Baby blankie redux

I don't know why I find making anything with purling so boring. I'd rather work in the round all the time, even while working lace (which is why I love circular shawls!). However, a baby blanket made in the round is probably beyond my patience due to large numbers of stitches. Or is it just that they look doily like to me?

I offered to make my friend K one. She's expecting her 2nd baby, a boy, in early Jan. I went to the Lion Brand outlet in Carlstadt, NJ with her (she crochets) and we picked out the yarn. Pure wool in worsted weight, red in color. Now pure wool would probably not be my first choice for a baby, given all the hand washing and TLC it would require, but hey, it's her kid right? So I CO with 5.5 mm needles, worked 20 odd rows and decided the resultant fabric was too drapey and not stiff enough for a blanket. I ripped it all out (sigh, yes) and restarted on 5mm needles. Not too much better but it will have more structure I imagine. The yarn feels funny, honestly, it just does not feel worsted to me. Is it just a bum lot? I have worked with lion wool before with amazing results, but I honestly cannot remember how it felt, especially since I used it to make a shawl :D! Rav comments are mostly on how scratchy the yarn is, K will probably want to line it with fabric, which will help with re blocking afterwards I suppose, hope the red will not bleed too much. Anyway she has used this yarn loads of times, so i suppose she knows what she's in for.

I cast on for 11 blocks of 10 st each, and added 5 edge st on both sides. The other time I made this blanket (for yet another friend), I had used thicker yarn, 6mm needles and CO for 12 blocks. It was huge. My lil niece will probably use it for many years. This time though, I was aiming to size down a bit.

I'm so sleepy now, and it's only 10.16. How boring my life is.

Brigade pullover

So, I've been working on (not secretly of course!) this snazzy pullover for S (the DH). It's an acrylic yarn in worsted/aran weight. The pattern, Brigade, is available for $7 on Ravelry. Before you gasp- oh no, acrylic, let me just say that its really hard selecting colors for him and that he loved this grey. His reason for acrylic? He wanted a machine washable sweater which did not need to be re blocked with every washing (sparing me the trouble, oh boy is that kind!).Machine wash is good, especially when you tend to spill stuff on your clothing. Shh.

However, I've not worked with 4mm needles in forever, and the agony of miles of stockinette with no end in sight is driving me CRAZY. I knit and knit and it never seems to grow. Ah despair, we meet again. Anyway, it's just over 10" long. 7" more to go before I work the armholes. Here's a WIP pic (grey on a rainy day, so poor pic quality)

Is there no way to get the damn image where I want it to be?!!

Anyway, there is a wonky bit in the ribbed part- I tripped over my ball of yarn on my rush to take a phone call, and ripped out a few st from the needles. I picked them up, but carelessly, as I couldn't find a crochet hook just then. My bad. Will need to use duplicate st to fix it after all the knitting is done...which right now, seems like never. Sigh.

This thanksgiving, I thought....

So S, my DH and I come from middle class backgrounds, and that I believe sometimes muddles up his head. Um, is that why we are here, in smelly New Jersey, trying to carve out a better life for ourselves? Or for our babes unborn? Or did we just drift here, without thinking too much about the whys and the wherefores of it all? Who knows.

Trouble is, working in the hue melting pot that is finance, makes you insecure. Especially if you're starting out. The wealth on display here is mind boggling. What does that matter though, in NYC where appearances are everything?

My poor husband. I wish you would join me and sit back and think about what we have here. Or should I go first?

Sure, I have friends who are rich and successful...or at least they have husbands or families who are. Sure, everyone wants to be wealthier, prettier, everything else, but here I am...

And here is my list of things to be thankful for this Thanksgiving.

1. I am extremely grateful for my loving DH. He is so amazing and enriches my life in a million different ways. Most importantly, he knows every detail of my past and still embraces me with all my flaws and scars. I am grateful to be married to you, take care of you and have you to hold on to when nightmares come and when I get scared after watching trailers of Paranormal Activity 3 :)

2. My sweet puppies, Serafina, Xena and Leo...angels alive all three. Serafina who saved me in a million ways when I was alone and friendless in Bangalore, Xena, the enthusiastic licker and Leo, the pup who will not walk nicely on a leash.

3. I am so grateful for the use of my hands- and all the craft that helps keep me both usefully occupied and sane. Because I feel like I create a piece of beauty every time I pick up the needles or the hook. And all the pretty yarn!

4. I am grateful that I can still write, even if it needs constant pruning and refining and reworking. Even if no one will ever read my novel, stories or poetry, I feel privileged to be a teller of tales.

This thanksgiving, I am so grateful for all my blessings, and so thankful to S, because every day, in a different way, he makes me happy.

Sweetness

There is sweetness yet to be found in places where everything once looked bleak and dark. A few kind words (a sweet message by a fellow Ravelry member), a cuddle from my puppy, an early morning walk by the river when all is peaceful.... such daily sweetnesses soothe and, sometimes, enchant.

Speaking of enchanting, the knitpicks cyber monday sale started and I was online along with the rest, battling to load the page faster. I really have no room for it. My oven too is taken over, which is how I got this quirky name for my blog. My storage units, all my suitcases...everything is full of yarn. I got my first scolding from the DH who wonders if I will ever use it all up in my lifetime. Oh dear, the voice of reason. And yet, I find myself succumbing! So I got two things. Merino Style yarn (DK weight) in fairytale purple for a shawlette I will be test knitting (sorry, no more details allowed as of now) and in a bright blue for the Date night pullover which I so love.

I have signed up for the curvy knits course on craftsy, and I have to agree with the instructor, bulky yarns do not look good on me. Sigh. So back to the teeny tiny needles we Indians grew up with....although finer yarns tend to offer more yardage for the dollar...but enough said, and no more yarn this winter!

Honesty and Truth

you want honesty and truth? Well then here it is. He who rides the tiger is afraid to dismount. And I don’t know if I want to open that particular can of worms quite so early.

I went to the UK after graduation to work towards a masters degree in creative writing. In some ways, that stint was good for me, and I did work hard, and I did earn my degree in time. In some ways, it was not. I started to question myself and my work in a way that is death to a creative mind. Oh all right, that was dramatic indeed, but I couldn’t think of a better way to say it. We learn to criticize and we must offer our opinions of others work. Which is a good way to hone our own skills and help our fellow students. What it did to me was to make me hyper critical of my own work. I would try to compare my work to my fellow students and it made me lose my self esteem. In hindsight, I probably should not have chosen to compare with writers who had more than twenty years on me and who were already published. I was twenty two, just starting out in the 'real' world. It has been six years- maybe longer- I don’t wish to count the years any more, and I still feel raw and insecure inside. Perhaps I should have realized that this was only natural and if it weren’t, then all those people were wasting money on an accredited university course. We all have much to learn, at twenty, sixty or probably longer.

I remember having a coffee with two fellow students, and informing them that after the course was over, I intended to give up writing. What was I thinking? I don’t really remember. After all, life was chaotic-- when has it not-- but I gave up the one thing that kept me sane. It really was not the same afterward.

I think the real reason is probably buried deeper. Our personal histories make us and they do their best to break us. I think mine broke me at last.

I don’t really like talking about it, but it seems to want to come out. But anyway, here it is, for what it is worth. Life has always been hard, and who says it is not for everyone, but at that time, I had not let it break me. Oh it tried, and I tried too. And writing kept me from snapping into two and then floating down the wind. Perhaps at that time, writing saved me despite myself.

How do you put down your struggles without sounding like a sob story or like a loud plea for help? You either sound self righteous (you should ruddy well venerate me, see what I have survived) or well, I tend to. Depersonalizing myself has worked before but how do you depersonalize your own story when everyone knows “I” is really you?

All right so I will put it down however I can, and if it does sound too holier than thou, remember my six year sabbatical and be kind. Be kind anyway. Kindness is greatly undervalued. I do it myself. But I know I do it and that makes it worse. All right then, be kind if you wish.

I was seven when I was raped in my bed by a servant of the family. In a house with seven full time and many part time residents. My aunts were visiting, and no one knew. There was nothing to hear, I was too terrified to scream, and when I finally did, I could not bring myself to say what had happened. My mother was very ill, and I had barely seen her for days, and I don’t think I could ever have said anything to anyone else. All I said was that he had tried to touch me and shake me awake. Which was bad enough- he was sacked. But I think I resented the house for not knowing, for being too sunk in their own lives to realize this man had the confidence to come into my room (which I shared with my two siblings) and lay a finger on me with so many people around.

How did I go on as if nothing happened? I don’t think I did, and I don’t think anyone connected the dots. After all, I didn’t know what sex was, so I didn’t know I should tell me parents anything. I don’t remember much of that time, which is perhaps how I coped. By forgetting. Except I grew fatter and fatter because I could not stop eating sweets. Perhaps that was how I coped. And have coped with any sort of stress all my life.

What perhaps was worse- I say perhaps because I am trying to reserve judgment- was my being molested by a family member when I was fourteen. These things seem to come in seven year increments, so lucky seven, hah, and this time my sister was ill and my mother was busy taking care of her. Do I resent my family? Yes, again, maybe I resent even my sister for being so sick that no one bothered about who did what to me. He did everything except the actual penetration, so it was like being raped over and over again. I will not say who he was except that I have tried to make my peace with him because resenting and hating him was doing me no good. I am no angel, but I do wish for peace of mind sometimes.

Well that was it for me though, and because me parents ruled with their fists, I would sink deeper into my own self. I sis write very violent poetry at the time, but thoughts of suicide had not come into my head. Not yet. Foolishly however, sometimes, I would destroy my journals. And I regret that more than anything else I did in those days.

Spell checking this so far has made me realize I have used the word 'don't' far too many times. Does that make me sound like a pauvre innocente? Any way this feels like a good time to take a break.

Hemingway and the process of writing

Reading a moveable feast has recently made me reevaluate my own self, my own writing, or lack thereof, and wonder why the simplicity and apparent honesty of his work makes me want to write again. What's that? After five plus years of dryness, it takes a book- a scrap-book like book indeed, to make me want to write again, and here it is, opening doors into memory, making me recall what was forgotten, and simply, making my fingers itch to connect pencil and paper, or keyboard and the tap tap tap that used to warn my husband not to disturb me. I just started writing this, and he is shrieking on the phone, ignoring my third plea to move to the bedroom. I cant blame him, he has gotten used to my using the laptop only to shop online and pass the time.

My critique of the in my own words, scrapbook will come later, after I finish reading it. But less than halfway through,it makes me write more than I have probably written in months. I hope to persist.

I remember things now, which I used to write in my dream journal, and then, promptly forget when I went into deeper sleep, or awoke. A dream journal conveys many things, doesn’t it, but to me it is the journal my sub conscious writes when I am semi conscious. It is something I have done since I could string sentences together, and that is, believe me, a very long time. I do it at times when my mind is not otherwise occupied. I do it in my sleep. I have brilliant, or so it seems, ideas which, sadly, vanish in the daylight. This journal has been my only constant in god alone knows how many years- because, people, well people, they come and they go and it is not often that I feel more than a dull ache when they leave. Its not that I cant feel pain. I feel too intensely and then I tend to shut up and refuse to let people in. it's how I operate, really.

I was born a writer. It seems pretentious to say so now, after all, I have no published body of work and nor do I have any work at all to show for several years of my life, but there it is. I started to read as soon as I could make sentences out and by the age of six I was reading alone, with mom too busy tending to my younger siblings to help much. The last book I remember her reading to me was 'the three billy goats gruff'. I don’t remember the story too well, but I loved the ladybird series of illustrated classics. So I think I was born an art lover too.

Writing was a natural complement to reading because I ran out of books to read very quickly. We were not affluent at the time, and my parents could not afford to buy me books every week. So I would string my own stories together, of course, not knowing at the time what it was I was doing. It was only when I was nine, and we started to write compositions at school, that I realized what I was doing in my head, and sometimes, in paper, illustrated with very unlike compositions in crayon. Suddenly, the teacher was reading my stories aloud to the class, and praising my imagination in my report cards. When I met that teacher a few weeks before my high school graduation, she asked me if I was still writing. You were such a good writer, she said. I hope you keep it up.

Well, I did my best. At least in those early years I did. My poems were crude, but they rhymed, and my stories grew so long that my hand ached before my imagination gave out. I wonder where I got my inspiration from- at the age of eleven, I had convinced mum to teach me how to use word star, and written a few chapters of a book- about a group of people exploring the Bermuda triangle no less- what was I reading in those days? I have it up eventually, because I decided I did not want to continue. By sixteen I was addicted to cheap paperback romances and had mapped out a whole story arc. About a family of two sisters and their friends and how each found love. I even finished the first book, about a pop singer who fell in love with her sister's brother in law, and yes, it was meant to be book two in the series. Of course, a sixteen year old writing about love and sex when she had never even been kissed is quite something. I have to laugh at myself, and I remember laughing and cringing equally when I reread the whole story at twenty. Too bad I cant read floppy disks any more. I believe reworking those books now would be a good idea.

Honesty and truth, said Hemingway, or at least the actor who portrayed him in Midnight in Paris. Maybe that’s why I could not write for so long, because after all, too much honesty and too much truth can lead to a reaction and a too severe release of emotion.

un-yarny post perhaps

It isn't that motherhood scares me or the costs baffle me. It's not even the DH freaking out and looking lost at the mere thought. It's just scary that what we practice as a matter of routine may turn out to be unnecessary, because it may be that I am infertile, and that is the scariest thought of them all. Am I ready to acknowledge this? Hell no. Most of the time I join my husband in shunting off 'well meaning' family members who are convinced it is high time we go forth and populate the world. Most of the time, we agree that we're happy just to be with each other- and the new puppy. Mostly, I so agree with him that we'll wait till he's ready.

What if its too late by then? that's the fear i have to squish because voicing it will upset him so.

And it scares me, because I know how flawed I am. How difficult conception and pregnancy would be. It frightens me that I am not in control of my own body.

What if it's too late?