Flotsam: February 2008 Archives

Knees are somewhat better today, and I went swimming, and then I had peanut butter and banana and honey and tea, so you know, there's all that.

I also took a pic of my new hat. It's simple, it's ribbed, it might look better if it had a little i-cord something or other on top, but I thought I might try wearing it under the bike helmet, so I left it plain on top.

In other rib-knitting news, I have decided fuck the tubular cast-on. I am just gonna knit Snow White with my regular long-tail cast-on, or maybe a cable cast-on (which I successfully taught myself yesterday while trying unsuccessfully to learn the tubular), and I'll maybe use needles a size bigger or something. I don't care, and this annoying cast-on is delaying my access to the pretty sweater, so off with its head!

For the record, I am not going off completely half-cocked here; I checked Ravelry last night at 3 in the morning and did find someone who'd made a perfectly nice Snow White with a regular ol' cast-on, and I do not generally have a problem with casting on too tightly. So there we are.

Incidentally, I want to point out that the expression half-cocked most probably derives from old-style firearms, which I don't think will shoot half-cocked. (Yep, I was right.)

In any case, I have shot a firearm of this type, and, well, now you know: I know how to shoot. Add that to your list of freaky things you'd rather I didn't discuss here. But, hey, I figure if you wanted to be reading a PG-13 type of blog, you'd have left long ago. (Byeeeee! Have a nice trip...)

Anyway....yeah, rifles. Yarn. Cat asleep on couch, as per usual. I'm gonna go swatch some Classic Al now. Well, after I finish that work I owe that client. And maybe write a poem to end this completely inane and aimless post.

Later: Work done, but sorry, no poem. But I got to talk to my bicycle mechanic about crank length. He was up till 2 am researching cranks for me. Now, that is the way to a girl's heart.

So, while I was at PT (that's physical therapy, for you young 'uns who have no need of it) getting electricity shot through my tender, tender kneecaps, I mock-complained that if Lance Armstrong can do triathlons at the ripe old age of 37, I should be able to do my modest six-days-a-week training schedule without excruciating, crippling pain.

And my PT quipped, yeah, Lance's abilities have nothing to do with genes...

Apparently my genes are at war with me. Being a 40-something athlete is, I am finding, a constant balancing act between trying to generate enough activity to keep oneself strong and healthy and having to curtail said healthy activity because one's body won't tolerate it. I swear, the demands I make of this body are modest. I don't run ten miles at a time. I run four. I swim for 45 minutes. I ride my bike at a modest pace, in a not-terribly-hilly environment, a couple of times a week. I take a rest day, whether I want to or not (I hate them, to be honest).

And yet. Here I am, the day after a ride, and my knees won't work. They won't bend. They are screaming at me. I am, occasionally, screaming back at them. I gritted my teeth throughout the PT. I am a tough-ass little cookie, after all. But holy shit, this hurts.

I never take unnecessary medications. And yet I gulped down a giant prescription-strength Naproxen this morning. I iced the hell out of everything.

None of it helped. The PT said it'll get better, that I should stretch before and after rides, that I should do nothing but swim this week, and that I should get those shorter cranks ASAP. Righty-ho.

Ouch.

PS. Yes, my ass hurts, too. Boo hoo hoo.
PS2. Fuck you, Lance. Fucking superhuman freak. Bastard.
PS3. And fuck all you cute little boys at the bike shop. I bet your knees don't hurt you at all, you sexy little brats. I hate you.

"Where is fancy bred? In the heart or in the head?" - William Shakespeare, The Merchant of Venice. Also, Willy Wonka, in his Chocolate Factory.

More adventures with my darling Nikon, and a ride over bridge and dale to meet the fair Annabelle for dinner and wine. And a stop at the bike shop to chat with the friendly neighborhood Bike Boys, in all their slim legged glory (hubba). And some work on my novel. And some knitting with pretty girls in a bar.

And...why oh why isn't this the way every day goes? Okay, yeah, that was two days' worth of stuff, but you know what I mean.

Annabelle said, "You're silly when you're on the bike."

And I said, "Well, I get a little giddy, maybe."

But the truth is, I can't quite sort out whether it's the rush I get from being back on my favorite mode of transportation, the wee little bits of endorphins it affords me, or the special bikemen brand of testosterone that I keep getting high on whenever I am in that bike shop. Whatever it is, I like it. I like it very much.

I also like getting creative work done, especially when it includes three of my favorite pastimes (writing, taking photographs, and knitting).

I am almost done with a new hat, which is Malabrigo repurposed from an abandoned fingerless mitten concept. I got one mitten done, wasn't happy with the fit, and determined that really, the yarn wanted to be a hat, and the fingerless mittens wanted to be made from something DK. And within minutes (or so it seemed) two skeins of beauteous DK weight yarn appeared in the mail.

I am revving up to start work on Snow White. It's that darned tubular cast-on that's been intimidating me, but I will just have to blindfold my fear of it, and get on with it. And that's really all I have to say for now. I am not feeling replete with wordyness, but I have lots of pics to show you. I guess I shall have to dole them out over a few days.

Oh, and hey, did everybody see the eclipse? An eclipse in a clear sky and something like five inches of snow, all in one weekend. Not too shabby for boring ol' February.

PS. The title of this post refers both to the photos (natch) and to what seems to be happening to me lately. Somebody's been clicking my embiggen switch. And I think that somebody is ME.

Wow, right? This incredibly gorgeous yarn was sent to me by Anna, who shall henceforth be known as Incredibly Generous Anna. Those are two skeins each of Lorna's Laces Shepherd Worsted in Lakeview, and Lorna's Laces Swirl DK in Valentine. And the colors are even more vibrant and lovely in person. Sigh. They are now sitting in a pile on my chair looking like candy.

She also sent me a soy candle which melts into massage oil. How freakin' cool is that whole concept? And a carry-your-knitting bag from Loopy Yarns. And Miss Kitty got her very own care package, too, comprised of a pair of excellent woolly catnip mice (she went right for them) and a passel of nice and smelly dried fish (which we may be sharing with our neighbor cats, as she kind of licked them and then walked away, which just proves the eternal unpredictability of cat behavior).

Thank you, Anna!!! I think I may have to cast on for some Swirl mittens right this very minute.

It's been a week of realizing that there are real people out there reading these words, just as I am reading theirs, and that we all interact in this strange blind cocktail party that is the Internet. And though it often seems like science fiction, or that we're all characters in a book, we are instead this queer brand of friends who've simply never met. I suppose it is nothing new - penpals have been around for ages, and in the days before quick and (relatively) easy travel, friends who lived in different towns would go months or years between visits.

So maybe it's not so odd.

But it feels odd. Like the magic that allows strangers on a train to get to know each other in an afternoon. Or how I walked into a certain bike shop and suddenly felt right at home. Lately all of human interaction seems a blur and a conundrum to me. I just feel dizzy with it. I fall in love at the drop of a hat - or into infatuations that are hard to explain. I make big decisions on a dime, and stop momentarily to wonder, and decide that it just feels right, and proceed full steam ahead.

The only constants are wind and water and me and my cat. And the cat and I are given to strange nocturnal activities. I find myself dancing on the subway platform a lot lately.

Hello my lovelies. I've had a busy, eventful, and rather swell weekend, which hasn't left me much time for blogging. Now I am on a long work deadline that will be crunching like a bowlful of headache cornflakes well into the wee hours, and so I really must focus.

But I didn't want to leave you hanging too long. Suffice it to say, I have been busy reuniting with my long-lost love, the bicycle. I have spent lots of time hanging with bike geeks, riding across bridges, jumping curbs, getting rained on, and talking bike parts, to my Turkish Delight (a shiny gold star to those who catch that obscure TV reference).

I also met her - in person, and, well, rather kidnapped her for the whole day, ably assisted by the alluring powers of pretty yarn and prettier girls (and one boy).

It was a good weekend, my friends, but my cat may never forgive me. She hates it when I have a social life. Wait till I snag a boy and bring him home, including, perhaps, an extra bicycle (beyond my two). She will be clawing my eyes out while I sleep. Too bad, dearie, too bad!

Ciao!

PS. Would you like a poem?

His dreams stretch until they are bonds
the sank-low feeling dissipates
as the piles of the shore recede
and his oar swallows juice after juice

his breath appears like a serpent of air
she signs puzzles in his face
the map of lines pointing out
various continents, east and west
her eyes move over the sands

Anytime he believes his heart
can grow new skills
he is done in by the silence
growing in the corners
like an old red dog
raw of temper
and cold of skin

only interested in training him
to stop coming aboard.

copyright 2008 lizbon grav. do not reproduce in any fashion, under penalty of death, prosecution, persecution, perfidy, prognostication, and sloth. Also defenestration.

In that last moment
as the cloud lifts her heel,
and she floats, transported
an alien faery above his face

he blinks his wet eyes
to clear them
but her wings have stained
his eyelids
and she is there
again and again

scorching each dream
he has about horses
and twilight
and canned yams eaten with fingers

his big yellow fingers
she will think about
as she flies to the next cloud.

copyright 2008 Lizbon Grav. All rights reserved.

And further, a list.

1) I ran.
2) I remembered what I love most about running. It is the best cure for sexual frustration there is, apart from actual sex. (And some sex isn't even as good a cure as some runs.)
3) I had to work. And work some more. I invoiced.
4) I made up funny epithets for the boy formerly known as Hot Blonde. All in code so I can say them on the street to my friends and we can laugh our asses off without being openly rude, even if he happens to be standing right behind us. Not that I always back off from open rudeness, but I still have some scruples about hurting his feelings (why I don't know. Perhaps because I suspect he means no harm by any of it, and because he has been such a pleasant distraction).
5) I watched two movies featuring mondo dopey eye candy (aka. Keanu). Well, he's only super-dopey in the second: Johnny Mnemonic. And then it's as much the script as it is his flat acting.
6) I drank some very strong hot chocolate.
7) I contemplated for the seventh time my next tattoo.
8) I decided to knit some socks as soon as my copy of Cat Bordhi arrives.
9) I made a knitting-und-bier date with Miz Fury and Special J. Rock on!
10) I tried on my Fremen goggles (they are blue within blue) and decided they are awesome. Same goes for new running shoes (thanks Daddy - those were a present).
11) I wrote a little poem and flung it up on the Interwebs. Instant!

That is all.

Today (I call it today until I go to bed, which gives me a little extra leeway) is the annual virtual poetry reading for St. Brigid's Day, and so I am putting up another.

But before that, a few important things that happened today:

I got invited to join Ravelry.

I got my yarn for Snow White (it is perfect).

I went out to brunch and ended up spontaneously spending the whole day out with the girls, meandering from eating place to haircut to eating place to shopping place to eating place. I am now very, very full. Overfull. Ouch.

I have sworn off pursuing boys. I am tired of the fuss and the nebulousness and the frustration. We came up with several good shorthands for this, which I will not at the moment share here, but suffice it to say, I had a moment in Ricky's where I was laughing so hard I was doubled over. And then I looked at a robot t-shirt and bought some sugar scrub. So I can have incredibly soft skin that no boys will get to enjoy. Also, earlier, I bought two more "date tops." Yeah, so that swearing off is going really well for me.

And so to the poem.

Cream, she said, and ran her
eyes into his stars
his legs tangled in a weedy
mess along hers
the dark blanket a forest
for them to chew into

The sudden dearth
his arms gone and then fluttered into birds
So many damn birds
All that's left after a rain
is chatter and flight.

copyright 2008 Lizbon Grav. All rights reserved.

I saw Sarah Jessica Parker on the street, suckling at a cigarette as if it were her last meal. At first I thought it couldn't be her (though it looked a lot like her), because she looked awful - creepy almost.

Then I remembered the Rule of Celebrities. Which is, roughly speaking, if you spot someone in NYC who looks like somebody famous, it is usually them. To wit, my two Lance sightings. On the first one, my eyes registered that it was Lance, but my mind talked me out of it. The second time there was no mistaking him, which made me realize that the first time, I hadn't seen "some guy who looked like Lance"; I'd seen Lance.

I think we expect celebrities to look luminous, the way they do on magazine covers and in movies - to look different than we do. So their reality looks too small to be believed.

In a similar way, things like Writing Novels for A Living look too big for a regular-sized human like me to be able to accomplish - even though I know in my head that the people who do that for a living aren't any bigger than I am. (I refer here to psychic size rather than physical height, for those of you who are snarkily giggling behind their hands right now.)

Eh. In other news, I am considering converting my road bike to a fixie. You know why? Let me give you a list.

A) Because when I went for a ride, my chief complaint (apart from frozen feet because my bike shoes are held together by electrical tape) was that it wasn't enough exercise.
B) Because I really kind of dig tinkering with my bikes.
b-sub1) Because I get to play with tools.
b-sub2) Because I know for a fact that a girl working on her own bike = hotter than hot.
b-sub3) Because it is very satisfying to fix something myself.
C) Because I have always hated my drivetrain.
D) Because there is just nothing cooler than a road bike converted to a fixie, except:
d-sub1) A road bike converted to a fixie by the girl riding it.
E) Because, when I mentioned this plan to Boywich (soliciting his advice on the conversion because he knows about such things), his response was: "Well, if you meet a cute fixie-riding boy and tell him you did the conversion yourself, he will cream his shorts immediately."
*Side note: I love Boywich.

PS. These pics are Rhinebeck leftovers. I still have a camera, and I even have new yarn to photograph, but I am too tired/lazy/rained-on (take your pic - ha ha) to take new pics. And really, who can argue with pretty wool?!