Wednesday, December 5, 2012

and on the third day

I'm supposed to be writing tomorrow's poem for the workshop, but my mind is a blank, thoughts blown asunder by the vivid sunset and too much chocolate. I step out onto the deck, barefoot, take a photo -- even the pond water is orange. Then I putter. Check the handknits inventory. Not much left. Not leftovers, but what is available. Two Kool Aid dyed merino sock pairs and one hand-dyed cabled pair. It's been an amazing season. So many people sending notes about how much they love their socks and mittz and other items. I've started new ones and will post photos as they come off the needles, as always.
Received a bag of bamboo sock yarn today in a variety of great colors for spring.
Meanwhile, will try to resist sudden strong desire to knit a Central Park Hoodie. I still have that 2006 issue of Knitscene with the pattern and it seems as fresh as ever. I never finished the one I started a few years ago; angry over negative associations with the yarn (it's complicated), I ripped it out, rolled the yarn into neat balls, sold them at a stash sale, broke the spell. I do believe, as Salmon Rushdie wrote in Midnight's Children, that bad thoughts and evil, can get knitted into a garment and passed on. Think of all the stories of spells conjured up with bits of yarn. Mine was a hasty move I know, ripping it all out, but it was the right thing to do at the time. When I start a new one it will be quite a different approach -- all good vibes and moon shadows.

time for drifting and waiting...
I'll return to the blank page now and hope for the best. Or wait until morning, let it perc during the night.
or you knit...
This is the time of listening. You are trying to hear the inner siren's song at the center of your soul. You take little stabs at writing. You hold the pen and write a phrase. And pause, for the Voice is gone. Too frail. Too weak. You draw pictures to give presence to the pen.
     Sophy Burnham (For Writers Only)

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