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

Aganist my Better Judgment

In one of my favorite movies, a young Marlon Brando is heard to say: "Daddy, I've got cider in my ear." 

He says this after accepting a sucker bet.  And though I haven't recently agreed to a wager, I'm starting to hear something swishing around near my tympanic membrane.  Against my better judgment, I've agreed to do something rather foolish.  Let me explain.

Several weeks back, I received an email from a fellow who works at the Seattle Art Museum.  They had a new exhibit coming up, and were looking for local people to lead what they refer to as "Highly Opinionated Public Tours."  The email asked me (TSMK, that is, not my day-to-day persona) to consider leading one of those tours.  

To truly grasp the chaos that erupted in my frontal lobes, a bit of armchair psychology is probably in order.

As you may have noticed, I blog.  And, in my opinion, unless blogging is conducted for purposes of communicating important messages or improving humanity, it is an exercise in narcissism.  It is navel-gazing with a microscope and a megaphone.  I've given this some thought, and believe the pantheon of egomaniacal behavior may be delineated as follows:

Now, suppose you're a blogger and a lawyer.  And you've been ordained over the Internet and occasionally refer to yourself not only as "The Reverend" but as "The Right Reverend."  And further suppose that you're the kind of person who will knit lace anywhere and everywhere, including in public.  You're not exactly working in a leper colony, now are you?

Coming from this perspective, its hard to decline when you're asked to do something where you're going to be effectively on a stage.  My first instinct was to jump at the chance.

But shortly after, self-doubt inserted its fingers into the nostrils of my subconscious and began to pull. 

What if I agreed to participate, but I was really boring?  What if I bombed?  What if people noticed that I know essentially nothing about art?  Worse yet, what if nobody bothered to attend?  It is one thing to do something poorly, its another thing entirely to go unnoticed.  Oscar Wilde was right - the only thing worse than being talked about is not being talked about.   

The battle raged. 

I mentioned the opportunity to a few close friends.  Their response was unanimous; this was something I must do.  But then, cracks began to form in their facade.  One suggested I would likely go from piece to piece within the museum, making increasingly negative remarks until my tour culminated with a six-word indictment of one particular work: "That is a piece of [excrement]."   Clearly, my friends were having a laugh at the suggestion that I might be considered highly opinionated.  And they hadn't even seen the PEGB.

Still, the battle raged.

As my psyche cartwheeled from argument to argument, I started to notice something.  I do, on obviously very rare occasions, find myself having thoughts which could be considered highly opinionated.  Of course, this requires one to adopt tremendously strained definitions of both "highly" and "opinionated."  But still, it is conceivable that one might make such an argument.  Of course, if I met that person I would probably try to dissaude him or her from such an obviously flawed worldview, but then again that too might be considered the response of a highly opinionated person.  There was no way out of this conundrum.



And so, I have agreed to do this.  If you're in Seattle on March 11 and looking for something to do in the evening, please give some thought to stopping by SAM and taking in a tour of the new Nick Cave exhibition.  It looks really interesting - and even involves crocheted doilies incorporated into clothing.  If you're there at 8:30, perhaps we'll meet.  If you're patient and I'm extremely lucky, I might even think of something clever to say.  I just hope I can form an opinion.

~TSMK

What will it be?

BREAKING NEWS UPDATE - The giveaway is now complete.  I will announce the winner shortly.  ~TSMK

I haven't given anything away in a while - and the urge has returned.  But the trouble is - I don't know what I want to give away.  So... I'm going to let the winner decide.  Yes.  That's right.  I hereby announce the start of the TSMK-What-Will-It-Be-Giveaway (TSMK-WWIBG)!

Here's the deal: the winner will get up to 500 yards from my stash.  I'm drawing the line at qiviut or cashmere, but anything else is up for grabs.  And if you win, you can choose whether you want me to send you the yarn or knit you something you select.  Could be a pair of socks.  Could be a pair of mittens or a nice lace scarf.  The choice is yours.  My world is your oyster.

Here is how you win.  In 14 days of Safety, I took you along on a ride accompanied by music from my Charles the Fat Coronation playlists.  You tell me all 10 songs that played during that drive, and you win.  Entries should be sent to tsmkblog@yahoo.com.  The first entry to correctly identify all 10 songs will win. 

Simple, right?  Have at it!

~TSMK

14 Days of Safety

Heraclitus supposedly said something that one can never step into the same river twice. 

Bob Dylan made sure we knew that you don't need a weatherman to tell which way the wind blows.

Both were in my mind this week, as the whole TSMK clan schlepped across the US to spend a few days in the land of my youth.  Not quite a land of milk and honey - more one of sweet tea and pecan logs.

Most of my family is no longer there.  I have extended relations in the area, but most I probably couldn't pick out of a crowd.  The older ones I was close to have all passed away.  The younger ones have moved away.  But Mrs. TSMK's folks still live in the area.  And so we make something of a regular pilgrimage to see her mom and dad.

Her mom lives on the St. John's river.  You can't quite see the paper mill from her house, but Bob was right; weathermen need not apply. 

We drive past the mill to go and visit her dad, who lives a bit closer to where we grew up.  It is a sprawling complex with a cheerfully morbid sign out front that tells you precisely how long it has been since there was an industrial accident at the facility.  In all the times we've visited, we've never seen it reference more than 21 days.  Think about that the next time you're squeezing your Charmin.

On the last day of our visit, I excused myself from the family to run an errand.  Before we'd left home, I'd done a bit of web-surfing to see if there were any interesting yarn shops nearby.  As it turns out, there was one about 30 miles away that looked fairly interesting. 

I set out for the store with the iPod plugged into the disappointing stereo of the rented minivan, looking forward to an hour or two away from my wonderful, but somewhat loud, sons.  I turned out onto the dirt road leading away from the house and dialed up the playlist we'd recently created for a party at our house: pizza and homebrew in celebration of the anniversary of the coronation of Charles the Fat as King of Italy.

Have you forgot that once we were brought here we were robbed of our names?  Robbed of our language?  We lost our religion, our culture, our God.  And many of us, by the way we act, even lost our minds.

The road stretches in front of me.  On either side, single-wide trailers and stick-built homes on cinderblocks.  In the distance I can see vultures circling.  I hope they're not looking for me.

Yo ye Pharaohs, let us walk through this barren desert, in search of truth, and some pointy boots, and maybe a few snack crackers.

I stop at the flashing red light where the two-lane meets the county road.  Looking to my right, I see an odd sign at the intersection.  My pulse increases slightly and my palms start to sweat.  Am I the only one here without a gun?  Do I need to be packing heat to go to the yarn shop?

Though I might be straight as an arrow, he's busy shaking hands with my monkey.

The county road is flat.  Seriously flat.  Flatter than the water I cross during my work commute.  Almost as flat as the affect of the waitress at lunch yesterday.  The one who looked like she desperately wanted to be Sookie Stackhouse.  Who called us "you'uns" and deftly executed the triple-negative: "y'all don't want no refills neither?"

Left alone with big, fat Fannie.  She was such a naughty nanny.  Big, big woman, you made a bad boy out of me.

The rental is foreign.  I realize this with a start as I sit at a stop light.  I'm surrounded by cars but mine is the only one not sporting a domestic nameplate.  Possibly also the only one without a bumper sticker espousing either family values or a conservative political candidate. 

I don't want no lonely lustful woman's irate husband after me.

I stop at a familiar green logo.  As I walk through the door, I can smell the coffee.  It smells as it does in Seattle.  The decor is the same, only the pastries have been changed.  I place my order.  I place it again.  Failure to communicate.  I'm speaking in Seattle.  He's listening in Green Cove Springs.  I slow down and order a third time.  He chuckles and asks me where I'm from.  What do I tell him?  Am I from here?  I was originally, but now I'm not so sure.  Heraclitus was right.

And did I mention she's a world famous billionaire bikini supermodel astrophysicist?

The coffee is delicious.  My mood is lifting.   

You shouldn't come around here, singing up at people like that.

I arrive at the yarn shop. It is a nice place. The knitting selection isn't huge, but it is tidy and they have some interesting things. They are friendly. Quizzical but friendly.

Another man comes in the shop. An older guy. Does he knit? No - he's just following his wife. The shopkeeper offers him a comfortable chair and a copy of either wine spectator or field and stream.

I pick out a few items - including some very cool sock yarn that I've not seen before. One skein is an astonishing shade of green. I look forward to wearing those socks to the office in an act of sartorial disobedience.

After a brief discussion with the clerk about the merits of knitting socks with circulars or double-points, I get back in the rental and start heading back to the river.

Getting my dinner from a garbage can.

Back on the main road, it seems like everywhere I look I find a warning about trespassing.  Is this really a significant problem?  Are there people lining up to trespass on parcels of sand and scrub pine?  Do people hop over fences to purloin mangy-looking dogs?  I'm confused.

You keep trying.  Ended up in the middle.  Had an enigma - ended up with a riddle.

I pull off the main road and make my way back in through the oaks and spanish moss.  With the wind coming from the north, I lower the windows and enjoy the breeze.  I can't smell the mill. 

First one says she got my child, but it don't look like me.

I pull into the drive.  Refreshed by my errand, but wondering about my place.  Am I still Southern?  Was I ever?  If I'd stayed here, instead of moving west, would I have a concealed weapons permit or a bumpersticker?  Would I work in the paper mill?  Would I still enjoy sashimi?  Would I still knit?

And then I step back, take it all in, and realize that my place is crystal clear.  I am here.  Now.  These oaks aren't going to climb themselves.
~TSMK