I.... just...

Oh.



My.





GOD...





Sequins and beads?!?!?

Art and life

I just watched this slideshow about Van Gogh. I've never really been a fan of the man - or of his paintings, I should say. They either scared me, disturbed me, or left me a little bit cold and confused. Which was fine, a lot of art does that. Then I watched the slideshow. I'm not sure what the legal requirements are for showing paintings like these, but I'm going to put my favourite one up here and use their subtitle, I figure that ought to cover it, right? If anyone knows otherwise, let me know so I can take it down. (You should check out the essay, too. I love the boats picture and the Italian woman, and I can't explain how much I like this bedroom picture without at least a reference to how much I hate the one after it. Also, Slate rocks, especially Andy Bowers - rockage.)

Vincent Van Gogh, The Bedroom, 1889. Image courtesy Art Institute of Chicago and Neue Galerie, New York.

I saw that and I read the essay and I thought: you know, I think he's after what I'm after. What we're after. What I read so many posts about every day on the blogs of articulate, crafty (mostly) women. Speaking for myself, though, this is what I want.

I want a beautiful life. I want things around me to be beautiful. If that means orderly, fine, but if it means beautiful clutter, that's fine, too. Just not ugly clutter.

This is my front door from my kitchen.

I don't know why, but when I got up last

Saturday and the light was streaming

through, it made me happy.

Maybe because I was the only one in the house... I like that...

So I took a photo.

Which doesn't look anything like what

it felt like, but still...

I want to be able to see the colours and meanings of things shining through. I want to see them and feel them and make them a part of my story

This was one of many fabric hangings around one of the tents at Womad. Beautiful, non?

I want to share this with others - I want others to see the shininess I see, the colours and the beauty.

Some Shiny Things - Womad again.

My camera is shit at night...

uh, I mean, isn't it arty and pretty?

I want peace. I want a room like that where I can sit and think and look and feel. I want not to be harried and harrased, to have time to sit and think and breathe and feel and know. I want contemplation and maybe even relaxation. I want to know where I fit in the world, and since that changes everyday, I need that sitting thinking time to know where my new place is.

This is a Rosella in an Apple tree

Can you see his tiny tocks?

Can you see him?

I want to be able to show these wants to people. I want to put them out there so that others can see them. Then, if they share them I would like to know about it, to know that they feel the same way, share the same world. This doesn't have to be direct - it's enough to know that there are people there who know this world, too. I don't mean in an 'I am not alone' kind of way. More in a 'we are part of something special that other people don't know about it. Isn't it beautiful?' Blogging is part of this, but so is crafting and baking and all that.

Apples from my parent's tree

Some of which are now pie.


Well... were pie...

When I looked at Van Gogh's picture I felt things I had never felt looking at a Van Gogh before. I felt calm. And happy. I felt that feeling you get when it's a lazy summer afternoon and you're lying on your bed doing nothing much, just feeling the rest of the world out there doing nothing much, too. I felt that feeling you get when everything in the room with you is something you want there, when there's nothing left to change or move and you can just look at it. The feeling you get when you seam something perfectly, or m1 perfectly, without leaving a hole, or turn the heel of your first sock. I felt good.

FO! FO! FO!

But the thing I felt the most, even though there's not that much in the picture, was light. Not as in 'I felt light'. As in 'there was light. And I felt it.' Here is what I felt:

My parent's house.

I love it.

For a comparison, there's a photo from the same angle

in this post.

'Nuff said

Coming Out

Knitting has always been private for me. When I first knitted, when I was younger, I used to work away at .Jean Greenhowe's knitted toys, in 8ply acrylic on 3mm needles. I would sit in my room and I would knit, knit, painstaikingly knit until it was done, and then bring it out for approval and perhaps some suggestions on how to seam it together. Or else, if I got stuck (what the $%&# is a SSK? How, exactly, do you m1?) I could ask my mother, who would help me out (she used to know the answer back then. Now, I find the internet a handier tool for explaining, for example, how to m1 without m. a hole, or how to find the right cast on for your project and learn it. But more on that later)

When I found out last year that I was A Knitter, it was also mostly private. Sure, I would talk about it, and members of my family and friends went with me to choose yarn and drool at knitting books (I was the only one with a saliva problem) but the actual knitting was mostly done in private. In the same place I used to do it as a child - sitting on a beanbag in my teeny, dark room, watching my needles flick back and forth, watching the fabric grow at amazing speeds - it will do that when you use knitting as an avoidance mechanism. Also, this time I had my iPod to listen to, I had Brenda and Jacey and Heather and David and Christina and Wendy, et al. This helped, partly because I learn best when I'm listening, I like to listen. Also, because it let me know that even though my sister mocked me for my knitting (it did get a little crazy there for a while, I'll cop to it) it was a good thing to be doing, a valid thing to enjoy. The things I made were good things and she should stop that mocking if she wanted any more scarves made. My sister is a fiend for scarves. She still mocked. But I got this:

See the start here.

Seriously, can you believe I knit that? This is going to get a post of it's own later, but for now, let's just revel in the glory of the time I had on my hands and the lovely lovely thing I made... sort of lovely.

Anyway, so now I knit at home, where I share a house with two of my cousins. For a bit of background, I don't know if I said any of this before, but they are T and J. (I feel a bit dumb doing the whole initial thing, but I think it's prubent and I can't think of any appropriate blog-safe, cutesy names. Suggestions, anyone?) They are brother and sister, T is the youngest in the family and J the eldest (of four). He is also the only boy of my generation on either side of my family - and his, I believe. Anyway. So, I lived with J before, when I was in uni. And one of his friends became my (now ex) boyfriend. Not so relevant, except that one of their mutual friends, E, bugged me. In fact, I hated him. He was misogynistic and condescending and he would come around NEVER LEAVE.

Ahem. Anyways. So last weekend he was over on the Friday. I don't mind him so much now. Partly he's not as disgusting, partly I don't rise to the bait. Partly I just don't care, especially since he no longer spends whole weeks at my house. I like my space, people.

So, I'm knitting, and they come in to the lounge room and start playing their computer game - it's a soccer one, if you want to know. There I am, knitting on my entrelac scarf, knit knit knit. (anyone else love saying 'entrelac'? It just means 'interlocked', right?) I'd just started, and it was looking unimpressive and prompting swearing. More later on the scarf, this is a metapost. Although, you saw it yesterday.

So, knit knit knit.

E starts asking about it. Mostly for something to do, I think, just for some conversation. His lead-in question was "why knitting?" I think that's a good question. I might have to think about it a little more, maybe it could be another post. I don't think I can even articulate all the reasons 'why knitting', even the ones I am aware of at the moment. I'm sure there will be more reasons that I discover along the way, as I increase my skill or just grow with it. Which is one of the things I love.

I keep getting disctracted, don't I?

The other day there was someone knitting on the bus on the way home. Brown wool, with k2/p1 ribbing alternating with eyelet lace. It was elegant and she knit so fast, so gracefully. The way I knit is English style, but I don't loop the yarn around my index finger and flick it back and forth like you're supposed to. Instead I use my thumb and middle finger to squeeze the needle so it flicks out and in, back and forth. Kind of like the way Stephanie Pearl-McFee says she knits, only not as traditional. I remember my mum trying to teach me the proper way to do it, but I couldn't grasp the forming of the stitch together with the flicky thing. I'm happy with it and it gets the job done, so why quibble.

I watched her knit all the way home, craning my head and peering through people to watch the needles flick and the lace expand.

The other morning it was cold. I can't find my scarf that I knit last year. I wanted a scarf. The only scarf I had was about 5 inches long and counting. So I took it with me. I whipped it out at the bus stop in front of my house. I knit. No one cares. I was surreptitiously scanning the people in the cars going past. They didn't care. Freedom! Now I had not only my iPod but also my knitting to occupy the sometimes-frustrating commute. I knit all the way there and all the way home. On the way home it's great because not only am I not bored, I get a head start on my relaxing-after-work stage of the evening because I am doing exactly what I would be doing anyway once I got home.

Then the other day I got to work and one of the people here says "I saw you knitting at the bus stop" Aparently it didn't occur to him to pick me up, but whatever. His partner was driving, so, you know. And he asked me a bit about it and although he wasn't any more condescending than usual, I bristled. I don't know if this was warranted or not. Today he saw me knitting at the bus stop again and did stop and pick me up. (There's a particular thrill when you are picked up by a sleek car with two gay guys in the front seat. I think it's called the public-transport-sucks-please-drive-me-to-work thrill) The two of them asked me how my scarf was going. Then they chuckled. Not a snicker, not condescending, but - I don't know. Not welcoming, either. Like "aren't you a little weird. That's sweet". Well, my work is full of people that are a little weird, so I guess I fit right in.

Thankfully now I don't get upset. Thanks to Brenda, I just think to myself: Poor dears. The resurgence of craft is a bit of an underground thing. I'm not surprised they didn't get the manifesto.

Thanks Brenda. You rock my socks.

For Jac:

I love it when you're dirty!

*ew, ick*

Aren't my sheets purty?

As you can see, it's a very taught and firm Hills Hoist, which leads me to believe that there has never been any children living in this house - especially since it's an old skool one - no bright yellow and green plastic for us!

Let this be a warning to you, people: this is the kind of incoherent post you get when you write it on and off during a hectic work day. Heed my warning and repent!

What I Saw on Sunday Evening

Yes, yes, I did just show you my underwear on the washing line. Does it make it better that it's a Hill's Hoist?

On Peace and Gratitude

So, the other day I'm on the bus, going to work. It was about a week and a half ago, so it was a sunny (note, it's raining now, but I'm over the fact that Melbourne seems to be exporting its wierd weather tendencies) and golden morning. But I was feeling a bit jangled, I was on public transport - you know the kind of thing. Woe is me, the hobby horse is forgot, etc etc.

So, I was listening to Hardcore History by Dan Carlin (great show, btw), and he was talking about The First World War, and how different it was from anything that came before, and how shocking it was to people's worldviews and that kind of thing. So he was describing it, and everything I've ever heard about the First World War, and some about the second, just all seemed to gel into my brain. Dan was talking about the experience of the common soldier, or something along those lines, and I realised, suddenly, that peace was, in fact, a wonderful thing.

Photo taken by me at Womadelaide

For someone who's grown up in a peaceful, accepting world, it's hard to imagine the way things are when war comes into your life. The woman I sit with at reception here at work is Bosnian, and I forget all the time that she didn't leave her country because she thought that Australia sounded nice. She left, with a young family and half a law degree, because she was afraid that horrible things would happen to her and her loved ones. I personally think it's wrong that we can be 'at war', and the most it affects us is that occasionally we hear a news bulletin, or there's a media scrum because someone was mucking around with his rifle in his barracks and shot himself. But I don't certainly don't want to live in the alternative - in a world or a circumstance where everything is filtered through the fact of War.

But I didn't think about that then. What I thought about was how golden the light was, and how peaceful and quiet the morning was, despite being on public transport. And how the day would continue to be peaceful, no matter how busy or stressful work was. How, at no stage during the day, was I likely to be blown up or otherwise injured. But it wasn't about the physicality of it. It was about the mental and emotional peace of my world. And how, so often, I just don't see it because I'm too busy inflating my own importance by making trivial events seem huge.

I suppose you could call it an epiphany, I suppose that's what it was. Suddenly I could feel the coty around me, people quietly on their way to work, living their lives. It was peaceful. Calm. Serene, even.

I realised, for the first time, what is really meant when people say that the soldiers fought for this. Fought for the world in which I live, more than the country that that world exists in. A world in which, after the war, they couldn't live, because of the things they had seen and done.

It's a world worth fighting for, and I can't tell you how grateful I am that someone did, and that that someone didn't have to be me.

Photo taken by me at my parent's place in the Adelaide Hills

Next post: back to your regularly scheduled levity!

Toilet Seat Covers- a follow up

telfair said...
Oh. My. GOD. It makes me so sad to think about all the time and energy that went into those.

I mean, don't people have better things to do? Like, you know, sleep. And read blogs?

Becca said...
Wow...those are amazing. I accidentally set my room on fire when I was six with a toilet seat cover...they've scared me ever since.

How do you do that? Or maybe I don't want to know. My dad set fire to the chook shed with a candle in a wicker pram when he was little...

When I was little, I was staying at my Grandma's and my cousin who lived there wanted sparklers. I hated sparklers, but we had them anyway. Grandma lit my cousin's first, then mine. One of the sparks got me, and I dropped/threw it away from me - and it landed on my Grandma's foot. She was very nice about it, but I can still see the wretched thing landing on her foot - I can picture her shoes and everything. Needless to say, I am still not a fan of sparklers.


jac said...
Aieee! Fox Collection! I had no idea they still existed! ...I mean, um, what are you talking about?Man, I should pull out all the heinous and tacky needlepoints and embroideries I have, half finished (or not even that), that I thought were just the coolest when I was 14 years old. I'm pretty sure there's a sad teddy in a lamplit window. Oh the humanity...

You know, some of the stuff they have is actually pretty nice. The trouble is that there is so much dreck to sift through - and it's expensive crap, too. Also, while I quite like some of the things, there is no way I woudl spend hours stitching them, let alone hang them on my walls, let alone pay $100 or more for the privelage.

I used to be an avid cross-stitcher. But oh, the saccharine ickyiness. I realised as I looked at that catalouge the reason that people look at me askance when they find out that I knit and craft...

Apropos of nothing

I was interested to read this post on 'another knitting blog' (btw, did you know that Jap pumpkins are not, in fact, racist. It stands for 'just another pumpkin' I love it.)

I haven't watched TV for ages. That's a lie. I have watched it over my sister's shoulder on occasion. This is partly because it elicits the sort of reaction that brings joy to the heart of an older sibling (lost of squealing to go away and even, on occasion, some flailing) but mostly because I come from a family where, if the TV was on, it was because something good was on. I remember standing at my door in the dark, watching 'The Late Show' on the directly-opposite TV through the hole in the door where the handle should be. I can still produce a convincingly-sprawled appearance of sleep in 3 seconds, from door to bed. So now, when the TV is on, basically my brain shuts down and I am but a helpless zombie to its irradiated glow.

It's not a feeling I like much these days.

On the other hand, I love listening to podcasts, and I do so at every opportunity. Podcasting saved my sanity, I am sure of it, the year that I was in China. I exaggerate not. China was hard.

When I came back I found that, when flicking through one of the many 'women's' magazines' I recognised not one of the people whose frocks we were supposedly approving or disapproving of. I was thrilled. On the other hand, I can tell you all about Kevin Rose and Leo Laporte, who Brenda Dayne and Sage Tyrtle are, and I get extraordinarily excited when either of them have guest appearances on, for example, Chub Creek. (Darkspeed is HILARIOUS) Almost no one of my acquaintance understands this. Never mind. They don't usually understand the knitting, either, although they are more supportive of that, as long as I don't talk about it for too long together.

In other news, I would like to send a few curses along to Jac, who informed me that David Jones was having a sale on some items I was in the market for, so that I left said store $120 dollars lighter and four bras the richer. Then again, I am feeling very supported today, which is a nice feeling, so maybe it should be thanks instead. I thought all of you could do with an update on the state of my bosom...

Also, my friend who works cataloguing books to be sent out to libraries (or something) sent me the link to this the other day:

I loved that, as soon of she saw this, she thought of me. This may be because one day, when I had just discovered that I was a Knitter, I dragged her to Dymocks and made her look at knitting with me, all the while telling her about Nancy Bush and Elizabeth Zimmerman (two other people who make up my personal galaxy of stars) I also had the pleasure of telling her that I read Alison's blog and that she was very pregnant (she has now had her beautiful baby girl, and it's all very exciting.) I'm not sure what it is about pregnant craft-bloggers, but there seem to be a lot of them...

Lastly, for those of you who do not listen to 'Cast On', or who otherwise have not heard this, you just have to have to check out this link and listen to 'I want to be a Republican' I've never laughed so hard at a bus stop in my life...

What's wrong with this picture?

Anyone? No? How about this one...

What's wrong with it, is, it EXISTS. I'm sorry, but think about the steps this had to go to for you to see this photo. First, someone had to think 'Hmmmm. You know what my toilet needs? A toilet cover. Now where can I get... I know! I can needle-point one! Now, what would I put on it?' Well, dolphins, of course, to match the rest of the bathroom. THEN, this person had to stitch it. They had to find some canvas and plan a pattern and sew and stitch.

I wonder how long it took them?

Then someone at the Fox Collection had to see it, and say 'you know what? I think people will pay 50 dollars for that! But we need variety - can you make another one?' Then, a kit had to be made up, packaged, the warehouse stocked. The shrinkwrapping alone must have taken days. And then they found a bathroom with a floating toilet and took a photograph (they forgot to remove the bowl freshener for the fish one) and they put it in their catalogue.

It was there last time, but I was hoping it was just a glitch and they'd revert to their usual high standard of... er... Unicorns, snow tigers, and Princess Di. But apparently enough people loved this kit for them to want to run it again. I just... words fail me...

Thank heavens for subversive cross stitch. That's all I can say.

Your iPod is a window to your soul

I freaking love my iPod. It’s a heap of GouSi, but I love it anyway. The top is buckled, the corners are dented from all the times I’ve dropped it, the hard drive freezes continually, I can only see 1/3 of the screen (the middle third), and the sound no longer comes out for the left ear. But I love it.

Yesterday as I was walking to work the magic of shuffled music brought me a magical playlist. First we had ‘My Baby Just Cares For Me’ as sung by Nina Simone. Next we had ‘Secret Love’ by Doris Day (nothing like an academy award winning song to start the day, is there?) closely followed by the same song jazzed up by George Michael. I was hoping for ‘My Baby Just Cares For Me’ by George to come up, but instead I got ‘Yeh Yeh’ covered by ‘They Might Be Giants’ and then ‘My Baby Just Cares For Me’ (Come on, sing with me… Elizabeth Taylor is not his style… and even Ricky Martin’s smile… is something he can’t seeeeee, something he can’t seeeeeee!) Then some less exciting songs by Noel Coward and a Jonathan Coulton gem (although not Code Monkey, unfortunately. Freaking love that song; not as much as I love the speedmonkey remix, though.) Then the hard drive froze.


Some cursing ensued (mother-bleeping piece of Gousi)


Fortunately, after resetting, Marvin made it up to me with another Doris special, Sentimental Journey this time. (What, my iPod has a person-name, so what. And just because my computer is called Eddie, doesn’t mean I’m a complete loser. Lots of people list Douglas Adams as an influence… don’t look at me like that! Would it make you feel better or worse to know that two of the servers here at work are called Isengard and Orthank, and that before we upgraded many of the individual workstations had names like Frodo and Gandalph… it makes me feel worse…) We then had 'There Is Nothing Like a Dame' covered by Reel Big Fish and gotten off of the Welcome to Woop Woop soundtrack. Then we broke our nostalgia streak with ‘trampoline’ by the Grates, but I was happy with that. So what if I was singing ‘use your bed like a trampoline I said, higher! Higher!’ All day. That’s work appropriate, right?

I love you, Marvin.

It's 40 degrees out. And suddenly, I have an uncontrollable urge to knit a blanket.

I blame Alison. The good news is, should I choose to knit one, I am reliably informed that it will only take me 90 days to 'yarn' it.

I went into the bank yesterday to get some change. The woman messed it up and had to start again, so I had plenty of time to look around. There’s not much to look at in a bank, so I noticed the line of drawers behind the tellers. One of them had a sign reading “CALL DRAW”. I enquired about it. All four tellers turned to look at it with blank expressions. No one moved for almost a minute until the young, Asian girl at the end figured it out. “It should be drawER” she supplied.


I catch two buses in to work. One to the city, and then one out again. Usually they match up nicely, but sometimes, my first bus is late (like this morning) or the traffic is especially heavy (like this morning), and I get off the first bus to see the second sail past me in a blithe and uncaring manner. Today we were stopped at the traffic light right before my stop for what felt like forever. I was starting to get a little cranky (as I am wont to do) when I heard someone echo my thoughts. “Change please!” called a voice. I glanced around. “Changing would be good!” It was the driver. He puffed out a sigh. “Globuss, Changussss!” he called, in a voice not unlike Alan Rickman. Someone snickered. When, eventually, the light did change, he let out a high-pitched ‘Yeeeeay!’. There were titters, and even a giggle or two. I smiled and was glad of a brightened morning. And I did make my bus.

Images of eye and mind

Last Saturday I went to a birthday gathering for my friend. I wore my pirate outfit. To clarify, this consisted mostly of some boots that I bought a while ago with no heels (balance is not one of my strong points) and a turn down flap at the top, as well as a plaid skirt that I bought in an op-shop. When I bought it, the skirt had no waistband, only a stretch of fabric with raggedy edges. I cut it and sewed it over before I moved out & away from my mother's sewing maching. I wore it to the outing with the elastic held together inside by a giant safety pin that used to hold up my nappies. Appropriate? Almost.

I also wore a white shirt with a bunch of buttons down the front and a mandarin collar that my Grandmother second-handed to me a few years ago. Then I added a sea-shell necklace that one of my friend's gave me as a parting gift when I left China, and some earings that my sister gave me on my return. They are shaped like tiny cutlasses, and I have never worn them before. They prompted my friend to tell me that I looked 'like a carribean princess'. I took that as a good thing, but you never know with her...I didn't have anything appropriately petticoat-like, but actually that might have been going too far, anyway. Baby steps.

I'd apologise for what is a very out-of-character monotribe about clothing and accessories, but this is my blog, dammit, and making an outfit counts as craft, I've decided. Anyway, the upshot is that I looked cool, felt cool, was cool. That outfit rockes. I am definately wearing it again, and I absolutely longed for a camera, partly because I wanted to share the effect with blogland, since I feel that this coolness was only made possible by the things I have seen here, and partly because I wanted to share it with my future self, to say 'see? You can wear interesting things and look good in them'

I caught the bus into town, and then I walked to North Adelaide. I walked along King Willian Street, past Parliament House. I passed the Festival Theatre. Boy, I've had some good times in that building, seen some great things. If you click on this link, you can see a 360 degree view of the theater and surrounds. That big lawn was covered in people, mostly sitting in those ridiculous low chairs you get when people who like chardonay go to outdoor events. It was, I found out later, the Symphony Under the Stars. There was a big stage set up on the lawn, and beautiful sounds were coming from it, violins sounding like they are supposed to - lush and mournful and joyful and deep. The top of the stage had one of those generic white awnings over it that you get at outdoor concerts, and it was all lit up with blues and purples, contrasting beautifully with the bright orange of the sky. Just behind the stage was the Torrens river, and a huge flock of seagulls was circling over it, seeming to swirl above the stage, as if catching the riffs; or maybe flocking for a rare musical treat. The Torrens itself was beautiful - yes, I know, shocking! But in the twilight you can't see the rubbish and the wrong, wrong colour - you can just see the light glimmering and shimmering, the art installment of lit-from-the-centre paper boats (made of metal and plexiglass) and the fountain spurting away from the middle of the river.

I longed, longed for a camera. And then I thought about it, and I realised that although I could show you what was happening, I couldn't capture the graceful movement of the seagulls, the beauty of the ever-changing reflections from the water. I couldn't show you exactly how the colours in the sky were changing, or share the soft, warm breeze with you. A photograph can't tell you about the buzz in the air as people gathered in the warm evening, or how wonderful it felt to have space all around me, and nice things in that space.

I thought about how Telfair told me "Don't worry about not having a camera. You draw pictures with words" And I thought about how, even though these words still can't quite tell you how wonderful it was to be there, then, they can do a better job of it than pixels can. At least in this instance.

A picture is sometimes worth far less than a thousand words. As I walked past the statue of Don Bradman, I considered how a photo of said statue wouldn't begin to tell you about all the associations that sparked off in my mind - or about how I immediately looked to the other side of teh road, where I could not quite see the war memorial and its rose gardens.

I guess some things need pictures. Others need words.

That said, I am looking forward to next week when I will be going out and purchasing a camera. Probably not the uber-expensive one I am lusting after. But a halfway decent one. Because, you know what? I would still love to have photos of that night. I would like to have them for me, because I do know what that statue means to me, how it felt to be there. And I have a terrible memory. An image is only worth as many words as you have to explain it.

BTW, in case you were wondering, the party was good. Nice dinner, nice people, then we went out to a club where I got hit on by and old guy named Dominic. Clubs are sooooo not my thing...

Miscellania

Hey, blogging buddies and knit sibs. Have you missed me? I’ve missed you! This no internet at home thang is getting me down. I wonder how much it would cost to get it laid in? Hmmm…. I’ve spent most of the day with bloglines open here at work, but although it’s no biggy to read it when I have no work, I’m jumpy and nervous and I feel bad. I feel like I’m wasting my time, when what I want is to get a coffee and jump feet first into blogland, bookmarking and cutting/pasting to my heart’s content.

That said, some of the things I have seen have brought my inspiration to craft surging to the forefront. It isn’t that I want to steal people’s ideas. Although, of course, I do. It’s that seeing what other people have done makes me think I can do it too, even if I can’t. It makes me remember the thrill of the FO, the calm of creation, the buzz of project planning. I’m dying to get a sewing machine, too, and see how long it takes before I sew my finger to something.

Sunday night I was feeling flustered and discontent, a result of having spent almost the entire day on the computer. I picked up my kittyville hat, began to knit, and calm descended. Not magically, not immediately, but with every stitch, each round, the swirls of thought inside my head that found it impossible to settle began, miraculously, to do so…

I found my cardigan for Arwen in a bag. I think I’ll have to unravel it a bit, the short rows seemed to come out the wrong number. But I think I might get cracking on it again. And I’m thinking of ordering some more wool to knit my Jo Sharpe cardigan again – with custom shaping on the waist, and without being afraid to make it longer. I’ll still have to work out what to do about the shoulder shaping – it’s a bit scarier – but maybe I can ask my grandma about that.

I really really want to stop into spotlight on my way home – I need a different size of DPNs to finish the kittyville hat, and I want some nice sloppy satin ribbon to tie back the girly gauze curtain in my room so I can let some sunlight in. But I am poor… very poor. I just handed over some $155 to my boss so that she could by a womadelaide ticket for me – my workplace is placing a group order, which means we get a discount, but it’s not a good week for me to be doing that. I got payed for my first two days of work and now I have to wait another fortnight for my next (huge!) pay. Let me clarify. It’s not actually huge, but for me, used to living on a student’s part-time payment, it’s huge. Also, I have a fairly minimal expense outlay. Comparatively, anyway. So, although I am determined to save at least a little each week, and despite the multitude of events I want to go to in the coming months (damn you, festival city! Damn you and your ridiculously appropriated moniker!) I should have enough left over to suitably indulge myself in craftiness. Also, I no longer have to sneak packages past my mother, lest she chastise me for my extravagance.

There’s a DK’s near my work, too. That’s a fabric warehouse thingy… it’s one of the few places left around here that has a decent range, and the last time I went their prices were excellent. Of course, that was when my mother was making my formal dress, in Year 11. That would be…. Uh… 6 or seven years ago. Still. They’re open till 5:30, so I could just make it after work, or else I could always go one my break. Except I enjoy the lunch room – there’s usually something hilarious going on in there of an afternoon.

I’m exhausted, though. It’s been hard adjusting to full-time work, it’s hard getting around without a car, its hard finding energy to do things after work. It’s hard buying groceries, again, sans car. It’s hard finding enough business-like things in my wardrobe to not repeat myself too often. It’s hard being white and middle class, people. It’s just hard.

But in all seriousness, I am enjoying my new job, my new home, the possibilities that are inherent in both these things. Today I am tired, but soon it will be time to go home. And then, I can sleep. Or, I could craft. Whichever seems likely to revive me the best. I can’t wait

Just in time for Chinese New Year...

I don't know if you know, but most of the traditions surrounding Chinese New year involve various incarnations of 'out with the old, in with the new'. I'm all about the newness, albeit slightly used newness.

I have a new house. It is an old house (There are cracks in most of the walls, and half of my room looks like it's about to fall off), but I have never lived there. Four of my cousins have though, and two of them still do. I'm enjoying seeing all my stuff that has been stored for two years, although I have no internet, and bloglines is piling up my feeds. I'm also loving cooking again. I may have gone a little nuts on the cupcakes. Yesterday my cousin introduced my to her friend as 'this is my cousin who lives here. She makes cupcakes.'

I have a new job. It is just doing admin which is totally not what my 4 years of uni qualified me for, but they're paying me. Also, and more importantly, it's a great organisation with wonderful people. I don't really want to talk about it too much because a) it's probably not good policy to talk about your workplace in internet-land and b) It's not crafty. Unlike so much of what I've been talking about lately, I don't think. I will say, however, that it's very close to this shop, and I have a feeling I may be paying a visit. When it cools down - it was 36 yesterday, and Monday will be 38. (that's Celsius) I'm not happy about it.

So, with all that crazy, there's not been much crafting, unless cupcakes count. I've buried my Arwen under some miscellaneous stuff, and I have knitted a few more rows in the official kittyville hat which I started recently, but I'm up to the decreases which means at least minimal concentration is required. Does piling all my craft-related stuff in one corner of my room count? It takes up a lot of room. I have big plans for my second-hand-new wardrobe, I want to cover the doors with fabric and batting to make pin-board-like surfaces, but I don't know if it's even do-able, and it will definitely have to wait. I'm exhausted.

I did go see Pan's labyrinth, which I was all excited about thanks to Emily, and it didn't disappoint, although it was darker than I expected. I might go see it again, even. I had a knit-wear/colour review planned, because the costumes were awesome, and that's the kind of thing I notice, but it will also have to wait. Maybe if I go see it again, and it will be fresh in my mind.

Anyway, that pretty much assuages my blog guilt. (does anyone know how to say 'assuages'? I sure don't.) For now, and in case I don't speak to you all before Feb 18th, I'll just say 'GongXi FaCai'. That means, roughly 'wishing you wealth'. So I can't speak French, I'll just have to take my show-off chances where I can get them... it's the year of the Pig, too, that's me! (the star sign, not... actually... ) That's right, I'm too good to be true!

WARNING: not a celebratory post. Some strong language. Contains Themes. May distress young children and zealots.

Happy Australia day, everyone. I know you're as excited as me... which is not very. I know I should care, but quite often I don't know it is/was Australia day until someone else brings it up. Then their reply is invariably 'well, why do you think we have a public holiday, then?' I don't know. Maybe some idiots are riding horses around a track, or perhaps we've got the day off because some woman born into a special family has a birthday somewhere close to this date. There are a lot of public holidays I don't care about.

Of course, this time last year was a big deal. I arrived home on the day before Australia Day, and the holiday was never so approproate in all the history of its celebration - no, not even when they called it 'invasion day'. My Australian friends (three) in Guiyang were very upset about being left behind on the annual day of... what? Barbeques? Endless themed playlists on the radio? Half-assed concerts?

Let me explain myself. I love my country. I really do. I love it with a passion that frightens me. For a large part of my time overseas, while I was happy on a day-to-day level, on a deeper level I was miserable. Many people don't know where they belong. I do. I belong in Australia, in South Australia, in the Adelaide Hills. This is my home, the home of my heart and all that soppy stuff, and when people talk about Indiginous Australians pining away when put in prison, a part of me understands.

Further, I love the culture of Australia, I love its people (mostly). Yes, I hate our Prime Minister with a passion, but most of that is because, well, he's fucking up my country. It's a very personal hate. I love our history, even the unsalibruious parts.



I love our language (maybe I should make a resolution to use it more - strewth. Bonza. Bloody Oath.) I love our traditions, such as they are, and I love our attitude. I never thought all those stereotypes were true, but let me tell you, going overseas makes you see them, like it makes you notice the accent (which, I might add, can be heard across a crowded room. It's that nasal quality.) Although I consider myself quite highly-strung, in our little office overseas I was by far the most laid back person.

What I do not love is advocation of our country over all others. I happen to think it is, in fact, the best country in the world, but if you think yours is better - great. I'd be happy to talk about what makes your country great, too. I love my country in spite of it's flaws (one of which starts with a 'JH') I love it too much to pretend that those flaws aren't there, because I want to make it better. I will never put an Australian flag outside of my house because - well, because it quite frankly is not the Australian way (whatever the hell that means). I don't need a piece of material with the Union Jack on it to remind me what country I come from, thankyou very much.




Less depressingly, I also do not love organised celbration. I am not a crowd-loving people person. I am, in fact, a sit around, drink some tea, kind of gal. (I freaking love that. I just love it) Also, I am contrary. Require me to be enthusiastic, and I will fold my arms in a recalcitrant manner, and 'humph'. So, Australia Day? Not on my list of exciting celebrations.

Actually, I think this and my New Years comments are why I feel so strongly about the Christmas season. December is when I do all of my New Years/Australia Day appropriate thinking. It's Christmas and my Birthday, it's hot. It's nostalgic - those long summer nights sure bring back the childhood memories, don't they? It's a set time each year, and I spend a lot of the month thinking about where I am this time around, and why I like it, and why I want to be in this beautiful country of mine, and not in someone elses beautiful country. That is why, although most of my eyar overeas passed fairly smoothly, the month of December was sheer hell. It was cold, it was depressing, it was not what December is supposed to be.




Anyway. I had a question. It's a netiquette question. It's about comments. I love to comment on other people's blogs, although I try not to do so if I have nothing to say. what I like about it si that I do have something to say, and that sometimes, when I say it, other people listen. Did that make sense? Anyway, I talked about this last post, blog love, yadda yadda, blah. So, anyway, I know a lot of people talk about trying to reply to every comment. Sometimes people leave an email address along the lines of 'no-reply@blog.com' in which case, obviously, no reply is called for. Checking out other's blogs is nice, but as yet I have only had one comment form someone whose blog I do not already read.

So my question is this: when I comment on a blog, and the author replies to me, should I reply back? How long does this go on before it becomes weird and annoying for the person on the other end?

Now that I type this it doesn't sound very important, does it? I have a bit of guilt because I've had a couple comments I haven't replied to in a row, because I read those people's blogs, and I feel like it's not really necessary to reply - we are already interacting. Anyway... I guess I'm just a geek.

In other news, I'm moving tommorrow! Very exciting, but it means no internet for at least a while. I don't know how I'll survive, although i am informed that the internet does not, in fact, supply oxygen, and that non-internet survival is technically possible...

And something for the road: My grandma (who is soooooo cool - more about her some other time) has a habit of giving things away. Since she's lost a whole bunch of weight lately, some of her clothes can now be legitimately be passed on to me, the largest of my generation. I saw her on the weekend, and I scored two shirts for my interview on Monday and a top. The top is black and white stripes, 3/4 sleeves (which I hate, usually), and a sort of turquoise/teal stripe under each arm and for the zip thingy. Placard. Anyway, the point it, the shirt is made by a company called Black Apple, who if theyhave a website, I can't find it. So I put the thing on, and do you know what the first thing that went through my head was?

"*gasp* I'm Inside a Black Apple"

I'm such a geek.... :-D

All cartoons from inkcint.com

We love knitting. Doesn't mean we don't love our grandmothers.

Some grandmother knitting love.

I think, apart from the fact that, as I have previously mentioned, my grandmother is waaaaay cooler than me, I, along with January One, am sick of the 'beginners knitting' books which contain few if any projects worth knitting and are rude and condescending. Even (especially) teenagers learning things don't want to be talked down to, so why do these books do it? I know not all beginners books do. But the ones I love are the ones that assume that you want to learn, that you can learn, that once you master the knit stitch you will want to learn other things, too.

In aid of which let me tell you that I have just this minute learnt the long tail cast on from with the aid of knitting help, and I am in love. I literally gasped 'oh my god' as I managed to get it to work. I bounced on my chair. It wasn't so much the technique (although, can you say 'awesome'?) it was that I learnt something new. I love that feeling. Next on my list after quilting, I am going to learn to crochet. Yes, that's right, you heard me! Yes! I am a fearless crafter!

I found it!

I saw this on a link from someone else's blog and I've been thinking about terrariums ingeneral and little lambs in particular all week!

Link to the flickr photo

Link to blogpost

Feel the blog love

I didn't realise how much I would love comments. Or how much I love it when I comment on someone else's blog, and then they reply to me. It makes me feel - I don't know. Like this isn't just wanking in cyberspace, you know? Not that I started a blog to be famous and well-liked, or anything (you know, apart from in my dream-land where everybody loves me anyway) I started it with only me in mind, and if other people happened accross it, that would be great.

The thing is, even when I have no personal contact with people, just reading their blogs makes me feel... special? Oh, God, this is definately leaning into pretentiousness. I suppose that was unavoidable - anything meta, any talk about connections with people over great distance, etc, is bound to. Partly I love having a personal 'in' on events elsewhere. I learn best when there's a story involved, which is why I am great at history and not so much at maths (or remembering dates in history. But I can tell you everyone's names!) So i love being able to tell people that there's still smoke over Melbourne because Jac told me so, or that there's a warm snap in (parts of America). I know. I read it on Bittersweet.

But the thing I love best is something that I think I'm making up in my head. Which doesn't make it any the less true. (right?) What I love best is that read these blogs written by (predominately) women who are intelligent and emotional and articulate and resourceful and crafty and who have real lives and who write about real things. And they let me visit their lives for a while - bits of them, anyway. I don't pretend that I know them. But I know some things about them, maybe things that their real-life friends don't. And I love reading these blogs. But what I love even more is that when I'm crafting or trying to do something I haven't done before and it's not going well, or maybe I'm just having a bad day, I know that all these faceless women out there are wishing me well, if only in an abstract kind of way. OK, that's kind of a creepy image. I hope you know what I mean. When someone whose blog I read has had a bad day, I wish them well. I wouldn't fly all the way to see them and tell them that, but I might take the time to comment or email them with the sentiment. And I like to think that there's this great well of blogging goodness, floating in the land of abstracts, this warm, fuzzy monster made up of the thoughts we send to each other.

Okay, definately crossing the line into wankerville, here. But it's true. I guess that's why something like this is so upsetting. Because if you don't want to contribute to the fuzzy-abstract monster, people, then just go away quietly and do something else.

In other news (I use that phrase a lot here, don't I? I never say it in real life. Why would I?) it's been raining on and off for two days or so, here. It was muggy as hell this morning. I don't know if hell is muggy, but it probably is. And then the rain set in, and it's like freaking June here. It's nice, actually. It's been that kind of comfy weather, where you want to stay inside and make soup and maybe bake something, or read a book next to the window, wrapped in something comfy like... oh, I don't know, a flannel quilt? *pause for dramatic effect* Pity I've only just started it, huh?

Yes, that's right. I've started my quilt. My mum's friend who quilts (let's call her A-M, shall we?) came over and helped me work out what all those words that I thought I understood meant when arranged in that order. And thay say knitting is another language! Anyway, it's not even fully cut out, and the rotary cutter is a bit scary, and there were a few minor disasters (had to live up to the name of my blog) r.e. cutting the wrong size and then not having enough fabric for the next bit, but otherwise, very exciting! It may just be finished by winter which, if this weather is anything to go by, will be stinking hot!

And now for something completely different...

Nothing. Well, not really. But I feel blog-guilt. The thing is, although I do have things to say, I don't feel like saying them. I am still camera-less, and I miss the images. Not just as pretty things to look at, but as punctiation for my blog. I want to use them the way Julia does. I don't feel like i can tell you the things I want to - things about colour and craft and the place I live - without showing you them, too. The computer screen is such a hostile medium, for me at least, that I feel that without the personalising photos to prove to you that I am a human being who lives in the world, I can't connect the same way. Maybe this is just me - I have trouble reading off of a screen without breaks for my eyes - but who am I writing this blog for? Mostly me.

That was more eloquent than I thought I'd be. I think.

Anyway, mostly I wanted to tell you two things.

1) About my knitting:

My jumper is finished. (I almost said 'sweater'. Repeat after me: jum-pah. jum-pah. otherwise the joke makes no sense!) The button band is curly, but everyone I've asked about it thought it's supposed to be like that. It looks kind of shell/wave-like. So I'm going to leave it for a while and see if I hate it. Also, it is nowhere near shaped enough, and the armholes are weird - I don't know what shape Jo Sharp thinks people with 110cm busts are, but although I go a long way out, I go a long way in, too.

I bought Big Girl Knits from Amazon (it's not out here) and while there are one or two patterns I want to knit, it was worth the > $40 just for the introduction. Despite being encouraging (You're fat. Don't like that word? OK, you are not skinny. Get over it, move on, do not under any circumstances dress like you are a fatty bumbah. Fat is fine. It's great. It's beautiful - sometimes) there is a great part about shaping, with places to plug your measurements in and equations written out for you. I am not the best at maths, but I am encouraged. I almost want to knit the jumper again to get it right - although I'm not sure how to go about fixing the armholes. I almost need to knit a size or two smaller and the put in extra shaping. Hmmm...

Also, My cardigan for Arwen is on the go. I knitted the whole back before realising that in doing the switcheroo with the needles to get gauge, I'd neglected to switch needles when I needed to. So I was knitting WAY too tight. So, frogged that, started on the front. It's pretty cool. I'm knitting it sans-cables and attatching them later, because my wool is too chunky for the cables. I'm halfway through the second sleeve and I think I might have mixed up the short-row shaping. I haven't checked - it's been on hiatus because....

2) I'm moving out! Finally! I've been living with my parents this last year while I was studying again and it's been... well, let's just say it's been far from ideal. But next weekend I will be moving in with my cousins. I guess I might talk about living arrangements later. But anyway, it's entirely satisfactory except for the fact that I only have a cleaning job which is here. So until I get another job (a better one, please the gods) I will be doing a ridiculous hour commute to the hills. Nevermind, I have an interview on Tuesday. (YAAAAYYY!!!)

Anyway, people of the blogosphere, I really do have things I wish to put out into the ether, but I want to do them properly, with punctuation. So, until next time:



Photo brought to you by You Knit What??

A New Year is born...

Happy New Year, all.


It seems so insignificant, somehow. As telfair has said, it really is a second tier holiday, for me at least. I think it's important to have an occasion for reflection on the old year and the new, etc, but I guess i do that at christmas. Particularly this year. Last year's christmas will be stuck in my mind forever as being shit. I was in China, I had to work, it was cold. It was shit. And the perky TA's kept asking me 'are you happy?' It was all I could do not to swear at them. They were just being nice, how were they supposed to know I was anything but.

Then I got my calls from home, most meorably from the family gathering at my grandma's, where I had to have the same conversation with everyone I spoke to. You know how it is. Anyway, this christmas I was there in person. It wasn't a bad christmas, but it didn't seem very meaningful, somehow. I don't know. Maybe I'm still recovering from the China experience. In a lot of ways it taught me to distance my emotions, bury them a little. If you're being yelled at in the street becuase you're a round-eye, or you just got ripped off big time by someone you thought was being nice to you, or your bosses are screwing you around because they can and you're helpless to do anything about it, you learn to just push whatever to the side at least a bit, so that even if you're angry, you don't have to be as angry. Which can be a good thing, I think the Western world could use some of that, I know I could. But certainly not in large doses, or if you don't know you're doing it. My dad's side of the family tends to be a bit like that anyway.



A family of Asians recently moved into the town I'm living in, that I grew up in. I won't say what town it is, but it's an old (for Australia), German settled town in the Adeliade Hills. Most of the people who live here were born here, some of them have hardly ever been into the city, which is just incomprehensible to me. Anyway, these Asian men moved in, they were working at the abbatoir. Their families have just joined them. They don't have much English, but they're very nice. The kids have hung around the school I clean after hours, just sitting around in a group. I said to someone recently that they are in all probability acutely aware of everyone's attention every time they go out in public. Even if no one's looking, everyone is, if you know what I mean. That kind of thing can be wearying. That kind of thing is why the grwoing population of African's in Adelaide won't meet your eye casually in the street. If you think you won't like what you'll see there, you learn to go around in a bubble. Several times when I was in China I almost missed a friend in the street because I was inside my protective box.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not whingeing about my treatment in China. It was emotionally quite hard to live there, although it would probably be easier in a less backwards province (when I went on holiday to a bigger city the relief was indescripable) But there were many many privelages that I got for putting up with it. It was just part of the package, and most of the time people weren't looking at you because they hated you, just because you were different and interesting, and maybe they'd never seen a Westerner before. It was still hard if you were having a bad day. I can't imaginge what it must be like to have that kind of attention with added fear and hate, and quite frankly I don't want to. I don't want to put myself in the shoes of the group of African men that moved here at about the same time as the Asian men. One of the deli's here refused to loan them videos. I don't know, I guess they think that they'll never see them again, or something retarded like that (apologies to retarded people. This PC thing is hard) I don't want to think about how that would feel because it wouldn't feel good. Because I'd like to think that the people I grew up beside in this tiny town are friendly and nice and welcoming, and I just can't believe that in this century, in this country, that something like that is socially acceptable. The bastards.



I didn't mean for this to be about rascism, xenophobia, fear, hatred, difference. I was going to talk about body image and fatness and that (also something which I don't think has recovered from the China experience) but I guess I've been thinking about this even though I didn't realise. I just wish people would put a little thought in. I myself make and effort, after China, to have a smile for everyone, especially our new neighbours. I don't know if it makes a difference for them, but it makes a difference for me, knowing that I've been accepting and welcoming in even a tiny way. I hope they know that I sympathise. But you know, while I wish mightily that it wasn't so hard for them, I'm glad they're here. It does people good to have some change every decade or so, don't you think?