8:46 a.m. - 2004-09-28
Time to Get My Knit On
Hi. My name is sarkasmo and I'm a knitaholic.
It's that time of year again, folks. The various stashes of yarn around the house have begun moaning my name (much like badly-acted ghosts, but without the chains). I find myself drawn to each pile of yarn so that I can squeeze it, pet it, squint at it, and try to visualize what it wants to become.
Back in February, when it seemed to me like my knitting compulsion would continue through the year without slowing, I half-promised a bunch of my co-workers some hats and scarves. Right now, I have kein Bock auf making another devil hat. Half-promises are half-promises, though. This is all for personal enrichment, anyway. If I were charging people for this stuff, it'd be done already. Some have said they'll pay me, but I mostly consider it good practice for learning new stitches and skills.
Last night I started sewing the sleeves on a baby jacket I'm making for one of my supervisors. If I wanted to be a seamstress, I would have figured out these needle things a long time ago. When I finish the jacket and give it to my supervisor, I'll include a note to the effect of, "DO NOT, under ANY CIRCUMSTANCES, turn this jacket inside out."
Hopefully, that'll keep anyone from peeking at my hideous stitchery.
Anyway, I sat there last night, mercilessly hand-stitching these little blocks of fabric together, and Packet (short for Packet, the Great Huntress of the Townhouse) (not true, it's actually short for Packet D. Kitty) - she sees me moving thread around and decides that's her cue to attack. The thread. Which was being dragged across my leg.
So now the score stands so:
I am perforated, the jacket still needs one sleeve, and Packet is walking around the house on red alert, just waiting for any one thing to give her an excuse to attack.
Pieces I remember from the dream I had last night:
I was standing on a hill with about 100 other people, when one man ran by and pointed at an airplane, shouting, "That's the one! That's one of them!"
We looked up at the airplane and saw that it was indeed different, and it had an attachment on the nose that looked like a box.
Then the sky moved, and got these fold-marks in it - like when you pull sheets out of the package and you have those square folds. The sky started coming down, the plane disappeared. I thought this must be what the end of the world must be like, as I stood and watched the sky's approach. It was just very thin paper, and I poked a hole in it as it closed in on me. On the other side was another sky, fold-free, and the world looked just like it had before - only, without so many people.
One of the people that was left was a girl named Jessica. She came back to my house, and we talked until the sun went down. She was Greek. When she left, she said it was tradition for me to stand at the doorway until she got home (which was only a few doors down). The front door of her house was actually in the ground.
Through all of this, They Might Be Giants' "Wreck It Apart" was playing, and I kept hearing the line, "Don't make me kill you again..." over and over again.
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