I am not obsessed with knitting, as the character in this short video is. (Keep track of her hair as you watch.)
I may be obsessed, however, with writing. Still, my work on any one thing is woefully slow compared to this lady’s progress on that scarf. Oh, if only I were able to produce with such speed!
Today Grace, George, and I had an impromptu and inaugural meeting of Jane’s Knitting Club. All are welcome.
Because the two of them are a mere 8 and 6 years old, a lot has to happen before knitting begins. Bickering. Bathroom trips. Yogurt. And the unknotting of yarn and the finding of needles.
I smoothed out some mistakes in Grace’s swatch, and I cast on 35 stitches for George’s scarf. He wanted “a hundred” stitches; I recommended 30 or 40.
They set to work, sitting in chairs in the dining room. I sat in the living room, where I could only eavesdrop and not observe. From the frequent scolding of George by Grace, it sounded as though our friend was occasionally sitting on the table, or knitting while pacing. I did not intervene.
After a few minutes, George slid on stocking feet into the living room. “Jane, will you fix this?” Continue reading
Yes, Brian.
This afternoon, 4 o’clock. Our kitchen. Outside, raining. Inside, Lydia and I, the afterschool chat.
Lydia: Mrs. M. is giving up coffee. (Mrs. M. is a teacher.)
Jane: Really??? (voice rising, incredulous) Why?
Lydia: Yeah. Because it’s bad for you.
Jane: No, it’s not.
Lydia: IT’S ADDICTING.
Jane: Right. But it’s not bad for you.
Lydia: Mom, it’s addicting.
Jane: Lydia, I couldn’t get through my life if I couldn’t drink coffee.
Lydia giggles. It opens up into laughter. I’ve surprised her! This is a wonderful thing, when serious Lydia laughs. Her voice is a bell, a pretty one.
Lydia: Do you hear what you’re saying?
Jane: Yes.
Lydia: I’m not going to drink coffee until I’ve reached my full height and stopped growing.
Jane: Really? Okay, let’s have this conversation again when you’re sixteen.
Which is when I started depending on, er, I mean, drinking it.
(But I didn’t have any this afternoon. I didn’t.)
Patriotic party beads
This morning, before our 8am departure time for work, we were running around and picking up the house in advance of the housecleaners’ arrival. On the kitchen counter, I found the detritus (in photo) from last week’s Election Eve party at my sister Sally’s house. It hasn’t taken long for my mood to sober up since that day, and the jubilant day after, because the country is, to quote the lyrics of one of my favorite Talking Heads songs, “Same as it ever was.”
And how is almost-President Obama feeling? I pictured him waking up on Thursday, the day after the day after, turning to Michelle and saying, “Oh, shit.”
There is a lot to do.
—-
iPhone image of beads credited to local cameraperson Jimmy Guterman. That is, however, my hand.
What surprised me, as looked at these photos after uploading them, is how much latent PINK I have in my yard. In 1999, when I started to figure out what we would plant here, I told my gardener friend Colleen, who was helping me, that it was the one color I wanted to avoid. “I like yellow, orange, red — the brights.” Interestingly, though, over time the yard has developed into a show of mostly green and white, with spots of summer color here and there, which all burnish into pink as it fades in October.
And I have come to love this past-its-prime color. “Pink” doesn’t do it justice.
Yesterday I took Eli, pal Cody, and Grace to Savers. Cody claims it’s better than Goodwill, because everything hangs on racks in sizes. And, indeed, it does. Eli found a shirt, Cody two of them, and I got a pair of Ann Taylor cords and Old Navy canvas pants, $6.99 each, preworn and prewashed. Grace bought $6.00 worth of knick-knacks and a pink basketball. We were moderately delighted.
As we went through the cashier’s line, I started paying attention to the music. No Musak at Savers. Perhaps in bargain stores the employees, and not headquarters, get to choose the music. Whoever made the playlist that was playing last night, chose good. When I heard “Black Coffee in Bed” by Squeeze, I turned to Eli and said, “This was one of my favorite songs when I was in college.” He liked it.
And though I love the song, I had never seen the video, until a few minutes ago that is, when I searched for and found this on YouTube. Watching it and wincing, I thought, Well, it was the ’80s.
Still…. GOOD song. The words matter. (And how many songs do you know that feature both “coffee” and “notebook” in the lyrics?)
I recall that, when I was about 12, a family friend, Paula Z., asked me what age I was looking forward to. “Eighteen,” I said. Paula’s eyebrows seemed to raise a bit in surprise. I wondered, then and now, if she was expecting another answer.
“Why eighteen?” she asked.
Because, by 18, I reasoned, I would be able to both drive and vote. In my child’s view, both of those signified adulthood, vehicles for participating in the wider world: of work, and of citizenship.
I recall, too, driving myself to the tiny Town Clerk’s office when I turned 18 and proudly filling out my voter registration card. I don’t think I’ve missed an election since; when I was in college, I dutifully got my absentee ballots and voted in the college’s post office, for some reason.
And talk about dutiful: over the years, the act of voting, but for a blip in ’92, has often felt like an obligation to me, something you do because you have to. I kept doing it, more out of habit than pleasure.
Today, though, I feel as forward-looking and civic-minded as I did at 12, or at 18, and enlarged in spirit by my participation in democracy’s central act. I’m tired, but happy pop songs are playing in my head, and I’m energized and giddy too. The adult me and child me, in one.
And now, Mr. Obama, bring on the work. I suppose it’s time to turn the feeling into action.
It’s heaven to lose yourself in the company of others. In this instance, I’m thinking of Saturday afternoon in the Kind Cafe in Selinsgrove, PA with fellow writers James Black and Jimmy Guterman. For an hour, we sat together, ignored each other, and wrote. For me, it was utter peace, focus, and fellowship.
The two of them are fictioneers. I thought about joining them and taking a stab at a story, but couldn’t work up the energy (or was it courage?). I thought about starting a new essay, which feels like my writerly occupation now, and immediately my energy dropped — I’m temporarily tired of exploring the known. So, I took some notes (see top right corner of the page in my new notebook, below). Then, I thought about poems, and writing one. I mean, I like characters, and I can’t help but do setting, and yet I’m not so hot on plot. Don’t only narratives have plot? But, I’ve been reading again the longer poems of Louise Glück, and I like the story quality to them.
Jane's new notebook, 11.1.2008
At the top of the page, after the bulleted notes, I wrote a note to self: “narrative poem — why not?” I dove in. After a couple of pages of 4-line stanzas (an impulsive decision), I stumbled over an image I liked and circled back and slapped a provisional title on it: “Ghost Dances.” Here are the first few stanzas. Very DRAFTY.
Where she stands. At the edge of the
yard, her back to the cedars, she
faces her own house, the life
inside, like a movie
playing for her. Or Hollywood Squares, each
window a light, a character, a
small stage. Not the world. The world
is a stage, but this is not
the world, only hers. Life is boxed,
parceled into bits. There, the kitchen:
a woman bowed, hair falling away
from shoulders, tipping toward dishes
that her arms, white and bare, wash.
Light glows down on her. Woman washing
is holy and this is what Grace, feet
planted on dirt and moss skirting
the trees, churns up at when she
watches this movie, the one with the good
golden girl. Even the audience wants her,
only Grace doesn’t. She wants the dirt
I wrote many pages of this in longhand, and experienced many discoveries, while working quietly alongside my friends. Note: Grace is simply the name of the main character of this narrative poem. She bears no resemblance to my daughter of the same name. It’s just a lovely name, and it was on hand, so I used it.
—-
P.S. Dr. Poppy also inspired me today with her post on handwriting.
This video was sent by my good friend, Elizabeth Boyle:
http://www.cnnbcvideo.com/index.html?nid=FJCOM5EBcMNF9OHUJil6LzY0NTc3Mzc-&referred_by=5857943-ikDZTfx
The point? Voters, don’t stay home. Get out there and vote (Obama) on November 4th.
Created by MoveOn.org.
leaf stitch word 