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The new sweater is now properly underway. The sleeves are being reknit in a rather impromptu fashion. As I'm using a different yarn, they were clearly going to be too large if I kept to the instructions, so I've been revising the pattern as I go along. One sleeve is completed, the other is in progress. The back is done, the front, yet to be knitted, features the same lace pattern as the sleeves. I'm hoping it will all fit together nicely and be wearable.
Post script: I hated this damn sweater. I took it apart.
No, not just things, but nearly everything I own, is neatly and logically buried away in boxes stored in a spare room in my parent's home. For some reason I've yet taken little time to consider, I have spent the majority of my life looking for things, not an intolerable impulse as it affords me the thrill of hunting for something I think I absolutely need and then being quite pleasantly surprised when I find some unrelated thing I had completely forgotten about. Today, it was my flag of Great Britain, the Laguiole cheese set, and the NordicWare bundt pan, on the face of it, a frivolous possession, as I am made ill by sugary treats, but one never knows when one may be called upon to produce a cake. My copy of a Conservation International field guide to lemurs was another stirring rediscovery. All these things make up me and all these things are hidden away. So I decided, striding up the hill between the church and the college this morning, that, despite my resolution to give up reading newspapers, now would be the time to begin reading British papers, albeit online, so that, as a former resident of that green and pleasant land, I could vicariously reacquaint myself, (ye gods, I was almost about to use the utterly dehumanizing "reconnect"!), with the realities of England. Time also to admit that I'm fairly good at words, that they matter to me, that I use them in carefully considered ways, and that maybe, I need to grow up and commit myself to them more fully. Hence, the blog. Hence, this post. Hence, my conscientious reading of James Woods' How Fiction Works. One other admission: I have reached a point in my knitting where I am forced to challenge my assumption that I am capable of following simple directions. Pictures to follow.
Then there is Foof. And Bob. I am delighted that the cats have palindromic names. Perhaps, after the three week kitty sleepover party we have all been enjoying, they will remain with us in the sparsely furnished, but lavishly carpeted apartment. Possession. 9/10. The Law. Indeed.
11 September 2008
It seemed like an arranged marriage all along. Having to give up my reading glasses for specs with progressive lenses gave me a good excuse to stop wearing the dominating and overly heavy Tommy Hilfiger frames I had purchased ten years ago and adopt a "new look". Originally, I felt excited at the prospect, but after spending hours rooting about at optical shops on both coasts and finding nothing that looked like me, whatever that means, I began to feel discouraged. All the frames looked alike, tedious pairs of rectangles. I tried on a pair of Vera Wang's that made me look bitter and menopausal and a pair that made me look Speed Racer-ish. The frames I thought I was after, like the ones worn by Anouk Aimee in 8 & 1/2, were everywhere and made me look like everyone else. I decided that I was going to have to wear a pair that I could learn to love over time, and I guess these are those glasses. They were pricey. Someone suggested that they made me look like Sarah Palin. Someone else said she loved them, particularly the way they picked up the hazel color of my eyes, which are green. Here they are, a half-rim pair of Swissflex, too expensive not to tolerate at the very least.
