Flotsam: January 2008 Archives

"Take me now, Subcreature."

If you need me to identify the source of that line for you, you clearly weren't enough of a geek during the '80s.

Anyway.... Home again. Had an unexpectedly nice time, even though I was there to be a temporary wife for my sister and her hubby, while she was laid a bit low. I got to play with my extremely adorable and funny niece, who has a special nickname for me, which she says in her tiny girl's voice. And I got the kind of magical, just-hanging-out time with my sister that I almost never get these days. It was lovely to just drive her around to do her errands, and keep her company, and read stories to the niece while she laid her little head against my chest and put her little hand against each page.

And now I am back on my couch, watching TV and listening to a rumbling purr in my ear (she's perched over my left shoulder) and IMing with Miz Fury about yarn and knitting and how I've completely hooked her on both of those (insert maniacal cackle here), and that is basically the story.

I am back to my life here, and I'm a mixture of blue and relieved. It was, in some way, a break to just be away and be focused on someone else's needs for a few days. Especially since these are all people I love. My life is mostly very self-centered, and there are good reasons for that, and I mostly do need it to be that way, but once in a while it is good to get out of my head, and not think very much at all about the work I have and the work I need but don't yet have, or the boys I don't really have but would like to have, or the money I don't have but really kind of need pretty soon, and so on.

Poem #2:

In the dark that heart
beats into your ear
its voice the other voice
you hear sometimes in sleep

its hands the hands at your throat
when, silent on the grass,
you drink of the night-veil
and sleep the sleep of the drugged.

***
In its answer the voice
never calls to you
only whispers
-- pieces of styrofoam
clogging your sight
with their soft white hands

-- his heart the beat in the dark
an ancient drum
or a landmine.

copyright 2008 Lizbon Grav. All rights reserved.

And so beginneth Dispatches From Suburbia, first in a series - hopefully a short series, since they will most likely be photoless, unless I decide to dig through my old pics and look for something good that I haven't posted yet. I am not, in fact, in the lavender room, which is otherwise occupied. I am in the pink room, which happens to be my two-year-old niece's, so it's me and a lot of baby furniture and blocked electrical outlets which I cannot for the life of me figure out how to unblock. Really. It would take a rocket scientist. Or a two-year-old.

You can imagine how comfortable I am with all that. I wouldn't do it for anybody but my sister. But I have to say, it is always nice to see her, even when she is feeling shitty and wants her mommy. Actually, she's really cute when she is feeling shitty and wants her mommy; I look at her and catch glimpses of her when she was a little girl, and feel all fond of her in a way I really didn't when we were kids.

Funny how that happens, isn't it?

So I am in this weird limbo, where it's like I have a secret adult life; everyone else went to bed at 9pm. Here I sit, stashed in a pink room with my iPod, Madeleine Peyroux singing slinky songs at me (for my ears only), this laptop full of pr0n (okay, not really, but I am thinking maybe I should download some for good measure), pointy knitting needles (which have to be kept under lock and key), sexy Malabrigo yarn, and a head full of naughty boy thoughts. (And you ask: naughty thoughts about boys or thoughts about naughty boys? And I answer: yes.)

I finished the yellow birthday scarf for my pal Special J while in transit, put on the fringe after the baby went to bed (scissors), and I'm super-happy with it - ridiculously so, for a simple-ass garter st scarf. I guess it's just because the colors knitted up so nicely. But since my cameras are all at home I can't show you. Which I suppose is okay - I might get mocking comments for doing such candy-way knitting. Remember the candy way and the Ranger way, by the way? Anybody else grow up in National Parks? Bueller?

Okay, yeah, the pink walls are making me a little punchy. Or all this secretiveness. Or something. Maybe it's the fact that I rode my fucking bike yesterday. Yes, my ass hurts. No, I do not give a good god damn. Yes, I am swearing a lot. You know why? Because I am in a baby room. Makes me want to go all George Carlin on your ass.

The ride was cool, but I think doing the mechanical work beforehand was even cooler. There was a moment where, shortly after I'd woken up, I found myself changing a tire in my underwear, levers in one hand, naked rim (that would be wheel rim, for those who really have their minds in the gutter) in the other, when I thought: this has to be some boy's fantasy. And I think I know which one, but he had to work all weekend and didn't see it.

See? Adult room. Don't let all that pink fool you. I have pedal grease and I know how to use it.

Oh, and the new pedals are swell. Flash, yet old skool. I know school doesn't have a "k" in it. Fucc off. Smooch. Buybye!

PS. Poem tomorrow, I promise. As long as I don't get sucked into this 9pm bedtime thing. But really, what are the odds?

Is it wrong to kiss one's camera on its forehead? Some days when I am getting dressed I happen upon a combination of colors or fabrics or textures or shapes (or any combination of these) that makes my heart do a little zing! as I look in the mirror. It's like painting oneself in the most beautiful colors - or becoming a living Bonnard painting.

Today I was all flame-colored, dipped in small suns, or sealing wax. My favorite new orange corduroy pants and an old pale orange t-shirt, and knitting this glorious tawny yellow yarn. Immediately after I woke up and put it all on, I also put on some Clash, and danced around the apartment while my tea was brewing.

Every day should begin like that.

Of course, as the day went on, and I ran, and hurt my other side while doing it, and went to PT, where the therapist practically begged me to hold the running down to one day a week while we're working on building up my strength and flexibility, some of that glow wore off a bit.

He did say I could ride, though, and so I will try to get my needed bike maintenance (tire changes, chain cleaning, new pedals - and yes, I can do all of those by myself, thank you) done by Saturday and give myself an inaugural ride up the west side path. Or in the park. Or something. Maybe the blonde would come with me. He would match the yarn so very well.

Postscript. I think that instead of imitating Cari's fiction fragments, I will do something slightly different that's in a similar spirit. Once a weekish (or whenever I want to) I will put up a little poem or scraplet from my notebook. The rules are these: it will not have appeared anywhere in print, and it will be straight from the first handwritten draft, with little or no messing about. In other words, raw. We'll just see how it works out. I may decide I don't want to put so much of me "out there" and withdraw them. Or people may hate them and I may cave to that (though I doubt it. I am stubborn.). Or it may be a short-lived phenomenon. Or who knows what else. But here is #1.

Sun setting over hot water
The colors melt into the sea

as the girls play marbles on shore
tossing coin after coin
to the giant fish's mouth

He swallows, belches their fortunes
their wide warm futures at them
puffing little clouds above their heads

When the bubbles pop, the girls
are wearing crowns.

copyright 2008 Lizbon Grav. All rights reserved. And furthermore, my flesh-eating intellectual property lawyer ex-boyfriend (no, not Boywich; a different one) will come after you with knives, sticks, and the long arm of the law.

Really. I walked so far that the little nubbly treads on the bottom of my left shoe had worn down by about 1/2 inch by the end of it. When I got to my spa appointment (nothing luxurious, I assure you), and the technician asked me if I'd done my run today (she knows my ways), and I told her, no, but that I'd walked 140 blocks, her eyes just about fell out of her face.

Then she told me, merrily, about her clients who'd complained about having to walk 7 blocks from the subway. I guess she's been beautifying a fleet of suburbanites lately. We had a lovely little chat while she inflicted a little pain on me (as gently as possible; she is really, really nice), and then I went home on slightly tired legs.

Earlier today I found the very perfect yarn (yes, I know, perfect can't be modified, but I am being creative) for a friend's Welcome Back to NYC - We Missed You Honey! scarf. But still no Snow White yarn. I went to three yarn shops, looked at Cascade 220 (nice-ish colors but maybe not soft enough for against the skin), Pear Tree Merino (drab colors and too inclined to pill), Cashmerino (trop cher), Manos (not soft enough, and the handpainted is probably wrong for this project, as much as I adore watching colors shift as I knit), various pretty Italian merinos that would bankrupt me, and so on.

At home, I got back on the Interweb and looked again at the Kathmandu Aran, the Elann Sierra Aran, the Peruvian Highland, the Swish (yeah, still not jazzed about those colors; I should offer to do color development for Knitpicks - they need me!), sidled on over to kpixie and eyed both the expensive and the less expensive options. It's a conundrum. If it's soft enough, it's too pilly or too expensive or both. If it's cheap enough and study enough, it isn't soft enough. If it manages to be soft enough and relatively sturdy and relatively affordable, the colors leave me cold.

Goodness me, I have really never had this much trouble choosing a yarn before. I know that phrasing sounds uncharacteristic (when have you ever heard me say "goodness"?), but I feel quite out of my depth, and it seems to call for language I'd never use. I suppose there isn't really a tremendous rush about it, but it would be nice to get this project underway while the weather is still cool enough to tangle with wool.

In the meantime, there are two scarves and a First Pair of Socks to get on with. Yes, I also bought sock needles.

PS. I am well aware that this is the largest number of knitting posts I have probably ever created in such a short span of days, and I have no idea why that is so, other than that I have grown weary of talking (or even thinking) about boys and am taking a break from all that for a while. In theory. Also, I suppose I had some sort of interesting thoughts as I walked and walked and walked, and there was a relaxing solitary dinner in my current favorite restaurant, in which I managed to order exactly what I wanted (I am not always capable of identifying it in the moment of ordering), and to sit for as long as I liked without feeling terribly awkward for being sans companion or book, and it all just Went Well for once.

When it comes to sexy yarns, Malabrigo may well be the rockstar to end all rockstars. Purely on touch alone, it would be among the top three, and I include cashmere in that running (if you ask me, sometimes a really velvety merino can feel better than cashmere). But if you add in the amazing colors (and their beautiful, often lyrical, names), well, there's almost no contest.

I have been hunting far and wide (well, as far and wide as the Internet will take me) for the right yarn for the fair Snow White. It is a challenge. It must be affordable, because I am not replete with cash, and because I shall need 740 yards of it. It must not be fussy to work with, because the pattern is going to intimidate me enough as it is. But above all, I think, it must be dreamy; it must have enough allure on its own to keep me encouraged and jazzed, because I have a feeling there will be fits and starts and bouts of discouragement involved, and I really, really, really want to finish this pattern.

Malabrigo is, of course, far too pilly and too dear to use for this. But an alternate merino might be the way to go. Alpaca is out, I think, because I may be slightly allergic to it. Last year, I made a scarf from a blend with just 20% alpaca, and I find that I don't wear it that often, because though it feels soft in my fingers, it also tends to prickle my neck. So merino or merino with a bit of silk in it (if I can find something affordable like that) would be ideal.

I considered Queensland Kathmandu Aran Tweed, but was dissuaded from it by Shan, who was skeptical of the suitability of a tweed for the sleek Snow White (and I think she's right). Also, I read a blogger's review of it, who noted that it has a tendency to stick to itself and be fussy. Not the right sort of behavior for a long-project yarn.

I also considered Knitpicks Swish Superwash Worsted, which is nicely springy to knit with, but I just can't get excited about any of the colors, and I think I need to be excited.

So tomorrow - or more likely Sunday, since my dad is visiting tomorrow - I am gonna do the rounds of the downtown yarn shops. Probably just here, here, and here, since these are the ones in my usual trajectory. Even though the prices are better online, I think I need to see the yarn to feel the love.

Wow, what a completely prosaic and knitting-centered post. Instant passport to Dullsville. And really, I meant to list some other sexy things, but I got all hung up on Malabrigo (and that is what a truly sexy yarn will do to you). But let's continue with the original program for a moment, just to diversify a bit.

Things That Are Sexy, According to Lizbon*

1. Malabrigo
2. Vin Diesel, particularly in Pitch Black
3. dark chocolate, especially in a liquid state
4. Beaujolais in a short round juice glass
5. The color orange, in the right light and circumstances
6. Hot boys on track bikes. Long-legged blonde boys on track bikes get rated extra super sexy and then I have to leave the room for several minutes.
7. Dusk
8. The smell of lavender
9. Cool rain on a warm day
10. Bare feet
11. The smell of sawdust
12. Deep voices, particularly those of men of African descent
13. trombones
14. The freedom to stay up late for no reason other than that I am not ready to be done with my day yet
15. The occasional scary, but not too scary, movie
16. oils
17. The color silver, again in the right lights and under the right circumstances
18. old, soft cotton sheets
19. old, worn leather coats
20. big black boots
21. campfires
22. a good pair of hands

*This is by no means an exhaustive list and is reflective only of what I am thinking at this very moment. Tune in for further installments at irregular intervals.

What makes your list of sexy things? Yarns (in both senses of the word) welcome, of course.

There are times when I am overcome by the loveliness of the everyday objects that surround my little rituals. The process of making cocoa - so pleasurable, and not nearly just because the result is something warm and chocolatey.

There is the whole beauty of warming milk in a little pot on the white stove. There is the mug it goes into - my very favorite, a large, handmade purple one. There are the small, creamy bubbles that appear on the surface.

And then there is the whole blue-and-orange theme that appears in my kitchen in mid-winter when the fruits all run to clementines and oranges. Someone at the Darling Clementine factory is very astute in their packaging design, knowing how beautiful those little tangerines look against that particular, almost-lapis shade of blue. And the lettering is just perfect. I have been caving into my desire for those pretty little crates all winter, even though in previous years I usually chose the cheaper brands of them.

If it sounds like I am in a better, even dreamy mood, well, that is because I had a better, even dreamy day, following on the heels of a wonderful surprise last night. I am going to keep the details to myself for once. I think I need to hug it around my arms the way one does those delicious secrets when one is young.

But please enjoy these photographs of some of my favorite images from daily life. I always look at these things and think that I want to show them to you, and I hardly ever seem to want to draw the camera out and go through the motions of capturing and loading and sizing and so on. Tonight, though, the Nikon just jumped out of its shell and took them for me. Or so it seemed. (Okay, not really, but doesn't it sound more poetic that way?)

My usually healthy lifestyle seems to have left me unprepared to handle a week of nefarious debauchery. In other words, I have been one hungover puppy, especially today. I went to a party last night, and after some ungodly quantity of wine, I barely made it home without making a public nuisance of myself. (No, I did not lose my dinner on the subway, but that was primarily through sheer force of will.)

Today I was supposed to swim. I was supposed to run some errands. I was supposed to do something fun with my remaining vacation day. Instead I spent the whole time moaning and groaning, holding my head, trying first one hangover remedy, then another, and wondering why in hell it was taking me so long to return to equilibrium. All I can say is, I am perhaps too old for this. Or too accustomed to taking good care of myself to tolerate its opposite for too long.

In any case, at 10pm, I still feel yucky.

On the other hand, I had a lovely time dining with my stepsister this evening, and I feel absolutely no pining for something more fabulous to do for the rest of the night other than what I am currently doing: watching Stargate Atlantis and knitting these here brighter-than-bright mittens for Miz Fury.

Stepsis and I had a nice, and rather helpful, conversation about the rigors of dating NYC men. There were some eerie parallels between her own recent experience and my time with the tantalizing, yet perplexing, blonde. It was, in truth, delightful to have someone to commiserate with. My other friends are either in long relationships or not currently wanting to date, which is, perhaps, why the subject ends up taking up so much space on the blog. I mean, it's not that I can't talk to my friends about it - I do and I can, and Annabelle is particularly sympathetic. But it's a different sort of conversation when you're both having the same kind of experience at the same time. You do more than sympathize; you relate.

So there was that.

In other news, I think I have some post-holiday blues going on. Chalk it up to a couple of recent letdowns in the boyz in the 'hood department, and the fact that I now have to scale back on all the irresponsible spending I've been enjoying for the past few months, and, oh I dunno, the fact that I haven't been able to run very much lately because one of my legs hurts, and when I went to the doctor, she said, "If your leg hurts when you run, stop running," just like that horrible old joke. Bitch, bitch, moan, complain. Here cometh the long slow slog into spring, in other words. Wish I had a fireplace to cheer up the joint.

Eleventy zillion glasses of champagne, a New Year's Day stroll through Chinatown, an impromptu birthday party, and a solitary sixty-block hike (I needed a walk after all that booze and food) later, here I am with Sex and the City and a floor-sprawling kitty.

It was all pretty fun. I called Boywich all drunk and flirty at about 5 am. I got a very good fortune at a Buddhist temple. I bought some pretty printed silk lipstick cases. I came home and marveled at the fact that, 4 hours later, I am still kind of tipsy. (It was really, really good champagne.)

I have to admit, though, that last night I kept looking around at every tallish male to see if the blonde had walked in. And I was disappointed not to see him.

I guess I miss having a playmate. And this dating thing takes some getting used to. I was talking to Miz Fury about it the other day, and she said she'd felt much the same way when she began dating again after a long absence from it: very up and down. One gets surprisingly discouraged, given that these are people one doesn't really know at all.

And one tends to go on and on about it on one's blog, until one's readers are ready to go off and read anything else: a fashionista blog, a straight-knitting-and-crocheting blog, a news blog. Anything.

So instead I'll tell you about the trees I saw on my walk. I don't think it was just the champagne bubbles still flitting around in my head that made it special...there was a small double-row of naked-limbed trees strung with little white lights (which always look yellow to me, in the dark), and I stood at one end of it, looking into them. I squinted and let my eyes blur, and they became an uneven sea of yellow stars, like sparks jumping out of a campfire.

And then I was looking into a galaxy, and hoping/feeling that maybe this is what I will see when I die. It was lovely, and I was aware of looking, perhaps, like a small poetic figure there on Third Ave., with no one around to see it. I guess what I would like is to have someone around to see those kinds of things. That's all I really want. And a (cholesterol-free) cookie.