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.

I think you'll understand why I'm not blogging these days. I'm still discovering what I've lost. It's hard to see the positive, though I enjoy driving a car in the same century it was made again. Still, I feel unmoored.

Gone

There's been no word on my car. I've been stalking it on the police website, which is quite handy. Also suggests that a lot of cars are stolen in the city... It is really inconvenient not having a car. Public trans where I live is basically non-existent and nothing a walkable distance. But underneath the inconvenience is the violation. I feel violated that someone took my car and all of my possessions in it. I care more about the possessions than the car, honestly. I can get another car, but what about my favorite bag? Every time that I think of something in the car, I feel that a bit of that shock that I felt when I saw that the car was gone.

I've also recently suffered what Jane Austen would call a romantic disappointment. It wasn't a grand affair or anything, but it was something that had ignited a spark of joy in my soul. And now that's gone, too. I think that is what I will miss the most: that frisson of pleasure every time that I saw him, the little flirty high of our exchanges, the taste of his kisses.

One of my exes said that cynicism is the condom of the romantic's soul. I may have to retreat into that hard little shell that I wore for so many years for a little while. It's hard to see any overarching purpose to the events of this week, but perhaps this is a lesson in what I don't need in life, what I can do without.

Deja Vu

Remember when my car was stolen a couple of years ago? It's happened again. I might laugh if had happened to someone else, but I am at wit's end. Why would anyone want to steal a 1994 Buick Century? Why does this keep happening to me? I parked it in a non-skeazy lot where I have parked many times before, displayed my ticket, locked the doors like a responsible adult, etc., but still it is gone. I am heartbroken.

Things that I am pissed about being taken with the car: several bags of Malabrigo yarn, a bag of Rowan Tapestry that I'm supposed to use in a store sample, lots of Colinette Tagliatelli, my haul from the Knitting Workshop sale, and the Misti cotton that I bought to make a new Something Red. Also: my good eyeshadow brush, irreplaceable test skein of Malabrigo sock, and a good part of my MAC stash. Damn you, car thieves! I hope that you get gangrenous feet! I hope that all of your sweaters get moth holes and shrink in the wash!

Until all of this is resolved, my transportation options are very limited. Please do not be offended if I turn down an invitation. Maybe I can't get there, or would prefer to spend time sulking in my bathtub.