January 27, 2012
Once Upon A Time
Once upon a time, there was a knitter living in a house in Toronto, and she had a few problems. Mostly these problems were related to things like the three pounds of feline rage that lived with her, the way her husband couldn't tell time but hadn't been able to admit it over decades, and what it is like for you if your daughters are young women and all of your best parenting ideas are illegal. (This knitter had put forth solid, reasonable arguments for microchipping them, building a cage in the basement at the onset of adolescence or simply putting the entire family in a medically induced coma until their daughter's brains were finished developing - and had been shot down on all fronts, thus leaving her with the only parenting option left to her, which was to try respect, reason, patience and intelligence. It was going well, but was exhausting.) This knitter had some other problems too, like that she drank too much coffee and had a hard time putting an outfit together, but mostly, things were pretty good... except for one thing. The knitter had periodic, unpredictable episodes of idiocy, where for no reason at all, her usually reliable wits would leave her. As a general rule, this hadn't effected her relationships or parenting much, because almost everyone has episodes like that, but from time to time it had really bitten her hard on the hind parts in the knitting department.
Such was the case yesterday morning when the knitter in question decided that she couldn't live with "the line" in her knitting. She ruled out the possibility that she had reversed right and wrong side rows (there would have been an absent or extra row of knitting, were that true) and she checked to make sure that the yarn didn't look different because she'd blocked it (that wasn't it either) and was then left with the absolutely firm and clear knowledge that there was absolutely a difference between the two sections of knitting, that this was absolutely a difference that she could not live with, and that she was absolutely going to have to do something about it. Unfortunately, perhaps as a result of blanket induced stress (which can be quite difficult to bear, depending on the deadline and nature of the blanket) it was at this exact moment that the knitter experienced one of the aforementioned periods of idiocy, and as she looked at that blanket, knowing something was going to have to be done, her throat tightened, her hands clenched and just like a row of startled birds, her wits departed her, and she decided that the only reasonable thing there was to do in the world (because it was the first ball of yarn that was the wrong one, you see) was to rip out the entire blanket, right back to the first stitch and start again. This (rather reasonably, in your writers opinion) made the knitter want to find out what other people see in Tequila.
Now it just so happens that this knitter has a relationship with "The Blog". The Blog is a bizarre creature made up of a multitude of consciousnesses, that lived in strange parallel land only reachable by something called Wi-Fi. The knitter had a small box of all knowing, and that small box had Wi-Fi and the knitter could use it to call upon The Blog. She wrote a letter to The Blog, and told it that she was feeling terrible about having to rip back, and The Blog replied the way it does, with a sea of voices all providing answers at once. Now, having hundreds of opinions at once sounds overwhelming, like some sort of bad episode of Star Trek, but the knitter had the knack of it, and knew that she had to largely search for themes. She knew that while the voices of The Mighty Blog would be many, they would be more or less divided into several camps, and they were.
When The blog replied, there were those who said that the problem didn't matter. That nobody would notice, that the baby wouldn't care, and that the knitter must choose (should she value her sanity and liver) to let go of problems such as this, and roll right on. The knitter almost always disagrees with this camp, mostly because she can be a little bit picky, but also because she has high standards for her own handmade things. If, say the knitter had done her very level best to get rid of The Line, and the blanket still had a line? She might let go and move on, but to give up without trying isn't in this knitters nature, and it isn't as much the line that would bother her, as the idea that she couldn't be bothered to spend the energy to fix it when she knew she could. Also, during this process, this faction of The Blog helped her to realize something important. The baby wouldn't care - and that's when she realized that the blanket wasn't really a present for the baby, but a present for the parents and family, and while they probably still wouldn't care, at least that made more sense. Even though the knitter doesn't agree with this camp, over the years she's come to appreciate it, because it's a necessary and equalizing source of balance that keeps her from getting too much validation from the next group, which would likely turn her into an even pickier and more obsessive nerd than she is now.
The second camp are the voices of the collective Blog who agree with the knitter, and offered support for her obsessive nature, her perfectionist tendencies, and her direction. "Yes" this group of voices mutter. "Yes, you must rip it back and you are not crazy. Do it. Do it and cry, but do it."
The knitter likes these voices, because who doesn't like voices that agree with them - but has learned to be careful. People who are like you and think like you often make the same mistakes you do.
Then there is the group that believes errors are inevitable, and a mark of a handmade object and that and that nobody is perfect, and cites The Amish, Muslims, The Navajo and various other cultural groups (depending on the voice) that embrace imperfection (intentional or unintentional) as a mark of humanity. The knitter appreciates these voices, but has never trucked much with the idea - only because she is going to make enough mistakes that can't be fixed to qualify as human, and thus feels compelled to fix what she can.
Next up, the knitter considers the voices of The Blog that are creative problem solvers of the highest order. These voices support the very intelligent and positive design principle that says that subtle differences in construction or colour (like The Line) are problematic, and that one very good way to solve them is to make the subtle difference obvious, and thus more congruous. This facet of the hive mind suggested things like embroidering over the line, running a ribbon through the line or other such embellishments as to make The Line appear intentional. The knitter read these with great interest, but ultimately rejected them, since they would change her idea of what the blanket should be in the end. (She did, however, give a nod to their brilliance.)
Finally, as the knitter assessed the voices of the blog, she read something that stopped her dead in her tracks, and made it perfectly clear that her wits had departed her (which, as so often happens when your wits are gone) she hadn't really known. These voices said something that could work. These voices extended hope. These voices had come up with a solution that could keep the knitter from starting over, and preserve her sense of dignity and hope. These voices said (collectively, and with variation) If the bottom part is the problem, and the top part is both bigger, and okay, why not take off the bottom, and knit more onto the top?
The knitter stared at this, and then the blanket, then resisted the urge to beat herself senseless with the nearest solid object, and realized that it was perfect. She had begun the blanket with a provisional cast on so that she could rip it out and have live stitches to pick up at that end... 
so what was the problem with snipping a thread and picking up the stitches as that thread was unpicked across the row... 
and therefore removing the bad part, leaving her with stitches held for later, just like she had meant to do anyway? 
Nothing. Nothing at all. It would mean that she had an extra chunk to knit onto the top, but that was a heck of a lot better than having the whole thing to re-knit. As the knitter worked this voodoo, she contemplated the fact that without The Blog, she would certainly have (considering that she was clearly without her wits) have ripped back the whole thing, started over, and then (when her wits returned today) would have realized that she had trashed the entire blanket for no sensible reason and would had no choice but to investigate that Tequila, and possibly give up knitting, and definitely have to give up acting like she knew what she was doing in any way at all when it came to knitting... and the knitter was again grateful to The Blog, and all its voices... Even the tiny part of The Blog that is actually her Mother, and left a comment essentially telling the knitter to get a grip on herself, which turned out to have been really great advice, which the knitter regrets resenting at the time.
The End
January 26, 2012
Backwards or Forwards
I noticed it about two weeks ago. There is a line on the baby blanket. Not really a line, more of a point of change. The first chunk, maybe 15 or 20 centimetres, doesn't look the same as what I've knit since then. I've been telling myself (every time I stop knitting and see that line) that this was the result of the light steam blocking I did when I finished the first ball of yarn. I've been telling myself this, because I know it's not a mistake. I wondered if I'd skipped a row, somehow screwed up the lace, but no. All rows and yarn-overs are present and accounted for, and there isn't an extra row either. There is simply a change in the knitting at the exact point that I changed to a new ball of yarn. The two balls I've knit since then are the same, that first one is the outsider. I went back and checked all my ball bands. Same colour, same lot number - so I know it's not the yarn - it's like it's a tiny bit thicker - or fluffier. I told myself that this was subtle, that this was something that nobody would notice in it after it was blocked and a blanket, but on Sunday when I was teaching, I held up the blanket, and someone said something. They could see it.
That night I spread it out and looked at that line of demarcation. Don't worry, I told myself. You steam-blocked that first bit, you haven't blocked the work since then, that's all it is. Chill out, and just keep knitting. Your perfectionist tendencies aren't helping you. I chilled out, I kept knitting. Today I decided that I couldn't ignore it anymore. I'm 12 rows from done, I've charted the border, the baby is due in a few weeks... and there's that line. I decided to set my mind at ease, and spread the work out on a towel, and hit it with a little steam. To my way of thinking, since that's what I'd decided was the difference, this should even it out, and then I could stop thinking about it and worrying about it.
It's still there. Exactly at the point where I changed to a new ball of yarn, there it is. A line. It's subtle - but it's there, and I'm pretty sure it's always going to be there.
The question now, is can I live with it? The greater question is if I can't live with it, do I really have time to rip back, do something about the line and move forward quickly enough to finish the blanket before the baby? (The other question is "What sort of a knitter with 38 years experience at this doesn't trust her instincts and keeps knitting even though there's clearly something not right" but we can discuss that particular failing of mine another day. I think it's related to being basically optimistic. It's a curse.) I feel a little angry at myself. (I knew that yarn was different.) Mostly I just feel anxious. Rip back? Don't? Live with it? Don't?
Every time I think about ravelling this huge body of work, I feel a little sick, but every time I think about looking at that blanket for years to come, I feel sick too. The idea was to make an heirloom. Something beautiful, and personal and something that was a good footing to begin a family on - something that few generations of babies might get wrapped in. Suddenly I imagine myself 90 years old, holding a grand-niece or nephew, and JUST SEEING THAT LINE.
I know what I have to do. I just feel terrible about it.
January 25, 2012
Obstructed
The weekend in London (Ontario) teaching and speaking at Cotton-by-Post was absolutely a pleasure. Suzanne and Garnet, the charming proprietors turned out to be just that, and the arrangements they made were terrific. My students were bright, interesting and rather charming their own selves, and I had the pleasure of seeing some old friends on Friday, a wonderful surprise. I had trouble with my projector at the last minute, but then a simple solution presented itself nicely, and I got a picture of a pregnant lady using my knitting belt which amuses me to no end. .jpg)
(Thanks for playing along Debbie. I actually think your bump was super helpful as well as good looking.)
The photo above is remarkable, in that it is the ONLY photo I took in the whole three days. I have absolutely no explanation for this, except that maybe in my head I knew Joe had taken my regular camera to LA, and that this meant that I had no camera, except that I did. Clearly. In any case, the weekend was so awesome that I now believe it sucked up all the awesome that was allotted to me for the rest of the week, because said awesome has been in short supply since.
Don't get me wrong, nothing significantly big has gone wrong, just absolutely everything small. We're out of milk for tea, and cat food, and there's only enough laundry detergent for one load, and the store was out of it, so we're going to have to decide what we want clean the most. The lights are burned out in the kitchen and changing the bulb didn't help so it must be the wiring, and I clean on Sundays and I've been away two Sundays in a row so everything is a little sticky. The file sharing stuff that I use to share stuff decided it doesn't share files anymore and simply denied us "permission". I opened my photo software and it seized up like me after an aerobics class, and after a debilitating 24 hours of the spinning rainbow beachball of doom, we're admitting defeat and Joe's taking my pretty much brand new computer in to get ram or rammed, or something, which can't quite be right, but since I've been thinking about ramming it with a freakin' sledgehammer for a while I guess it makes sense.
Yesterday was spinning day, and I worked really hard at it all day, and at the end of the day there was like... maybe 20 metres spun, which is abysmal, but then I realized I didn't sit have time to at the wheel a lot, which is probably part of the problem, but I was busy doing the lame computer stuff and missing busses. (Two.) Also, something smells funny at the top of the stairs and I can't figure out what it is, but apparently nobody else can even smell it.
Also, I am about 8 repeats behind on the blanket, and I'm freaking out a little.
In short, Joe's leaving here with my computer in about 10 seconds, and about 30 minutes later I'll be alone in the house, and I think it would be best if I just had a little quiet time. Maybe a little knitting. Maybe a little spinning. Maybe wash the kitchen floor - something that feels like forward movement, so that I stop wanting things rammed.
Or something.
January 23, 2012
Dear Blog
On this day in 2004, I wrote the first entry here. My darling friend Ken made it for me, and it goes without saying that it was one of the most incredible gifts I've ever received. Today marks my 8th Blogiversary - eight years of having this in my life, and eight years of our family considering all of you, collectively "The Blog". We've never talked like The Blog is the part I write. We talk about it like its you. We say things like "What does The Blog think?" or "The Blog isn't going to like this" or "I can't wait to tell The Blog". The Blog is you, and I wanted to take a minute to tell you that this experience has changed my life, taught me things and changed me in ways that I would never have predicted. I have some things I'd like to thank you for, my dear little blog.
For making me a better writer. I know not all writers agree, but for me, the nature of my relationship with The Blog has been a pretty big pile of awesome. I feel like eight years of immediate feedback has changed the way I think and helped me learn to write what I mean to say. Eight years of seeing immediately when I'm being understood by The Blog and when I've failed miserably has (I think) helped me to land where I want to be more of the time. Thank you.
For supporting my career. Very early on, when I had my first book deal and was just starting this blog - but no book had been published, I was agonizing about what might happen if I wrote a book and it had abysmal sales. I lay awake at night thinking about how terrible it would be, how embarrassing, how humiliating it would be to fail at this. What if, I mused to someone, what if I wrote a book and NOBODY bought it? They said to me that at least they would buy it, and my other friends too. "Your friends are pretty likely to buy your book" she said. I sat there hoping I had enough friends. Turns out I had no idea. I was about to have The Blog. Thank you.
For teaching me a lot about technology. When I started doing this, I had no idea what I was doing. With anything. I'm not saying that I'm a total computer whiz now, but I can write basic HTML, solve minor tech issues, have a minimum understanding of what a server does, can use a digital camera pretty well, can use a whole lot of different software, and stay pretty current with all of it out of necessity. A few days ago I taught someone how to export a jpeg in a way that helped them serve their Blog, and I don't think I would have ever thought of myself as someone who had anything like that to offer. Thank you.
For bringing some of the best people I've ever met into my everyday life. Every so often The Blog has given birth to someone who has gone on to have a life outside The Blog and in my kitchen, inbox, or on the other end of the phone. Thank you.
For teaching me that not all knitters are nice, and that The Blog is diverse. Just like there is a certain percentage of every population that is mentally ill in a way that is dangerous to themselves and others, the same can be true of The Blog. Just like there are some people who would hurt me in my real world, there are people in our virtual world who would do the same - and virtual people are real people capable of manifesting in real ways. I know - that seems like a bizarre thing to be grateful for, but I don't think I really understood. I've learned to be careful and thoughtful, but not afraid... and I am safer now, and so is my family. Thank you.
For giving me a social safety net almost everywhere I go. The Blog has given me directions, food, beer, help, company and advice when I've been on the road, and that has made a difference so many times. I'm so grateful for what it has meant to have all of you with me virtually, and sometimes literally. Once The Blog turned out to be a doctor once helped me when I was sick and far from home. Once The Blog was a pharmacist, another time, a lawyer. Once The Blog showed up with a car and rescued me from a situation that was possibly dangerous and definitely scary, and The Blog once scooped me out of the wrong airport in an antiquated Honda, and got me to the right airport after I got my states mixed up and wasn't going to make it home in time for something important. Once The Blog knew without being told, that I was having one of the worst days of my life, and mystically knew to send me an email that said exactly the right thing. Once The Blog sent me thousands of messages of comfort when my friend died. The Blog wished us well after our wedding day. The Blog is powerful, and real and I cannot tell you how many times you have helped me in a thousand big and little ways. From knowing the best vegetarian restaurant in Austin to having a phone number for a knitter/dentist in Australia, having The Blog everywhere is amazing. Thank you.
Finally, for giving me a world much bigger and wider than my own could ever be without you, and your multitude of perspectives and thoughts. Dear Blog, you mean the world to me.
Thank you for the last eight years. I love you.
