Effort

Some things simply aren't worth the effort. Fondue, for example. Sure, who doesn't like melted cheese or chocolate? But does that mean that you want to spend four hours trying to fill your stomach one tiny cube of food at a time, all the while wondering whether you'll accidentally set fire to yourself?


And, it must be acknowledged, reading James Joyce is also of dubious utility. Myself, I've been on the same page of Ulysses for the better part of a decade. To be fair, I do get some benefit from the book. Every time I feel confused by my daily existence I simply pick up Ulysses and, in the time it takes me to read a few lines, I realize at my life isn't so incomprehensible after all. At least not in comparison to Joyce's prose. Perspective is key.

Lately, I've been thinking of adding another item to this list: working with patterns containing errors. Let me explain.

Recently, I had a chance to consult with a friend who wanted to make a sweater for her husband. Now, setting aside the issue of the so-called boyfriend sweater curse and the potential application of said curse to the marital relationship, I thought this would be a fine idea. In fact, I thought it would be an excellent idea because she wanted to make the sweater from yarn spun by her mother-in-law. To get a sweater knit by one's wife from yarn spun by one's mother, I thought, would be pretty darn cool.

After some discussion of potential patterns and some estimation of the available yardage of the yarn, she picked out what appeared to be a good project: a sweater vest made in an interrupted rib.

Shortly after casting on the problems began. And they continued through the project. Some instructions seemed to make sense but led the knitter to results that differed from the results shown in the picture. Other instructions simply didn't make sense. My favorite example of the latter? Probably the part where the pattern suggested that the length from cast-on to the left and right shoulders, respectively, should be different by several inches.

[Note: it is possible that the pattern was intended for a Frankensteinian lab assistant, in which case this measurement would be accurate. Please, Igor, put down the pen and do not mail that hate letter.]

After a decent amount of struggle, the project was finished. Well, not quite. Because one error in the pattern had gone unnoticed until the sweater was about half-completed. The interrupted rib pattern was, at least for a small portion of the sweater with increases, more appropriately described as highly interrupted. And we did not have the intestinal fortitude to rip it out (which would have essentially required starting over) and fix the problem.

So is it finished? I don't know. Perfectionism too isn't always worth the effort. And while the knitter might ultimately decide it should be unraveled and begun again, the gift was given - and was received with great appreciation. Who knows, perhaps the flaw, like the rustic hand-spun from which it is made, will ultimately endear itself to the wearer. Not too perfect. Not too polished. But warm, made with care and given with love. And, just possibly, that is enough.

~TSMK

Authenticity

A few days ago, a reader of this journal asked me about my recent lack of content.
“When are you going to post again? Have you lost interest? Have you given up knitting? What’s going on?”

Well, rest assured that I haven’t stopped knitting. And I haven’t lost interest. And by posting this, I think I answered the first bit. But the last one – well that’s a pretty good question.

Lately, I find I’m thinking quite a bit about authenticity. Not a frenzied, flight-of-ideas kind of thinking, mind you. More of a long pondering, questioning and wondering exercise.

It all started innocently enough. I was complaining this winter. Bending the ear of a woman I know. A woman whose opinion I’ve come to value for her consistently wise counsel. The subject of my complaint was nothing unusual: work/life balance and a general feeling that my particular hamster wheel was starting to turn too quickly. And that’s when she said it.

“It sounds like you don’t feel like you have an authentic life.”

To quote Keanu Reeves: “Whoa.”

This was a serious allegation. But was it true? And if it was true, what should be done about it? Some serious navel-gazing seemed required. Is writing a largely anonymous journal indicative that one lives an inauthentic existence? I put posting on the back burner to consider the question.   How about electronic interaction with complete strangers in Internet forums?  Could be – better ignore Ravelry for a while as I study that one too.  And Facebook? Don’t get me started.

Summoning the strength of The Echidna, I began doing some existential heavy lifting. I doubled-down on a pair of Ms: meditation and mindfulness. And slowly, over several weeks, I began to notice many things I hadn’t before. Like how often during the day my thoughts seem to be occupied with events, past or future, over which I have no control. Like how difficult it was to simply focus on the process brushing my teeth in the morning without letting my thoughts race ahead to the important places I planned to travel on the hamster wheel that day. Frustrating.

And so I began to shake things up. I changed my morning routine. I made jam in vast quantities. But most of all, I tried to focus on being fully present.

Now, speaking as a guy with a bit of an imagination – this has been a challenge. It has meant that I’ve tried to simply take note of the wanderings of my thoughts, and each time to bring them back to the present moment. Not damming up the stream of consciousness, exactly. But trying to prevent it from flooding its banks.

And is any of this helpful? Honestly, I don’t know. But if being more in the present will make me feel more connected to life and those around me, then it will be worth the effort to try.

In the meantime, I have done a fair amount of knitting. And I’m pleased to say that I’ve just donated an item for the upcoming Woodland Park Zoo Jungle Party auction. This is my second year in a row and I’m excited to have the opportunity.

Last year, I did a beaded lace shawl.  This year, I went with something fairly simple. It is a fairly basic scarf, but done with an open net-style lace pattern in some silk recycled from saris as part of a fair trade program. The money from the silk goes to provide incomes to women in India. I love that.  That feels authentic.   And I love the colors in the yarn. If you love it – buy tickets to the upcoming Jungle Party and bid on the scarf.

~TSMK

A World of Yarn and Tight Pants

As you may recall, I was recently abducted and taken to an alien world.  Well, I have now returned to tell the tale.  But I must warn you.  It is not for the faint of heart. 

The ship snatched me from all that I know and find comfortable early Friday morning.  I was not alone.  There were many other abductees on board.  In fact, we seemed to outnumber our captors.  For reasons I cannot explain, however, we could not muster the collective will to overthrow these creatures.  Many will wonder about this failure, and its causes, for years to come.  For myself, I blame the distraction of something called "duty-free spirits".  It being barely 8:00 a.m. my time, I didn't partake of this obviously nefarious activity.  But many of my fellow passengers seemed incapable of resistance.

When the ship finally landed, all was quiet.  Almost too quiet.  I'd been abducted along with the TSMKmobile (similar to the Pope-mobile but with more headroom), and was simply allowed to wander this strange land for several time intervals.  In between these intervals, I was unfortunately subjected to the vilest torture of all: torture in the form of forced attendance at sessions of some form of brainwashing or other indoctrination.  But I will not speak of those horrors here.

So, wander I did.  And my wanderings immediately led me to a startling conclusion - a conclusion that all my years of watching Star Trek, Star Wars and other sci-fi programming could never have prepared me for: apparently, these aliens suffer physical harm if their pants are too loose.  Everywhere I looked, pants were skin tight, or nearly so.  Every alien female I saw wore this outfit - most sporting a highly reflective (and highly stylized) Omega.  Interesting.

Every alien male I saw wore a similar outfit, although not quite so snug.  No, the males seemed exclusively to wear trousers made from something akin to denim, but with fabric so tightly constraining their lower appendages that it appeared they might be unable to comfortably sit.   From these two observations, I surmised that fabric must be extremely difficult to acquire in this alien land. Why else would they use it so sparingly?
 
After much wandering, I found myself standing in front of an imposing building with additional alien symbols on the side.


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The signs I could read said "Beehive Wool Shop".   You read that right, gentle reader.  In this world yarn comes from bees.  This, of course led me to wonder briefly whether, in this world, you might put something from a sheep into your tea.  I quickly dismissed this thought as being too horrible to have merit.

The HIVE was extraordinary.  Clearly, these bees make wool in many different forms, textures and weights.  These are no ordinary bees.  And the shopkeepers were friendly.  Almost too friendly.  Oh, sure, they chatted along nicely enough.  And if you engaged them in conversation they were quite happy to play along.  But they knew I wasn't of their kind.  If I had to guess, I'd say that their first clue may have been the many extra yards of fabric surrounding my legs.

While there, I happened to inquire whether there was anything that I might acquire in the shop which was available only there. 

"You mean, nowhere else in the universe?" came the reply.

I nodded.  And after a brief conversation the aliens indicated that they did not.  But they referred me to another local shop, some two blocks away.  And so, having procured some of this new bee-spun-yarn to take home and study, I sauntered out of the shop.

I was unable to visit the second destination that day, for I had a busy schedule of dreadful meetings to attend.  But I ventured out into the alien landscape a second time the following day, and found my way to the recommended shop.  In candor, I found myself confused by the name: Naughty by Nature. 



I have always known this to be the moniker for a particularly dreadful hip-hop band.  But, seeing as how I was a stranger in a strange land, I decided to pretend that I was, indeed, down with O.P.P. and cautiously made my way inside the establishment.  Fahshizzle.

I was greatly relieved to learn that my ear had simply been tricked by the strange speech of these alien creatures.  For the shop was actually named Knotty by Nature - a name which surely better befits its wares if not its clientele.

And that, ladies and gentlemen (but mainly ladies) is when my world came crashing down upon me. 

Occasionally, when you enter a LYS you feel inspired to make something.  Occasionally, you feel nothing.  And, upon occasion, I have felt the urge to use the restroom (note - I don't actually attribute this last one to the shop itself, although you never know).  This was the first time I have entered an LYS and felt absolutely humbled by its contents.  While the HIVE contained many excellent yarns, KbK contained many excellent handspun or hand-dyed (or handspun and hand-dyed) yarns.  And, what's more, the shop was stuffed to the rafters with examples of O.P.P. - that is to say other people's pieces (of work).  Amazing things.  Things that a knitter, or weaver, or felter or spinner might aspire one day to almost approach in terms of quality.  This was not a shop for the faint of heart.  This was a shop for someone who was ready to quit his day job and spend the next 50 years learning how to properly operate one of the stacks of Book Charkhas in the corner, or one of the selection of hand-turned drop spindles with marble weights.  These aliens are serious about their crafting.

I wandered the shop for perhaps an hour.  Which is, by itself, remarkable given that the shop is very small.  Ultimately, I elected to purchase only one item.  A skein of hand dyed 50/50 merino/silk blend.  When I approached the register, I was informed by my cashier that it had been dyed by her husband.  She eyed me with some slight suspicion - as if to question whether my skills were worthy of such a fine length of yarn.  Candidly, I'm not sure that they are.  But no matter.  For I was able to escape the shop, yarn in satchel, and have since returned to my planet, where I am turning the yarn into a scarf for myself.  Something to remind me of my abduction.

~TSMK

Missing Time

Somehow I knew this day would come.

To be sure I’ve expressed this concern before. And every time I did, those around me would scoff.

“You? Why on Earth would they take you?”

Honestly, I didn’t mind them thinking I was mistaken, but from their attitude – as if I wasn’t even worth the effort – not even worth a quick probe or whatnot – my self-esteem was starting to suffer.

But, as it turns out, I was right.

I am being abducted by aliens. And unlike most abductees, who only learn about their abduction as it happens or perhaps after the fact through some sort of recovered memory – I’ve learned of mine in advance. Two weeks in advance.

That’s right. I’m going to be abducted by aliens on April 29, 2011.

And since I knew the day was coming, it doesn’t really much feel like a surprise.

But there is one aspect of it that I wasn’t expecting. I never really expected them to be Canadian.

I don’t know why not. My own shortsightedness, I suppose. But… Canadian? Well, at least they’ll be polite.

I’m told that they’ll be taking me across from Port Angeles over to Victoria on the morning of the 29th. The crossing apparently takes about 90 minutes. And they don’t plan to return me for three whole days. That, ladies and gentlemen (but mainly ladies) is a lot of missing time.

While there, I’ll primarily be cooped up in some mothership called The Empress. From the sound of it, I'm a bit worried.  I hear they serve something called “Afternoon Tea”. Now I grew up on Sweet Tea – but this sounds like something entirely different. Something almost formal.  In fact, I have a sneaking suspicion that unlike the tea of my childhood, this tea will not be served in a canning jar.

But, gentle reader, I promise you that I will escape from the foul Empress and explore a bit – if only to bring back my harrowing tales from this otherworldly place. I have been told by a good friend (herself a former abductee) that these particular aliens have a fondness for wool.  I plan to seek out the truth behind this rumor – and try to find some alien wool that I might bring home.

After much thought, I’ve decided that to best escape the Empress I’ll need to try to blend in with my surroundings. And so, I’ve begun preparing my provisions. I don’t know much about these aliens, but I do understand that many of them are originally from some place called the “Ewe-Quay”. And after a bit of research, I learned that the denizens of the Ewe-Quay have a particular fondness for whiskey, bagpipe music and woolen garments. So I’m making my preparations. And I’ll get to wear my newest hat.

This is a variation on a felted beret pattern from my favorite LYS. I toyed with the shaping, and also added built in I-cord of a contrasting color, to give it an extra bit of structure and interest. I like it quite a bit and, I’m flattered to say, so do the good folks at the LYS, who asked me to write up the pattern. Who knows, maybe they’ll see fit to do something with the pattern and my Abduction Hat will ultimately serve as a beacon of hope for all others who may ultimately come to share my fearsome fate during their own alien encounter.

~TSMK

Spring

Spring has definitely arrived here in the water-logged Pacific northwest.  All the tell-tale signs are here.   The robins have returned.  Ostentatious daffodils scream "yellow" from every flowerbed.  Hipster bike couriers have taken scissors to skinny jeans in an effort to pull off some sort of skinny-short-bicycle-jean abomination.  Every so often, the sounds of Django Reinhardt can be heard at high volumes from pasty-complected gentlemen wearing hand-knit berets with the tops down and the heaters turned up in their convertibles.

I love spring.

Spring is also school and charity-auction season around here, and there are no shortage of invitations.  So far, Mrs. TSMK and I have only bought tickets to one such event - the auction for our oldest boy's school.  Like every year, they've asked for parents and local businesses to donate items to the cause.  You can probably see where this is headed.

The last time I donated something to this event, Mrs. TSMK bought it.  This year, I purposefully made something in a color she doesn't typically wear - thinking that perhaps we won't once again engage in what seems like a form of charitable masturbation.  But who knows.  Spring makes you do funny things. 

The pattern is a slight variation on Susan Dittrich's Pinkerton Shawl, found in the current edition of Interweave Knits, and I've done it in Madelinetosh Tosh Merino Light.  I love to knit this yarn, and enjoy the feel of the finished fabric.  It is very soft.

For anyone local who feels the need to bid, the auction is this coming Saturday at the Kiana Lodge in Suquamish.  I suspect there are still tickets to the auction available.  Please come, bid early and often (and outbid Mrs. TSMK - who is waffling on whether she'd wear this color).

And now, if you'll excuse me, I need to go find my Django Reinhardt cd.  Spring is calling.

~TSMK

The Truth Will Set You Free

This is my one hundredth post.  And in honor of that auspicious occasion, I would like to tell you a story.  It is a true story.  And it is a timely story as the events described occurred this very day. 

I was sitting alone.  The ferry was relatively empty as the yearly tourists, wary of becoming waterlogged, had not yet descended upon Seattle.   They'd guessed wrong.  It was a beautiful sunny day.

I was working on a glove: tipless and the second of the pair to be delivered to the winner of the TSMK-WWIBG.  Although Saturday, I'd spent the day in the office trying to catch up on work and listening to basketball games on Internet radio.  Things were good.

I finished a round on the gloves, and looked up. 

She was coming toward me, down the long hall of the ferry.  A woman, as they say, of a certain age.  Her reddish blond hair was in a loose bun.  She wore a dark green overcoat  and was pulling a rolling suitcase. 

I went back to my work. 

I finished the first needle of this new round.  As I began to position the needles to start on the second, I noticed she was still approaching.  She appeared to be studying me.

Knitting in public has its drawbacks, and occasionally feeling like a curiousity is among them.  But a small price to pay, I thought to myself, for the chance to knit quietly in a sun-drenched booth on the ferry.

Not necessarily wanting to make eye contact, I went back to the glove.

And that's when she said it.

Right as she was passing, and without breaking stride.

"There's nothing sexier than a man who knows how to knit."
For perhaps only the fifth time in my life, I was completely speechless. 

Had I heard her correctly?  Was I hallucinating?  Had the barrista slipped something illicit into my double-tall sugar-free skinny hazelnut latte? 

And then it hit me. 

I had heard her correctly.  And she was speaking the truth.  I'm confident that not even George Clooney shirtlessly clutching a cherub while sipping cognac, reciting French poetry and surrounded by Golden Retriever puppies is a sexier man. 

They say the truth will set you free.  And I assure you, that this truth, this very important truth, will stay with me for a long time to come.

~TSMK

Reclaimation

The past is a funny thing. I spend a fair amount of time worrying about it, and yet I’m not sure it actually exists. Now exists. But the past? Whatever went before is simply gone. Why perseverate?

At least, that’s what I tell myself when my personal hamster wheel is running at full throttle.

Last week, I gave my “Highly Opinionated Public Tour” at the Seattle Art Museum. It was a lot of fun. I’m glad I participated, and I’m relieved that I was able to muster an opinion or two to share. Mostly, I’m pleased that I had a chance to talk about my favorite thing in the space – which is of course a knit hat.

Like others I’ve discussed here, the hat was created by someone in the Bamileke community of Cameroon. It is a stunning hat in blues and tans, with a feathered crown. This is a hat of substance.

Honestly, I’m not certain what draws me to these hats. It may be the way it obliterates any distinctions between authenticity and theatricality. It may also be that I’m simply a bit odd. But I think the most likely reason is that if appeals to my sense of history and the feeling that something may be missing from my HVAC-coddled, tofu eating, minivan driving, day-to-day life. It reminds me of something gritty, grimy and, just maybe, African.

Let me explain.

A few years back I set out on a genealogy kick. I knew quite a bit about the origins of my mother’s side of the family, but relatively little about my father’s side. But the Internet being what it is, it wasn’t long before I was able to dig up quite a few records. Among those records were census entries from the late 1800s. And in those entries were a few surprises. One, in particular, stood out. Shortly after the Civil War, my family was living in Putnam Hall, Florida.

To most of you, this fact will seem innocuous. But I’ve been to Putnam Hall. Several times in fact. And I’ve spoken with several elderly Floridians and amateur local historians. And my observations seem to jibe with their assessments. White people don’t seem to have ever lived in Putnam Hall.

Let me be clear. I am pale. My father is also. And my children, thanks to the influx of Mrs. TSMK’s genes, bear a striking resemblance to beings sculpted from a melange of Marshmallow Fluff and Liquid Paper. No one would ever mistake any of us for being black.

Yet there it is on the census form. And although it is possible, I’m prepared to dismiss as highly improbable the possibility that Putnam Hall in the late 1800s was a progressive community with members of all races, colors and creeds linking arms and working side-by-side in the fields.

So where does this leave me, a man with a deep love of African art and music? A man who enjoys playing the banjo – which is after all African in origin? A man whose choices in clothing seem often to cause disdain among Caucasian colleagues but almost always draw compliments from friends with a more ample supply of melanin? A man who harbors a not-so-secret desire to moonwalk with wild abandon at every opportunity? 

Was my great-great-great whatever, so many years ago, black?  Did he ultimately pass himself off as white?  And if so, what did he give up in order to make that transformation?  What part of himself did he leave behind?  What part of him is in me, today?  And what part of him am I trying to reclaim for my own?

I'll never know. But after doing the museum tour, I did know that I needed a new hat. Something Bamileke-inspired. So I made one. And I wear it. And when I do, my friends of Swedish and Norwegian descent look down at their shoes and struggle to avoid eye contact. But I don’t care. I’m from Putnam Hall.

~TSMK

The Revolution II

Has Begun.

~TSMK

The Revolution

Will not be televised.

~TSMK

Hat or Gloves?

There are some things that one simply shouldn’t do. Playing the soprano saxophone, for example. It is for that reason that I suspect The Hague will soon indict Seattle-native Kenneth Gorelick for crimes against humanity.

Then there are other things that one may do sparingly, or with great discretion, such as ogling a stranger at the gym. I suspect that nearly everyone has done this. Those who are truly oblivious ogle with great abandon. The rest of us try not to ogle, but may sneak the occasional surreptitious glance.

Sometimes those glances are to appreciate the natural beauty of our surroundings. Other times, we are guilty of that most heinous crime of comparison. Briefly allowing ourselves a moment to prop up our shaking confidence on the basis of someone else’s flab.

Last, there are things that one probably should do promptly but, for whatever reason, one fails to do. This may be something as simple as wearing a seat belt or flossing. Or finishing one project before starting another.

For Stephanie, of the great Pacific Northwest, making decisions may fit into this last category. Stephanie correctly guessed all ten songs referenced in 14 Days of Safety. What’s more, she was able to channel her inner-TSMK and come up with two additional songs on that playlist as part of an ad hoc tiebreaker between herself, Kathy and Michaela. Kathy and Michaela each guessed one additional song – meaning that Stephanie has the dubious good fortune of being the future recipient of my next finished piece. The trouble is, she is having a bit of trouble making up her mind as to what she wants. Specifically, she’s trying to decide between a pair of half-fingered gloves and a hat. Either way, when she makes her decision and I make the item, I’ll show it here.

In the meantime – thank you all for participating, and look forward to another giveaway shortly. There are several projects on the needles at the moment. One or more of those things might need to find new homes.

Oh, and just so you know, the universe as you know it will change precisely one week from today. Brace yourself for this one, it promises to shake you to your very core.

~TSMK