Wild Strawberries

Inspired by Proust? There must be a term paper somewhere on the parallels to Recherche du Temps Perdu. This will not be it. I paged through a graphic novel version of Au Cote du Chez Swann this afternoon at a used bookstore. I never seem to go by there when it's open, so when I spied a Tin Tin book and the open sign in the window, I had to go in! Neither book followed me home. Even as a bande dessine, Proust doesn't rock my world. In this case, it probably had more to do with the dull layouts and art. Alas.

The wild strawberries of the title are growing in my back yard, with no signs of elderly Swedes trying to collect them. After a few too many jokes about needing a scythe to attack the lawn and declaring the back yarn a prairie reclamation district, I figured it was time to do something. The front yarn was a snap, in spite of all of the divots and garbage strewn upon it by the neighbors. I'm going to pretend that it was the neighbors who moved away until proven otherwise. The back yard was another matter. It is large and overgrown. I seriously wondered if a scythe would be necessary. It wasn't, but it was slow moving. As I am fair skinned and miserable when overheated, I decided to wait until magic hour. An hour was not enough. Soon, I noticed the strong, woodsy scents of the lawn and its flowers and the sun sinking in the sky. But it was when I felt my first mosquito bite that I decided to call it quits. Even after a long, cool shower with calamine soap, my face is still strawberry red.

I didn't get any work done on the birthday socks today, but I don't feel guilty. I've already turned the heel of the first sock and learned the lace pattern. I should be careful about saying that, because it just begs for a big tear-out. Well, I had to tear one row out three times the other night. Maybe that was because it was four in the morning. Hard to say.

I saw a girl punch her mother today while crossing the street, but in a playful manner. I couldn't hear what she said, but I'm pretty sure it was "slugbug". I drive a car that makes people hit each other. I didn't know that people still did slugbug (or punchbuggy, depending where you grew up), since there are so many new Beetles on the road now. A trip through Andersonville or Lincoln Park could leave you black and blue! I doubt that Ferdinand Porsche could have foreseen this, but it seems a testament to his design. No one hits their siblings when they see Fords driving down the street.

Idees

I've been thinking about knitting for other people. It's always hard to find a balance, in knitting, between making projects for oneself and those for others. Will they appreciate all of your hard work, or will it end up in the dog's bed (which sadly happened to a quilt my mom made for a relative. ingrates.)? I'm falling behind on my gift knitting, probably because I've fallen behind on my overall knitting. There's nothing like making a job out of your hobby to make you not want to do it. After hours at work talking about knitting and helping others, the last thing I wanted to do was go home and knit. Well, that isn't a problem anymore, but I still didn't manage to knit the Dream in Color shrug in time for my grandmother's birthday. Instead, she got a new recording of The Goldberg Variations. You can never go wrong with Bach. Oh, and the poncho I'm making for a friend who just had a baby? That kid might be in preschool before the damn thing's done. I shouldn't be such a pessimist, I know. And, practically speaking, I'm not. I cast on a new project, a pair of lace socks for my mother's birthday present, yesterday. Considering her birthday is two weeks away, that seems pretty damn optimistic. I've also been thinking of making a CeCe cardigan for my grandmother who recently lost weight and needs a wardrobe refresh. Will she appreciate it? I don't know. She has a tendency to drop hints about things that she'd like knit for her that can rub me the wrong way. But she's my grandmother and I love her. That's really what it boils down to, when knitting gifts. If you love the recipient and the project, it's really a selfish gift.

The Goldberg Variations felt like a bit of a risk. I didn't go with the classic Glenn Gould recording (which I love, but then I'm also a fan of Gould's radio work), but with the new Simone Dinnerstein that's gotten a lot of press. I rarely buy more than one version of classical music, so I may have to borrow it back to compare.

Did anyone else see Coldplay perform on the Daily Show tonight? I was surprised, since I can't remember live music on the program before. I was also a bit disappointed. Coldplay seems like they'd be great live, but I was distinctly unimpressed by their performance. Who knows, maybe it was a function of the Daily Show never having live music-- maybe their sound engineer didn't keep an eye on the suck knob.

I went grocery shopping today. I like to go any time other than Saturday mornings, to avoid the crowds. Predictably, there was a small child throwing a tantrum in line in front of me. I tried really hard not to let out a post office sigh. Maybe he hadn't had his nap, but this kid was going for broke. Not fists beating on the floor, but a lot of lung power devoted to some crappy toy that he wanted. His older sister, who was maybe six, took advantage of the situation and snuck a large bag of candy onto the conveyor belt. She handed it to her mom and the mom didn't even look at it. She just threw it on with the rest of her purchases. Now, I doubt that these kids were old enough to collaborate on the tantrum/candy misdirection, but I couldn't help but admire the sister's slyness.

That sexy retrofit keyboard from my last post got two responses. One of my other AV nerd friends declared his desire for one. And one of my civilian friends suggested that I make one myself. It really isn't beyond my skills, I guess. I just can't bring myself to kill a typewriter to do it. When I really started to think about making one, I got bogged down in details: what key from an old Qwerty would replace the apple key? What about F9 and all those other fancy keys that I hardly ever use? I'll have to scrutinize that photo more closely to imagine it better. My 1930 Crown portable will remain unmolested.

Want

It's a keyboard with typewriter keys! Nerd swoon!

I had a Pride filled Sunday this week. My favorite aunt twisted my arm and talked me into going to the parade with her. Crowds and I don't mix, so I rarely go to parades. I go to big events like Pride just often enough to remember why I don't go to big events. It isn't just the crowds, but the great unwashed masses. Sweaty, cranky, stinky people who mysteriously bring dogs, lawn chairs, tiny children, and strollers with them. Seriously? Still, I couldn't resist accompanying Maria to her first Pride. We had a great time. She even got beads. We didn't find any of the friends we were supposed to meet, but we did see a lesbian who was a dead ringer for my (male)cousin Chris. Same haircut and everything, which made my aunt do a double take. When it started to rain, we shoved our way out of the crowd and headed to the pub. We sat at a tiny table with low stools of a height appropriate for kindergartners, which was great for a party of six. We managed to have a lovely lunch and welcome escape from the rain.

My little yellow bug gets a lot of looks and comments. I'm still getting used to that. The other day on the Ike, I got an unusual response. There was a middle aged, long haired man driving an older Jeep in the lane next to me. The Jeep looked like it had been ridden hard and put away wet and sounded like it was powered by an outboard motor. So, the driver keeps staring at me, which I attributed to the powerful combination of girl and cute car. These looks were less than friendly, and I realized why when he pulled ahead of me in traffic. His tailgate was covered in flag, union, and other patriotic stickers. He also had a handmade sign about driving an American car because he loved his country. And there I was in my little German car. Ugh.

I love my Beetle, but sometimes I see other slugbug owners who maybe love their cars a little too much. Twice today, I saw other yellow bugs covered in girly decals. The first was covered in flower stickers and driven by a middle aged woman. The second was covered in flowers and butterflies. It looked like what would happen if eight year olds drove cars. When I saw it in the parking lot, I was secretly afraid that the decals might be contagious. Other people might idly worry about their shower curtains killing them or that big Swiss supercollider, but I afraid that one day I will find my car decked out with flower light caps, daisy rims, and cartoonish stickers.



I just finished a hectic photoshoot. The models? All of the yarn that I acquired from a friend's de-stash. I'm sad that Linda moved back to Ohio, but her generous yarn gifts totally make up for all of the yarn that was stolen with my Buick. I felt like some sort of yarn pornographer (sadly, that skein of Jitterbug cannot arch its back a little more)!


Usually, I don't make the same pattern multiple times. Today, I cast on for a second concurrent sock project. I'm not making a pair of socks, but one of two different pairs. They're in a corrugated looking ribbing that I think is called garter rib. It certainly shows off all of the variegation! The first pair I've named the Sesame Street socks, due to the color scheme.



The second pair is knit in Colinette Jitterbug, possibly the best sock yarn ever. That could be hyperbole, but I love it. Making the same pattern in Jitterbug only cements my hate towards the Juliet yarn in the other pair. It didn't look like I thought it would. Sure, I like a yarn that photographs well, but I've got to see it in person once in a while. Also, it's kind of hairy and splitty, due to a loose ply. Of course, the Sesame Street socks are a gift for a friend with large feet. Sigh.

Otherwise, things have been relatively dull. I'm embracing my AV nerd side (side, right. It's my profession). I spent the better part of the afternoon editing photos, uploading my new acquisitions to Ravelry, and working on this blog. I just cannot get a Flickr badge I like to work on this page. One of my friends just started a video blog. As I watched it, I couldn't help but think of how I would re-cut it. I'm a ruthless dramaturg: I think everyone could use a visit from Sally Scissors. Youtube being what it is, I can't download the footage to edit. Just as well.

*That Hello Kitty bug is simply for illustrative purposes. If I had seen that car in person, I might still be standing there, mouth agape.

Interlude

"Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth; whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses, and bringing up the rear of every funeral I meet; and especially whenever my hypos get such an upper hand of me, that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me from deliberately stepping into the street, and methodically knocking people's hats off- then, I account it high time to get to sea as soon as I can."
Melville

Thoughts & Ideas

I've been busy lately, oddly busy considering that I have all the free time in the world now. There have been plenty of ideas for the blog, entries half written while driving the expressway. The actual writing has been a bit difficult.




I used to live here. Or I might as well have. How many hours I spent there, learning, toiling, crying, laughing, sleeping on the couch in the Green Room. I'm not there anymore and it doesn't directly affect me, but I'm still upset. We tend to think of things remaining the same forever, when that can only occur in memory. That building has a lot of history. It saw the premiere of Tennessee Williams' first play, found funding during the Depression, and fostered the growth of many artists. But it's just a building, and those memories will have to live inside of us.

Did you notice that the cottonwood trees have dropped their cotton? I looked out the window on the day that it happened, and there appeared to be a snowstorm. Snow doesn't usually make people break out the Claritin. I was caught unawares and had left the moon roof on my car open. Not all the way open, but tilted open in the back. I've driven through rain with the moon roof in this position without a drop on me, but cottonwood is sneaky. It knew that this car had no cottony tufts in its AC system, waiting to blow into my mouth months down the line, and it found its way in. I think I got most of it, but if you see me driving erratically and coughing, you'll know why.

Interesting phrases and recent topics of conversation:

* Neuroplasticity and knitting
* Gay giant necrophilia
* The tornado near my house
* My alma mater is underwater, how 'bout yours?
* I think that the mailman read my New Yorker Fiction issue, because it showed up suspiciously late.

Most of my knitting projects are on hold, because I recently burned my right thumb while trying to light a candle. The sort of injury people used to get at rock concerts, I guess, but it means that I've had to put the hemp projects (ouch) and the Cracksilk Haze shawl (too likely to snag) on the back burner. Instead, I am knitting a pair of socks out of Jitterbug. It is cushy and soft and generally admired.

I lay my stash out on my bed the other day, to "sort" it. Most, I just stared. There was a lot to take in. I have a lot of yarn. More specifically, I have a lot of sock yarn. I don't even wear socks, but I apparently plan to make about twenty pairs of them. So, I've decided to knit socks this summer. I want to whittle down my stash. As soon as I put that sort of energy out into the universe, yarn mysteriously finds its way to my stash. I want to knit from stash, I said. Do I want to go on a trip to The Fold for their solstice sale? Sure, twist my arm. You're moving and want to give me yarn for free? I suppose I can find a place for it in the stash. I'm not complaining, really. I just don't want to end up living in a yurt made out of ball bands and insulated in Cascade 220.

Despite my best efforts, the following yarns have followed me home recently:
* Socks that Rock Lightweight in Blarney Stone. I was at The Fold. I was weak.
* Claudia Handpaints Sock in Cabin Fever. Maybe the name appealed to me on a subliminal level?
* Colinette Jitterbug, from Linda's de-stash. She recognizes a fellow addict.
* Cherry Tree Hill Silk & Wool. Two skeins for a little Clapotis, leftover from one of my mom's projects.
* Two skeins of Yartini sock that I don't really remember ordering.

My mother and I went to Ravinia for the first time this season. Her first time, my first concert of the season. The weather was perfect: mid 70s, with a pleasantly cool breeze, and a clear starry sky. We went to hear Dave Brubeck play, which we sort of did. Due to our delayed arrival and desire to be near one of the paths through the lawn, our choice of location was somewhat limited. I threw the blanket down next to a boisterous group of women who talked loudly throughout the entire concert. I wanted to kill them. I didn't pay to listen to their banal conversation, which they could easily have had on their porch for free. And why did they go to a concert they obviously weren't listening to? Fortunately, my mother and I had packed a light dinner and beer, so we could relax a little instead of getting really worked up. Also, the women managed to be quiet during Blue Rondo a la Turk. My expectations were a little high for the evening, since Brubeck's '02 concert in Central Park was one of the best nights of my life. Overall, I had a pleasant time and I think my mom did too.