Wrestling with Zen

As the Echidna is my witness, I've been that guy.  The one you see coming down the aisle of the airplane, infant in arms, making the other passengers squirm.  Or the guy constantly raising his arm in class, asking the dumb questions.  Or the guy wandering into the express lane at the supermarket without noticing the incongruity between the "15 items or fewer" sign and the mountain of groceries in his cart.

And yet, I still find myself squirming when it isn't me.  When I see that guy approaching.

It happened again this past week.  I saw it happening, but still didn't manage to get out of my own way.  Stubbornly focused on the apparent differences between us than our natural kinship as living beings.

I was sitting on the ferry.  A later boat than usual, but I would be home by 8:00 or so, and that wasn't too bad.  I was knitting.  And, per my habit, my knitting had a soundtrack.  That night, the soundtrack was classical Indian music: sitar and whatever they call those drums that always seem to play in the background.  I was, as they say, in the zone.

And that's when I saw him.  In fairness, he would have been difficult to overlook.  I'm six foot one, and he was at least a half foot taller.  Wearing a black trench coat.  His closely trimmed beard was accentuated by the gold ring that pierced his septum.  He was wearing a porkpie hat.  And, for good measure, an eye patch.  Like it or not, he had my attention.

He headed straight for me.  And, despite all the empty booths in that part of the boat, he sat down directly across from me.

"Knitting"?

"yes," I replied.  Trying to be polite but still inexplicably hoping to avoid a full-blown conversation.

"What is it?"

"A wrestling mask."

He raised an eyebrow.

"I'm making a bunch of them as Christmas gifts for my sons and a few of their friends."

"That's cool.  What are you going to use for the second color?"

I looked down at the blue yarn coming off my needles.  "I'm thinking red, or maybe white.  Haven't decided yet."

"You've got boys"?

"Yes.  I have three."

"Dude, you're Fred MacMurray!"

I chuckled.

"I always liked to knit," he said. "Never found it emasculating at all."

And then, before I could respond, he continued.  It turns out he liked to sew.  He started sewing when he found a roll of leopard print fabric wrapped around a palm tree after a storm.  It was an omen.  A sign that he should learn how to sew.  And so he made a pair of leopard print cargo shorts.  And then he moved on to fake fur.  Soon he was making furry shorts and tight pants for all his friends.

Now, though, he mainly makes corsets and bustiers for friends.  He explained in some detail how he goes about making a pattern for a skin tight corset - but honestly he lost me after he started to describe wrapping the person in plastic wrap and duct tape.

Then he started telling me about his friend.  The one who works exclusively in leather and makes a lot of masks and harnesses for people with somewhat unusual private lives.  

And then the boat docked, and we started to walk off together.  He was still talking. Now about how useful it is to know how to sew when you live on a boat.  And then, suddenly, without warning: "have a good night, Sir!". And he was gone.

Wow.  He thinks I'm Fred MacMurray.

~TSMK

And The Winner Isn't...

Ann from the Midwest.

Nope. Not Ann. Which isn’t to say that she didn’t put in a great entry. In fact, her entry was quite persuasive. But there was a problem with it. A big problem. A problem that, on principle, I’m not prepared to accommodate. For you see, Ann wanted to use her present early. Three days early to be specific. Anyway, before I tell you more about Ann, let me tell you about the second most beautiful woman I’ve ever met.

It was slightly more than nine years ago (nine years and three days, to be exact) – that our destines began to converge. It was night. I was sleeping. I do that sometimes. But on that particular night my sleep was interrupted. The darkness of my room was shattered and there, backlit by a blinding light, stood Mrs. TSMK.

“I think my water just broke”.

To be sure, there are worse ways to wake up. For example, you could wake up to the unexpected smell of smoke. Or perhaps the unexpected smell of cabbage.

But when you’re a soon-to-be-first-time father, and you hear something like that in the middle of the night… boy it wakes you up in a hurry.

Despite all the childbirth classes and books we’d devoured over the last several months, the level of uncertainty in this announcement was something I hadn’t anticipated.

“What do you mean, you think your water just broke?”

A lengthy discussion followed which you, gentlereader, will be spared for reasons of its graphic content.

With trembling digits, we called the obstetrician to inquire of recommended next steps. Mrs. TSMK did not seem to be in active labor and, it being the small hours of the morning, we were recommended to come in on the first ferry from Bainbridge Island to Seattle – where we planned to deliver. That ferry was set to sail at 4:45 a.m. – roughly four hours away.

Satisfied that we’d made a plan – and that we were likely to have a rather eventful day – I asked Mrs. TSMK if there was anything that I might do to make her more comfortable.

“Juice” she said.

And so, dutiful expectant father drove to the grocery store, bleary-eyed but hypervigilant, to acquire the particular brand of juice which had recently become her favorite.

Roughly 30 minutes later, I arrived back home. I turned my key in the lock, opened the door, and noticed something new. Something I’d not heard before: an oddly vigorous chuffing noise coming from upstairs. As if someone was panting. Loudly.

The ferry wasn’t set to depart for three more hours. But apparently, Mrs. TSMK wasn’t prepared to wait to begin the day’s festivities.

Fast forward three hours. We’ve been doing our best to remember every breathing childbirth technique we learned in the class. We’re actually doing reasonably well with them – but things are getting more intense with every contraction. We’re on the ferry, but sitting in the car is too uncomfortable for Mrs. TSMK – so we’re walking around on the car deck. Ferry workers are peering at us from around corners. They’re wondering whether they’re going to begin the second run of the morning already behind schedule due to a medical emergency. I’m wondering the same.

We drive off the ferry in Seattle, and I manage to hit every pothole over the 15 blocks or so to the hospital. Moments after arrival in the triage area of the obstetrics unit, Mrs. TSMK is wisely beginning to believe that better living may be achievable through modern chemistry. Her prior (and in my opinion, unnatural) insistence on natural childbirth is beginning to wane. And that’s when the nurse made the call.

Moments later, it happened. I met the second most beautiful woman in the world. Her name was Betty and she was a leggy redheaded supermodel disguised as a short Asian woman. She strode into the room with an air of confidence and, without hesitation, drove a needle into Mrs. TSMK’s back. Within moments, the sun rose in the sky. Birds began to sing and little children of every race and creed all over the earth began to hold hands and sing. Mrs. TSMK was no longer in pain. The world was a better place.

She rested and slept. And just a few hours later, I was a dad. It was, without question, the scariest and best day of my life.

So what does that have to do with Ann? Well, since that day nine years and three days ago, I’ve had the chance to have similar days on two occasions. And each time I’ve been struck by the kindness and compassion of the people who have been part of those days. Ann? Well, Ann is getting ready to do this for the 7th time! And Ann has developed a penchant for wearing brightly colored socks into the delivery room. She is due on December 22, and asked if she might receive a Christmas present of some such socks.

But I can’t allow Ann to win – because we have a hard and fast rule in our family that no one – for any reason – is permitted to open a single present before Christmas Eve. Now, if she was prepared to delay her delivery until the 24th, I could probably make an exception. But these things aren’t always possible – there could be no guarantee.

And so, Ann can’t win. But I couldn’t just leave her hanging either. And so, Ann, I’ve made you your socks. Here they are – knitted from Noro Kureyon yarn with an entrelac leg. I hope they’re colorful enough for you. And I hope that they give you some measure of comfort as you welcome your child into the world. Give him or her my best.

As for the winners – well, I’ve picked them out as well. I got a lot of wonderful entries and requests and, like with most of these giveaways, it was hard to pick who would win. But someone has to – and there were two entries in particular that grabbed me.

Carmen – you sent me a photo of Emma, who will celebrate her first birthday a few weeks before Christmas – and asked for a pair of hand-knit slippers. Well seeing as I’m the father of three boys, I don’t often get the chance to make things for little girls. I’m seizing the opportunity. Now to pick out a pattern.

Jessy – you sent me a limerick about how you give away everything you make and don’t have much handknit of your own. It was funny and made me laugh. But then I noticed a small tag at the bottom of your email. I followed the link, and it took me to your team page where you raise money for the March of Dimes. Good deeds should be recognized. Thank you for all your hard work. You didn’t tell me what you wanted for Christmas, but I’d like to make you something anyway. I’ll come up with a few ideas and run them past you to get your approval.


~TSMK

You Bet Your Asp

On this day, 2,041 years ago, Cleopatra VII died near Alexandria, Egypt.

And on this day, some 1,993 years later, Anthony Ray was born in Seattle, Washington.

At first blush, you might think these events are unrelated. But dig a bit deeper and I think you’ll agree that they are inextricably linked. For Cleopatra is popularly believed to have died after being bitten by an asp.

And Anthony Ray, better known by his stage name of Sir-Mix-a-Lot, is best known for his anthem to, well, something that sounds an awful lot like asp.



What does all of this mean? Nothing, really. Except that it means today is a particularly auspicious day. The kind of day that makes a person want to announce something.

So, I’m announcing that I’ve started my Christmas knitting. True, I may have mentioned this before. But one of our current presidential hopefuls has announced her candidacy at least three times now – so really I’m just being presidential. Not redundant. Really.

And, since I’m announcing that I’ve started my Christmas knitting – I’d like to announce that I want to add a couple of new names to my Christmas-gift-list. You heard me right. I already plan to make things for family and numerous friends – but I want also to make something for at least one complete (or nearly complete) stranger. So – this seems like an opportunity for a new giveaway. So – I hereby kick off the 2011 TSMK Christmas-Gift-Listapalooza.

Here’s the scoop: You want something – you ask for it.  Maybe a scarf?  Or how about some socks?  Could be anything.  Tell me what you’d like made, and why you think you should be added to my Christmas list.  Make it (the item) memorable.  If it is something intriguing – I’ll be more likely to want to make it. 

And make the request memorable as well. In past events we’ve had fun with poetry, photos and even an adorable video of an infant. All of that is in play with this one as well. In fact, anything you can email can be used as a submission. However, please do not send me anything you wouldn’t want to see posted in this journal or of which you think The Echidna might disapprove.

All entries should be sent to tsmkblog@yahoo.com. If you need to send something through snail mail – shoot me an email and I’ll reply with an address.

I’ll accept entries through the autumnal equinox. Have fun, and I hope to hear from you.

~TSMK

Good Fortune

Today, I have the good fortune to do something really exciting.

I get to perform the wedding ceremony for a friend. So, I guess I get to help knit two people together, as opposed to pieces of yarn.

Writing the ceremony, I confess I was tempted to say something along the lines of "let no man frog what we have today..." but I resisted the urge. Instead, we're going to talk about the rock, paper, scissors theory of marriage. Should be fun.

On the knitting front, I have begun my Christmas knitting. I recognize that it is a bit early, but I have a lot of things I want to make this year. Stay tuned for updates as things come off the needles in the weeks and months ahead.


~TSMK

Fear and Loathing in the Living Room

I'm a little worried.  I may have done something dreadful.  The trouble is, I don't know for sure if I did.  And, if I did, I'm not sure what it is.  Let me explain.

This morning, Mrs. TSMK and I were having our morning 15 minutes of quasi-uninterrupted conversation on the couch.  We do this every morning (or try to).  We banish the children for just a few minutes so that the two of us can drink a cup of coffee or tea together, talk about what we need to do that day, and generally strategize on how to make it to the kids' bedtime.  War planning, really.  But with an affectionate bent.

And this morning, well into our discussion, I noticed that I wasn't hearing her.  Her lips were moving.  I'm sure they were saying something important.  But I couldn't hear her. 

This is not my fault.  The fact is that her lips were speaking quite a bit more softly than her outfit - which was shouting every inch of her curves at me.  If the yoga pants and clingy white top had been amplifier, they would have gone to 11.  That's one more, isn't it?

So anyway, I have no idea what she was saying.  I just know that I found myself nodding and saying "yes" without comprehension.  And that's what has me worried.  Just what did I agree to?  What if it is something horrible - like going on a weekend trip to Forks to look for sparkly vampires?  Or eating kale?  Or, heaven forbid, eating Kale in Forks?  This could get really ugly.

- Breathe TSMK; this too shall pass -

Ok.  Now that I have my wits about me at least momentarily - let me share the most recently completed item.  This is my version of Kim Hargreaves' Edda.  Luckily, it does not appear to have been unnecessarily fouled by tartar.  Shown here prior to blocking - I'm hoping the cables will be slightly more presentable once I give it a good soak and pinning out.  I did mine in wool, as opposed to the cotton called for by the pattern.  I like it, and Mrs. TSMK does too. 

Wait a minute - you don't suppose she was asking me to make another one?

~TSMK

Thoughts for a Thursday

After checking in with The Echidna this morning, I found I had a few random thoughts floating around.  I'm not sure they're all mine (although some of them clearly are).  So here they are in no particular order, a kind of lost & found of thoughts.  If you think one of them is yours, please take it and go about your business.

Rap music never got better than Run-DMC.  Match My Adidas or Mary, Mary against any other piece of the genre and the boys from Queens will prevail.

Why hasn't anyone made a combination bagel-doughnut?  You'd get the crunchiness of the outside of the bagel, coupled with the chewiness of the inside and the sweetness of the doughnut.  What's not to love?  Chocolate frosted whole wheat bagel might just be the world's most perfect food.

I've had the hats on the wall for quite a while now.  Should probably change it up and put something else on that particular canvas.  Not sure what, exactly.  Yarn?  Skateboards?  Paisley shirts?

Is there any mammal that doesn't have a nose of some sort?

I miss Douglas Adams.

Tonight is Mrs. TSMK's book club, and she's hosting it at our house.  I must resist the urge to do or say something that might embarrass her.  Although, to be fair, I rather like my overalls.  They're comfy.

When you write out all the multiples of 9 from 1 to 10 in one big line you get a giant palindrome.  How cool is that? 

If I'd never seen and loved the original version of Top Gear, would I still dislike the U.S. version?

Swatching is overrated.  If something doesn't fit, rip it out and change the size.  Knit for the process, not the result.

I need to get more people to join my team for Pawswalk.  Its going to be a great time and the lace-ripper will be there in all his furry glory.

~TSMK

Dresssed to the Eights

I was sitting on the sun deck when I saw her.  Honestly, it sounds more glamorous than it is - the sun deck is just a covered part of the ferry I take to and from work every day. 

But anyway, there I was sitting on the sun deck when she came walking past.  She was dressed, as they say, to the nines.  Or perhaps at least to the eights.  A smart suit in crimson.  Stratospheric heels.  Bobbed hair.  She was, by all appearances, a very attractive young woman of approximately 25.

I was working on a sweater for Mrs. TSMK.  Nothing too fancy - the Edda pattern in Kim Hargreaves' new Whisper collection.  It calls for cotton, but with our climate I was going with wool. 

The sun deck was quite full - and the only open seat was on my bench.  I wondered.  Would she sit down?  Perhaps she'd want to chat about the sweater and I could enjoy an afternoon cruise across the sound talking with a beautiful young stranger. 

She sat, and I kept working on the sweater. 

After a few moments, she began searching for something in her bag.  Finding it, she pulled out a small container of lotion.  Leisurely, she began applying it.  First to her hands, and then to her shapely legs.  A floral scent filled the air.  We weren't chatting, but I wasn't about to complain.

And then, things took something of an ugly turn.  Those stunning heels came off.  The lovely scent of lilacs was immediately impaled on the rusty spike of foot odor.  And not just any foot odor - but the kind of odor you might expect if a teenage boy put his gym socks near your face.  The kind of odor that makes you reevaluate your love of Stilton cheese.  The kind of odor that people emigrate to avoid.  Powerful stuff.

I kept working on the sweater. 

At the halfway point in our voyage, she began again began rustling around in her bag.  The lotion was but a memory.  The heels were still off.  She pulled out toenail clippers.  I know what you're thinking.  You're thinking I'm making this up.  And I wish I were.

Feverishly, I worked on the sweater. 

After performing their assigned task, the toenail clippers went back in the bag.  I breathed a sigh of relief.  The odor was still present - but the personal grooming had stopped.

Or so I thought.  She rustled around in her bag a third time.  I was praying for a hairbrush.  Or perhaps a tube of lipstick.  But it was not to be. 

She
pulled
out
a
roll
of
dental
floss.

Wow.  Just wow. 

I turned my body slightly to the right, to try to avoid the plaque-spatter that seemed inevitable from the frenzied flossing to my left. 

I finished the row, gathered my things, and left the sun deck for the main cabin.  I don't know what manner of personal grooming followed the flossing.  I don't want to know.

~TSMK

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