the spirit's own time

A busy time of snow, deadlines, knitting, minor stresses and not much of interest to share - hence the long time between posts. A few days ago we had 8" of snow "down" here and a foot or more up in the Ski Valley (8 miles away) which will open on Thanksgiving Day (you can hear the cheers ring out across the valley).

The snow mostly melted away over the next few days, but today it threatens to start all over again. Sigh! Why do I live here? I've never been a fan of snow. I guess it's for other perks. Awesome landscape, three distinct cultures, and an active community of artists, writers, and every other type of creative endeavor known to humankind such as....

the big read
an initiative of the National Endowment for the Arts in partnership with Arts Midwest "designed to restore reading to the center of American culture." It started in 2004 to address the "critical decline in reading for pleasure among American adults." It's purpose is to bring communities together to read, discuss and celebrate books and writers. Here in Taos, thanks to the work of a few dedicated people, SOMOS received a grant to bring in The Big Read. This year's books are Louise Erdrich's Love Medicine and Sherman Alexie's The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian. Early this month the books were distributed free to anyone who wanted to participate. And since it's a month long event, people are still hopping aboard. Last night we had the pleasure of listening to keynote speaker, award-winning Joy Harjo.
     When I first visited Taos in the late 1980s I was greatly influenced by a poetry reading and workshop she gave. Since then she has become internationally known. Her work has evolved into a blend of poetry, saxophone, flute, and song. I wanted to photograph her onstage, but it felt intrusive to do so during her performance (why I'll never be a photojournalist or paparazza).
      Prior to her appearance, the impressive Taos High School Poetry Team performed. The topics they covered were gritty and edgy (no hearts and flowers) and each young poet had a strong stage presence. All in all it was a thoroughly satisfying evening and I'm glad I went even though every cell in my body wanted to settle into the early darkness to knit and watch an old movie. And speaking of knitting (did you think I wouldn't?) a few ufo's are littering my landscape today.

I'm a bit behind in my production schedule but trying not to get obsessive about it. No guilt (well, maybe just a tad). I already have enough for the show which, if I actually sold out, would pay for a ticket to Paris. But, alas, that's not likely and it is necessary to have more than enough for would-be buyers.

The spirit has its own time. Everyone's different.
Without poetry, without song, without dance, 
I would not be alive. Nor would any of us."
          Joy Harjo

of darkness & chocolate

I'm still ruminating over my trip to San Francisco and beyond last month. Especially remembering today the windy day spent in North Beach. Chinatown. City Lights Books. The cafes and shops. I love that neighborhood and over many visits have gotten to know it somewhat. It's as if that piece of the city belongs to me. I wish I could have seen it when it was an Italian neighborhood. The red, white, green stripes of the Italian flag still decorate the telephone poles (left over from Columbus Day?). And there is an Italian bakery where people line up on weekends to buy the best baked goods ever. I read somewhere that when the great earthquake hit and north beach was on fire, the Italians put them out with barrels of red wine! Is it true? Who knows. But it's a nice story. And once when I went into Caffe Trieste, Papa Gianni (founder) was there and insisted we take a picture together. He was in his 80s at the time and a charming flirt who hugged me tight. Legend has it that Francis Ford Coppolla wrote the screenplay for The Godfather at Caffe Trieste. That's another thing I like about San Francisco. Stories lurk in every neighborhood.

darkness visible
A couple of faraway friends are writing about the shortening of days and the inevitable darkness, Ron is popping St. John's Wort, an older friend is writing death poems, and we're expecting snow tonight. I don't usually mind this time of year (the light will return), but it's a challenge to rise above the general gloominess of spirit. So what do I do? Thought you'd never ask.

yarn! wool! 
Received a new skein today. Lorna's Laces November Limited Edition, "Breaking Dawn". Based on the final (I hope) volume of that series of vampire novels (and movies) - which I would just as soon forget. I started reading the books on a friend's recommendation. By the second volume I'd had it but was curious about the outcome which former friend refused to reveal. What a trial that last volume was! Not even close to the sophisticated creepiness of Anne Rice's Interview with the Vampire years before. But I love the yarn and can't wait to make something with it as soon as production stuff is on its way.

speaking of chocolate and cherries
knocked off another pair of sock ufo's - merino, hand dyed, slubs of color. Nice. The yarn came from a local shop, hand dyed by a couple of guys in Ohio. And that's all she wrote because the label's gone.

gift of change

What looks like a painting is a real shelf with real teapots and cups on an ochre wall in a cafe called Dragonfly. Long leisurely brunch with a friend as golden sunshine poured through the late afternoon windows on a cold crisp day. Quite different from yesterday's strong winds and horizontally falling snow (no sign of it today). I've experienced many autumn/winter seasons in Taos, but this year feels different and no one dares speculate (with certainty, as they usually do) about the coming winter. There is an eerie feeling afoot of a different kind of weather. Which reminded me of the absurdist novel (which I loved) by Sean Murphy, The Time of New Weather (Delta, 2005). I opened it to the first paragraph introducing us to things out of joint:

It was the time of new weather. Buddy's earliest memories were of gravity storms, of time storms, of plagues of snails and salamanders. Since boyhood, [he] had seen it literally rain cats and dogs, seen wind blow up from the ground and straight down from the sky, seen snow fall in July and tulips bloom in December And he had often watched lightening strike twice in the same place.

body parts

On a calmer note, I finished a few more items. The socks (there are two) are another "lost in the decade" project. 

Fortunately I had more of the yarn and remembered the pattern. They're nice and woolly and a bit thicker than the socks I usually make. They'll be great in January by the fire (unless it's balmy and tulips are blooming). Tonight I hope to knock off a couple more so-nearly completed projects that, hopefully, someone(s) will love and want to own. I refuse to start anything new until this guilt producing lineup of (potential sales) ufo's become fo's.

"This is the wave of the future. We're going to be the first

nation built entirely on consumerist principles. This is 

beyond Democracy, beyond Socialism, beyond even...um, 

Monarchism. We call it...Total Capitalarianism!"

                                                         Sean Murphy

skipping stones

How cool is this old camera. I found it in an antique shop in northern California. Didn't buy it, not sure what I would have done with it, but did take the picture. Another kind of ownership.

Blue Nights
Feeling entirely guilty yet craving rest and recovery from the latest bout of labyrinthitis (vertigo) I spent yesterday reading Joan Didion's new book. As usual, her words are so compelling that I read till midnight to the last page. She writes so directly, almost a Hemingway-esque style. Pre-publication reviews suggested that she is somewhat detached in this book and maybe that's so. It is after all about loss. The daughter, husband, friends,who died. Aging. Ill health. Places from the past that don't exist anymore or are so changed as to be unrecognizable. Rather heavy subjects to delve deeply into and still be able to emerge intact.

varieties of adjustment
I see some of myself in Didion's style of detached writing and maybe that's why her work speaks to me so clearly. I applaud her honesty when she writes about old age and her own infirmities. There is no gentle segue into her woes, just a few punches. She was told by one of her doctors that she was making "an inadequate adjustment to aging." Her response? "In fact I have made no adjustment whatsoever to aging." (except not wearing the 4 inch heel red sandals anymore, although I don't know why she won't wear the gold hoop earrings either). The imperative, she wrote, is to maintain momentum as we age. Yet she's not sure exactly what that means. Nor do I. Her braiding of each person's story throughout the book is masterful. Anyone writing non-fiction will learn a great deal.

Another snowstorm in full sun today and it's cold. I think this is going to be a winter of new unpredictable weather. Forecasters never get Taos right anyway. Accuracy occurs about an hour before the weather changes. Yellow sun still fills the air and turns a tiny vitamin pill into an abstract installation. That much I know.

dog rose jamming

ordinary rocks worth stopping for on a bright and beautiful day

wild rose dog berries

spells and mixtures
When I left this morning for the farmer's market I noticed the wild rose bush behind my adobe wall and how it was decorated like a Christmas tree with red hips. Usually we leave them for the birds (and bears?). This day though, they looked so glorious in the sun, and there were so many, that I was compelled to do something about them. So I donned leather garden gloves, a pair of clippers, and with curious Spike an inch away the whole time, picked as many of the hips as possible without exposing myself to zillions of tiny nasty thorns, knife-like yucca leaves, and the low reaching arms of the apricot tree (still full of yellow leaves). All of these things are thriving in one modest square of space and it's dangerous! An hour later, a bit scratched and with a few thorns stuck in my sweater, I assessed the harvest.

About a quart's worth. Don't know if I'll be able to successfully make jam. (I could string them and wear as love-attracting beads). I tried making rose hip jelly once (I already had the lover). It was many years ago in Naragansett, using wild beach rose hips. The recipe came from an old reissued 1939 book filled with quaint centuries-old lore. Months later, we opened one of the jars when we stayed at the cottage, and the jelly was watery and tart. But now I've found a 21st century recipe that incorporates an orange, a green apple, sugar, water, butter, and hope.

What I did learn from the olden times recipe book is that my particular thorny bushes are called dog roses (Eglantine) and the pulp should be removed with the aid of a bodkin. Princess Alexandre Gazarine (1924) wrote that dog roses are best for jam. And that roses planted in the garden attract fairies, and are said to grow best when stolen. So there. How can I fail?

There is a bit of magic in the air this late afternoon and my mood swings from joy to gloom, from enthusiasm to laziness, clarity to confusion. The sun is low now and filling all the rooms with buttery light. Anything is possible.

antidote for hysteria?

cozypants

The visual tranquility of teapot, artificial flowers and colorful/cushy finished socks is slightly not a true picture of my life. As November 1st looms, I find myself preparing for a non-stop busy time that may include a trip east and/or southwest, and will certainly overlap into early January. Not due to the coming holidays and assorted family birthdays, although they play a part, but due to a plethora of drop dead deadlines.

resolved:
this will be the last year I do the Yuletide Craft Fair because on top of all the other deadlines I now face production! On one hand it's sheer insanity. On the other it's the push I need to finish UFOs. Things that I've lost interest in will inevitably interest someone else. This I've learned through the years. And isn't it better to part with what I no longer love so it can be infused with new love? For example (and I think I broke a procrastination record here), last night I finished a pair of socks started approximately ten years ago. That's what I said, dear reader. Ten years!

Here's what happened. There is a yarn shop in town called The Yarn Shop. In the past (two owners ago) I often traded knitting samples for yarn. I'd discovered socks and loved the new self-patterning yarns. Most at that time came from Regia. This one was called Special Effekts. I knitted a one sock sample that sold lots of yarn, and completely lost the desire to knit the second. A few years months later, the shop changed hands. I reclaimed the sock and tossed it into a storage box where it languished until my recent declutter campaign. Not only was the sock there - looking quite fresh and perky - but so was the yarn - all neatly bundled in a ziplock bag. The very fact that so much time had elapsed and the project was still viable, propelled me to finish. Voila! It's actually quite nice and will make it's belated debut at the Fair. This started an insane trend and now there are three more sufo's clamoring for new life in the light.

"a distinct virtue"
A miniature book published by Running Press around the time I made that striped sock, contains quotes and historical facts about knitting. I don't remember how I acquired the book, but it resurfaced with the sock. Aside from facts about Eleanor Roosevelt's bulging knitting bag, and that the Archbishop of Canterbury got involved (quote above), I wonder if this still works:

The quiet, even, regular motions of knitting
were prescribed as an antidote for nervousness
and hysteria in the nineteenth century

deep, dark & other stuff

Since it's getting close to Halloween I thought I'd share a picture of this house perched high on a hill overlooking the Pacific. I passed it on my walks a few weeks ago. I'm sure it's a lovely place, not a haunted mansion (it's actually quite a modest size) but it sure looked spooky on this day. So let your imagination fashion a story of your own. Today's weather perfectly fits whatever creepy story you do concoct because it's snowing on the mountains (hidden behind clouds) and raining cold rain down here. Gloomy. And cozy. When the sky cleared briefly, it was no longer that blue I've been waxing poetic about, it was silver and gray and moving fast toward the mountains.

Perfect day to finish a special knitting project (and try to deal with an unrelated unexpected problem). Why aren't our stresses meted out gradually and balanced by an equal measure of joys? Never mind.
This makes me happy.

Dante's b-day hat and mittens (a Morehouse yarn and modified pattern). Those little thumbs were hell to knit and the touches of felt and beads for lips and eyes (that I didn't add) were over the top for the smallest size. (Have I told you that I hate sewing?) I can't imagine that these mitts will stay on tiny hands either. So I'm about to start a pair of thumbless mittens as a backup. I tend to avoid making tiny toys, ornaments, animals or other cute stuff. I once made a tiny toe-up sock for a workshop and it nearly caused me to quite knitting altogether.

approaching the edge of sanity
Which I can't do at this time because I made a commitment to participate in the Yuletide Craft Fair on Thanksgiving weekend and need to have enough knitted items for three full days. Here's a sneak peek at one of a series of small felted bags that a psychic acquaintance told me I should be sure to include. She said they would serve as talismans to those who bought them. Interesting concept, eh? Who am I to doubt her word.