matches up with the 3d of our bodies.

At least, that's the part of it that I like working with. That, and a very plain, repetitive knit stitch, and a very nice, soft yarn.

Anyway, I may one day knit a cable - I do like the look of them - but even if I don't, I'd like to think that that's okay, that I can still think of myself as a knitter. Not a super-fantastic, advanced obsessive knitter because I have so many other things to be obsessed by (shut up; I don't mean boys), but a knitter of parts, as they used to say.

It reminds me, now that I think of it, of writing. Arguably the most important thing a writer learns is to believe in his/her own voice. Every voice has its own dignity, its own reason for being, and once you really feel and honor the nature and shape of yours, well, all good things proceed from there.

So this is my voice as a knitter. It's not a voice devoid of mistakes and it's not a voice with intricate stitch patterns. It's about form and shape, and the beauty of the raw materials, and the utility of something that fits well and does its job in a colorful and pleasing way. And maybe in a humble way. Kind of like a homemade pie - you'd never mistake it for coming from a bakery because it's got all kinds of idiosyncrasies; it's lopsided, it's too tall, one side is more done than the other, the juices have bubbled over and left a trail on the bottom of the oven. Yum.

Hot chocolate with a layer of cinnamon edging the cup like frost.
Music spiraling out to settle on limbs like so much soft, dreamy lead.
The periodic trilling of that puzzled cat.
A very, very good book, its pages splayed out like hands.
The lady at the PT office calls to see if I am coming tomorrow.

No, still a bit sick. But not all bad.

Day four of isolation, and my mind starts to lose the distinction between fiction and reality. Okay, some of that is due to having read The Subtle Knife until five in the morning, a book that deals with multiple worlds linked by thin slices that the characters can walk through. It's something to do with dark matter, but don't anybody tell me, because I'm only a little ways into it, and I don't want to hear the punchline prematurely.

Really, I think the hardest part of being sick, for me, has to be being stuck in my house all alone for days on end. I've called both mom and Boywich (the two people I always wish for when I don't feel well). I guess that tells you something about the people I'm okay with acting like a two-year-old around. Not necessarily nice for them.

My cat has been annoying, demanding attention in an ever louder and more insistent whine. Lovely. Shut up, dear.

I am drinking the good coffee. The one that looks like you-know-who. He even checked out the beans, rubbing a few between his fingers to assess their oiliness, because I ran into him the day I'd bought it. Haven't seen him in an age, which is causing that particular crush to fade a bit, that and the fact that it didn't look to be leading to anywhere in particular (other than frustration). Also, it seems that when I'm really feeling shitty, I don't care so much about boys. Something about being full of snot tending to make me feel less than spectacularly attractive.

Also, I was dumb and took a couple of self-portraits yesterday. "Whoa! I look old. Am I always that pale?"

See? Dumbass.

Apart from the brief burst of fevered activity on the essay (which I'll no doubt have to revise when I'm thinking clearly), I've done nothing I needed to get done around the house. Okay, I cleaned the bathroom a bit, but that took five minutes.

I need to make myself some little zippered pouches to go in my bike bag, one for tools and one for condoms (hey, you asked) (oh, you didn't? well, since this is my blog, we're going to pretend like you did, anyway. see? two years old. apart from the fact that two-year-olds don't have much need for condoms. of course, neither do I, of late. okay, exiting parentheses now). Haven't done that.

Haven't made those old jeans into a nifty jean skirt, either. Which wouldn't matter, except that the jeans are sprawled across the top of the sewing machine, discouraging me from making the zippered pouches, which I really do rather need.

What is it about this particular cold that makes me choke on coffee? Every morning for the last four. I never normally choke on coffee. It's gotten so that I get a cup of water ready at the same time, without even thinking about the reason why. Though of course I don't put the cup of water within easy reach, so I always have to get up....

Really, you're thinking, she'd better get well soon or we're all going to keel over from boredom. Yeah, me too.

Plus, the bikes are looking very, very lonely. I miss them. It's like they and the outdoors are one, and I miss it all. I miss being a human being, instead of an invalid. That last is pronounced the way they did in Gattaca, invalid.

I have been knitting up a (small) storm, though. Progress on the 2nd mitten of J-ness. Also, this. Is it not super-awesome? Just like the label said.

The interesting thing about being sick, for me, is that it makes me realize just how much I don't stop, in the ordinary course of my days. I don't sit still. Boywich said to me once, sometime in the past year, "You're like your dad, not a little. You go-go-go!"

And at the time, I think, "No, no no. Look at all these pics of roses I've taken over the years. I stop, I think, I contemplate, I..."

No, he's totally right.

I don't really stop much, unless forced to do so. Heck, I've been wanting for months to take a pic of the way the city gets very golden, lit up like someone's tinfoiled it, at the bottom edge of day, and I haven't done it yet, because I just don't want to stop, pull over, and take out my camera.

I was reading this lovely post, and thinking how right she is, that a huge part of the reason to go on vacation is because it's so conducive to letting one's mind wander, to seeing buildings and people and trees and window displays and gardens like art.

I managed, suddenly, on my second day off (translation: confined to the indoors because of illness), to write my graduate school essay. Yes, I'd been brewing ideas about it in my head, mostly when I'm falling asleep, for weeks.

I'd made an abortive attempt a while ago and decided I wasn't ready yet, that things had to crystallize. Yesterday afternoon, in the midst of knitting and watching TV, I found myself making notes for it in grey Crayola marker, and wishing I'd thought of writing with that colour before; it's so evocative, it seems just right.

"Notes for essay"

Blueprints
Tacking
Telling myself stories

Sometimes ideas spring to life fully formed, and other times they get built like Legos. You get a brick at a time, not really knowing how they'll all connect, but trusting that your inner self knows, and that when you finally sit down with all your pieces, you'll be able to just hum and build, hum and build, the way you sat and built imaginary cities as a child.

It always works, my friends.

Mostly writing stories and making art involves acquiring some faith. Faith in the process, faith in instinct, faith that one's self knows where to go. If I could just get the art of living my life exactly as I write, I think I'd do very well indeed.

Tea and a walk now. Can't sit still forever, after all.

When preparing a Rhinebeck debrief, I often feel like I've been assigned to write a "what I did over the summer" essay. It's the kind of situation where everybody probably had a similar day.

In my case, I came home from it with a sudden, and rather strong, head cold. As did one of my companions. It was odd. One minute I was fine, if a bit sleep deprived.
The next minute I was sick.

Apart from that, it was a sensory-overload kind of day. Lots of slightly hysterical chatting with friends. Lots of color, everywhere. Yarn. Yarn like a four-letter word. So much yarn, in so many brilliant and subtle and overwhelming shades and textures, that you could hardly take it in.

I overheard one woman (while standing in line to pay for my first batch of purchases) remark that she ought to have brought her daughter with her, since she had a school project that required her to take pics of various textures.

It was hugely crowded - more so than when I went last year (though perhaps that was a Saturday vs. Sunday difference) - and at first I wasn't sure I could handle the crush in the yarn barns.

But then I started to get the hang of it. I realized it was like looking at art in a crowded gallery - you can't see it all, so you just go to the ones that you are drawn to, and let the rest be.

I also decided not to try and see the whole range of things before purchasing, since I'd never be able to find a particular yarn again after I'd left it. The result of this strategy was, of course, that I bought too much.

On the other hand, it's all special. Handmade, locally made, with these delicious little labels, like "Super-Awesome Hand-Dyed Yarn by Melody." How could I resist? And for the record, it is, indeed, super-awesome.

Trying to describe the fair to a neophyte, I said something along the lines of "It's like a state fair crossed with the world's biggest and best yarn store." What I neglected to mention is that it's also a parade of handknitted things being worn by their makers. I saw a lot of pretty sweaters. A lot of pretty shawls. A lot of inventive headcoverings and a lot of handknit mittens.

I saw a mom and daughter walk up to a woman spinning some technicolor roving and get an impromptu lesson in how a drop spindle works.

I saw wooly little goats in a row being judged on their - er - woolyness, I imagine. I saw sheep being sheared by people whose own locks had a similarly tousled quality. I saw people running into friends they don't see very often. Heck, I even ran into one of my own - or rather, was run into, since she was the one who spied me, miraculously, five minutes after I'd walked through the gate, and scooped me into a hug.

I ate too much kettle corn, and rum cookies that my friend Batman had made (yum), and thought about drinking beer but then thought about the bathroom line.

And then I packed it all up into my bike bags and rode it all home (from a friend's place in a nearby 'hood, mind you), giggling a bit maniacally about the weird silhouette I made, with a bag of yarn strapped against the outside of the pannier, which was itself full of yarn.

PS. Yes, I'm going to show you what I bought. But like the event itself, there's so much going on in pics of Rhinebeck that it seems best to mete them out in small doses.

Oh my darlings, I had this long post written, full of post-cycling energy and musings on age. And then I had to run out again before I could get it posted (I have to read them and ponder for a bit before they go up), and now I am feeling like it's a bit too personal, too close-up and detailed a slice of this particular life.

It's not that I don't discuss personal matters here (hell, I talk about sex - or at least the wish for it - all the time), but some posts that don't make the cut do so (or don't so) because they're a bit too revealing in other ways. Because they tell you where I was on a certain night, or because they contain pics of the bicycles of people I know.

And then I take a step back and decide that that's unwise, and that it would be better to put up something knitting-related, especially since it's almost that biggest of weekends in East Coast Knitting.

But I can't get a good photograph of the one finished Special J mitten because I have not yet perfected the art of photographing one's own arm, and, selfishly, I am tired and don't want to try. Especially since I may be on call for some amateur messengering tomorrow.

Some friends of mine are staring a very big job in the face and I offered to help pick up some runs if they just need bodies and don't particularly need things to arrive at the ungodly pace with which they normally deliver their packages. (Lord, are they fast)

I am not fast. I am cautious. But I do have a messenger bag and several bicycles, which I enjoy riding in all sorts of weather, so I could put these items to good use if need be.

Anyway. Here's some random pic to keep you entertained while I cast on for the second mitten, because if I wait any longer, I fear we may encounter the dreaded Second Mitten Syndrome. I promise to corner Special J and make her model them for me when they're done. She has such pretty hands, anyway; they'll look much better on her.

But before I go, let me just say this. One of the interesting things about growing older is that you find (or I do) that you are no longer the "est" at much of anything. You're not the fastest, youngest, prettiest, most precocious, or any of those other superlatives.

And you have to come to terms with that. I've also been coming to terms with the fact that my "good" parts (or best parts) are not immediately visible - not just because I'm more interesting than I am nice to look at (mind you, I think I'm quite nice to look at, but I think I'm nicer to look at on the inside, if you can follow that) - but also because I don't necessarily parade my big big brain around in all circles of life.

My work is solitary, and it's not even got that much in common with my real interests, and in any case, none of my friends really know what it's about or would even have the context to appreciate it. And I'm certainly not the fastest, youngest, or cutest cyclist out on these roads, so that's right out. I don't race. I don't (most of the time) messenger. At first (or second, or twelfth) glance, I am unremarkable. And I am middle-aged.

It's weird. I don't feel old, but in a way I sort of drift among several worlds, not being completely part of them, but feeling relatively welcome in them anyway. I like the feeling welcome part. That is new for me. It's nice.

It's still odd. I wonder if I look like a conundrum to some people. A young/old, single and not-terribly-unhappy about that, childless (delighted about that), independent but not too prickly sort of woman. It's nothing really remarkable, I guess, except that it seems a little unusual to me. Or maybe that's just because I was watching Masterpiece Theater until five in the morning last night, and it would have been very unusual in that world. I would have been an "old maid," if you can believe that.

Oy. Where's that cat of mine?

PS. Actual conversation yesterday, with my favorite young redhead:
Me: "Is it wrong that I am already building up another bike in my head?"
He: "No, it's awesome!"

I went to the eye doctor last week, and he gave me a choice between seeing near and seeing far. When I was younger, the walls between daily flotsam and deeper meaning seemed quite thick.
That is, people didn't talk much about why we're here, or what they care deeply about, or how they love the people who are important to them.

I've been feeling, lately, like there are no walls. Or that it's a thin, translucent curtain. That we duck back and forth between the things that matter and the things that occupy our hands. And sometimes the things that occupy our hands become very important - sometimes they are the things that keep us upright and able to walk.

My friend's mom died on Sunday. I knew she was going to, and he knew she was going to, and I don't think that makes it one iota easier for him. If anything, it's as if she's dying twice; once the long slow crawl toward death, the kicking and screaming (literally, from the sound of it), the pain of her leaving him by inches, against both his will and hers, and nothing either of them could do about it.

And now, the absence of her. He looks like it feels sudden. I don't really know.

He's very young.

I went to the place where he works, specifically to see him. He wasn't scheduled to work, and I knew, somehow, that he'd be there. Because if it were me, that's where I'd be. At a place that feels normal. Where there's something for my body to occupy itself with.

Our bodies really have a lot more say than we give them credit for. It's they who decide when we are leaving, what we can do while we are here, in some cases whom we love, even.

It was with my body that I wanted to comfort him, and couldn't. I am not talking about sex here; merely ordinary affection, which somehow seems like the only real thing I could offer. He's just a friend. He has a girlfriend; she wouldn't be happy about it. I don't want to make a mess. But I did have the strong impulse to take him into my arms.

I think maybe cookies are in order. But they won't do anything, other than say what I would like to say with my whole body. I am so sorry. I am here.

Either kiss him or grow some patience. - Boywich
Mreeeeoooooo. - Kitwich

I went for two bike rides yesterday - once with my dad, who was visiting and had brought his folding bike in the trunk of his car for the express purpose of taking a ride (must pause to interject: how cool is that!), and another to go get some Proper Apples at the farmer's market in Tompkins Sq. Park.

Okay, to be honest, the second ride was because I needed a real ride after the slow cruise.

I've been better about taking pocketcam with me everywhere I go, and sometimes I even manage to stop and use it, so here's a little outdoor sculpture and industrial waterfront for you. Look! There were even waves yesterday - okay, boat wake waves, but still, there was a little froth. And I like a little froth.

Speaking of visitors who are wise enough to bring bikes, Boywich is indeed coming to visit. In the good old days - or bad old days; I can never figure out which - he and I used to ride everywhere together. I got him hooked on cycling, but he got me hooked on urban cycling, so it was a fair trade.

I foresee a certain amount of pizza and hummus in our future. Carbo-loading, baby.

And soon, so very very soon, there is Rhinebeck. I've got a positive gaggle of friends going this year, and I am hoping to manage to run into a couple of peeps whom I know only in the blogosphere (hey Claudia, I'll be the short one with the cyclist's ass). Of course, what is likely to happen is that I'll be so overwhelmed by wool and those flirtatious alpacas (I swear they were batting their eyelashes at me) that I'll forget to look for familiar faces.

I am not knitting anything special for it, 'cause I don't do that. My knitting is purely idiosyncratic, as is so much else of my life, and planning something would take the fun out of it. Also, Special J would like to have her gloves before Novemberness hits, so that is the priority, woolwise. I am almost done with the first one, but I keep getting distracted. No, not by that. Though that would certainly be welcome.

Today's nonsequitur (not that this whole post hasn't been a celebration of nonsequiturial grandeur): Am I allowed to buy the cycling gloves with the carbon knuckles (the better for punching, should the situation require that) just because I want them?

Dr. Sensible: Go. to. bed!
Me: Fuck off.
Dr. S: No, really, it's 4:20 am.
Me: No, really, fuck off.

Catch a falling star; you'll go far, in the pageant of the bizarre. - Zero Seven

Okay, this is weird. Apparently coffee made from beans grown where the boy in question was born turns exactly the colour of his skin when milk is added to it.

That little tidbit notwithstanding, I think I'm deciding to cut bait on that crush.

Before this latest iteration of singlehood, I'd been in a relationship so long that I really could have had no idea what I'd be like as a single girl these days. Turns out, I'm different than I was before.

And a bit the same.

Different =

a) The crushes come fast and dissolve fast, like shooting stars.

b) I am an incorrigible, horrendous, devilish, hellbent flirt.

c) I make a lot of lewd jokes.

d) I go to bed with boys sooner and enjoy it more.

e) I am more selective about whom I play with.

f) I dream up highly detailed and -er- creative scenarios involving people I know. My head used to be a lot more boring.

g) As previously mentioned both in bloglife and real life, I have the sex drive of a teenage boy. Lacking (for the most part) any teenage (or other) boys to play with, I end up spending a lot of money here.

The Same =

1) I have a dreadful inability to avoid emotional entanglement, even when I can see disaster ahead.

2) I can't for the life of me hide my attraction to someone.

3) I blush, visibly and ridiculously.

4) I have terrible aim; I am constantly setting my sights on people who either don't return the interest/affection or who are enigmatic to the point of it being pointless to pursue them.

This just in: Boywich may be coming to visit! Yay!

Ah, the ritual of morning. Get up to pee; cat comes in and puts her front paws on my knees while I'm sitting there. (More than you wanted to know, but it's such a funny habit.)

Put water on for coffee. Put music on (just got one of these for the Nano, so now I can have Lemon Jelly for breakfast. Yum!). Get out coffee grinder and jar of beans.

Cat flees behind television.

Grind coffee. Pour grounds into green bowl. Spoon, then scrape grounds into French press. Water boils. Put milk on stove in little white pot. Pour water over coffee. Bloom. Pour rest of water over coffee. Stir with wooden spoon. Put lid on. Milk comes to point of making light skin with tiny bubbles underneath.

Milk and coffee ready at exact same moment (I have this down to an art). Stir coffee again (if being anal about it, as I was today). Press down gently. Love this moment. Pour coffee, admiring the aesthetics of the press and the liquid itself. Then, favorite part. Pour milk from little white pot and watch coffee turn perfect color (not too far off from the skin of a certain boy who shall remain nameless, though he's a little darker than au lait).

Set pot aside for leftover milk to cool to kitten-safe temperature (some do not like it hot).

Sit down at computer to write this. Love mug. Love coffee. Love music. Love cat.

Get up four minutes later and pour remaining milk into jar lid for kitten, who is yowling all the while. She laps it up, then climbs happily onto back of sofa and sits looking regal like one of those Egyptian temple guards.

I actually love mornings. I just like them to come when I decide I'm ready for them. Today, that was about 12:45pm.

"All the ducks are swimming in the water." - Lemon Jelly

I am listening to unfamiliar music and finding it the same as I did when I bought my first record album at age 11 or so. Unsettling.

For someone who feels music pretty deeply and fully, I don't really buy it very often. I tend to shy away from that as a "frivolous" expenditure, which is odd considering that I will toss any amount of money at impulse purchases of other kinds. I think I just forget that one can have new music.

People sometimes send me things that I like, and Boywich recently sent me a whole mess of things, some of which I just adored. But last week I bought this, because I'd watched a movie that had its title song in it, and remembered how much I liked that song. Anyway.

Half the album is lilting and good, and the other half sounds awkward to me, and I wonder if, after playing it into familiarity, I will feel differently about it.

I do the same thing with people, I realize. And with many areas of life. I feel uneasy with newness, in all forms, even new things that I might later grow to love. And I fall in love with people, things, and places after they become familiar. And in some cases, perhaps primarily because they have become familiar.

Isn't that weird? I keep wondering about life lately, not just the meaning of it, but the pace of it, the texture of it, what am I to take from it, and do I need to take anything? Do I need to leave anything? What is it? Some of these songs seem to be asking that.

Maybe all songs are always asking that, except the ones about love, which are asking that in the form of an assumption that successful love is the answer to that. Maybe that is all anyone or anything ever asks, in any form, at any time: art, commerce, war, feeling, everything we do and everyone we are, in every context. The world (and by that I mean nature) has either no answer or the very simple answer - you look at it, listen to it, and it just is. It's beautiful, but not gentle. It's beautiful and wild and terrible. Yeah, just like that. And that is how I always seem to feel inside.

The house still smells like acorn squash, from the one that was baking last night at 2am.

(Boywich used to call me the Master of the Nonsequitur.)

Oh boys. What is it that makes one of them so appealing, sometimes suddenly so, that I wanna reach right out and bite his little neck?

Or grab another by the pretty blonde scruff and yank him out of the TV screen. Yes, I'm watching that silly movie, the one with Paul Bettany in it, looking like a human ice cream cone. SIGH.

I know, I know. I'm possibly somewhat hard up and perhaps reacting a little extra-strongly, but I always feel that way about Paul.

And if you must know, the Blonde (from whom I haven't heard in a while) bears rather a strong resemblance. I don't think that's the primary reason that I always seem to want to eat him up when given half a chance; I think it's actually a stronger force than that - chemical magnetism. But it probably doesn't hurt, either.

There was a medical study (stop me if you've heard this before) that found that women are most attracted to men whose immune systems are opposite from their own. I heard about this from Juno, come to think of it, but I think I've also read similar findings in another study.

By those measures, it's only natural that I should be attracted to giant Nordic blondes.

Which doesn't at all explain my current infatuation. Though I will say that I didn't go for this guy immediately; it developed over time, and has, I think, as much (or more) to do with how he is, or seems to be, as it does with how he looks. Though he's certainly handsome. And probably from a fairly different gene pool than me.

In knitting news, this Malabrigo merino/silk is unbelievably sweet to knit with. I'll have to photograph it in natural light at some point so you can get a better idea of the color, but suffice it to say, yum.

Yum all over, really. Just some yum from afar, and some yum between my fingers.

PS. Reading this over, I sound like a tiny little caveman. That may not be too far off the mark.