Kickstart

I have considered writing many times over the past month, even sat down to do so on many occasions, my unpublished blog list growing like a pile of laundry. I have a lot on my mind these days, not much of which meets full-bloggable criteria (gift-knitting for a reader, too personal, not personal enough, too common, too important, not my story to tell). These factors, coupled with a nasty perfectionist streak I haven't quite yet shaken yet, means that I haven't written at all. And that doesn't seem quite right.

 And so, with your indulgence, I present the tapas version of a usual blog... little tastes of things I've been thinking about. Bon appetit.

1. On Vuvuzelas

I usually watch the World Cup, and I'm not this year solely because I cannot tolerate the constant drone. I have tried just muting the tv, but then I can't really follow the game while I'm knitting. Do I think an entire nation should change their traditions for my convenience? No. Am I disappointed? You bet. I am personally of the belief that my rights end where yours begin and vice versa, and I wish that a better solution - one that takes into consideration all of the fans, not just those in the stadium - could be found (Isn't it interesting how the rights of the local trump the rights of the majority?) But I don't get to make these decisions, because for some reason the world has not elected me queen yet.

2. On How Things Will Be When I Am Queen 

When I am Benevolent Empress of All I Survey, the following shall be enacted at once:

A. The first day of the calendar year that reaches 25C and is a regularly-scheduled work day for you shall be an automatic, mandatory statutory holiday for all.

B. Needlework (knitting, crocheting, cross-stitching etc.), music-making and story-telling of all kinds shall not be relegated to private residences or concert halls, but rather shall be celebrated and encouraged in public places.

C. Any meeting that requires its organizer(s) to call for agenda items (in other words, any of the "standing" variety) shall be cancelled at once. Any who attempt to proceed with such a meeting shall be immediately banished from my sights until they think better of it.

D. Recess - of the go outside and play soccer, or baseball, or marbles - is hereby reinstated for all the land and for all of the peoples, including, and in fact especially for, people of the adult, suit-wearing variety. Everyone shall go outside and play from 10:00 - 10:20am and 2:15 - 2:35pm daily. Those who have reached the age of majority may substitute afternoon play with afternoon nap/snack combination if desired.

E. In addition to being able to "call in sick", my people shall be permitted to call in well under the following circumstances:

• the earliest days of being in love, when being away from the object of one's affections would result only in pining, sighing, and flower-picking
• complete immersion in a creative process or spate of learning
• an overwhelming and irresistable desire to dig in, plant, weed, maintain or admire one's garden

So let it be written, so let it be done.

3. On What I'm Knitting

A. A project of unspeakable beauty (if I do say so myself) that I will tell you about as soon as I give it to its recipient. It has taught me that I can make really beautiful things, and that it's even more fun to give beautiful things away. 

B. A sock ("Wavy" from Sock Club: Join the Knitting Adventure in my latest Loopy Ewe Sock Club yarn).  It has taught me that, despite "having something mindless to knit in front of the TV" sounding like a really good idea, it's actually not. I don't like mindless knitting, I like mindful knitting. To whit...

C. Another sock ("I Love Gansey", also from Sock Club, in some Socks that Rock I bought last year). It has taught me that fuschia might not be so bad after all.

4. ...And Some Random Things I've Learned

(from the "Too Personal" Category of Unbloggable)

Sometimes, dealing with bureaucrats actually works. 

Sometimes, it's better to act first and discuss later (or not at all), especially if the discussion-about -the-decision part is more troublesome than the outcome of an "incorrect" decision would be. It's amazing how often decisions actually don't warrant discussion. Being able to tell the difference is the tricky bit. It's probably less often than I think.

Sometimes - maybe even most times - the fear of scary things is far worse than the scary things themselves turn out to be.

Good fences do make good neighbors, money isn't everything, and life is short. 

For all of these reasons, it's a good idea to make peace if and when and how you can.

Worth A Thousand Words

For Christmas, I got the best present in the history of sock knitters. (The story is here if you missed it.)

This past weekend, after several weeks of consultation and a good few weeks of close fair isle attention, I finished these for my Kevin, provider of said unparalleled Christmas gift.

From Russia With Love by Sabine Reifler in The Joy of Sox, 

Wollmeise 80/20 in Admiral and a "We're Different" that was probably pretty close to Campari Picolo.

I'm pretty durned proud of them. Hard to go wrong with that much great yarn and that much love and gratitude for their recipient.

It was like knitting with midnight and fire.

And a whole lot of love.

I am the Green Hat Knitter

Despite what is often assumed about people who are performers, I am a terribly introverted person. If I got to pick a super-power, I would pick invisibility over all others, no contest.  It's not that I don't like people - generally speaking, I really do -  it's that I would prefer to be on the sidelines, enjoying the world and the people around me by observing them rather than interacting with them. 

I am also a person inclined towards routine, which means that many people whom I've never met have become recurring characters in my day-to-day life, our lives briefly intersecting as our schedules cross. The ones that work on my floor, or go to the gym at the same time, or grocery shop late at night. I look forward to seeing them, and years ago started naming my favourites in my head. They're friends I've never met, and that seems to suit us both.

Dr. McSqueaky works on my floor, so named because of an unfortunate pair of runners he replaced almost two years ago. I am convinced he speaks several languages fluently, even though I've never heard him talk.

Giant Dave and his Entourage (three young clinicians who favour scrubs in solid primaries) are always leaving the coffee shop just as I'm walking in. They are there so reliably that if I miss them, I have a moment of panic, convinced that I must be late.

In my marathoning days, Red Shorts Man, Granola Jim and The Rain Woman and I would cross paths on my bread-and-butter four-miler, and my Sunday long-run training group and I could always count on seeing Silver Fox, Blond Floozy, Big Bird and The Hello Guy. (Hello Guy was our favourite...he was an older, chubby cyclist in a white helmet who, no matter how many lanes of traffic separated you, would wave and yell "Hello! Good Morning!" until you returned the greeting with equal enthusiasm.)

Since Kevin and I bought this house last November, I've started most work days with a new group: the people who ride my bus.  It's a pretty diverse group, mostly professionals and students on their way downtown, but a few stand out as always.

Early on, there's the Poet Laureate (curly mustache, round glasses, beret) and Scott the Smoker. Scott the Smoker just looks like a Scott to me. He reads sci-fi novels at the rate of about one a week. I haven't decided yet if he's a computer programmer or a junior high science teacher, but it's definitely one of those.

Halfway through the ride we pick up French Formula (40ish, suicide blonde, perfectly sculpted bangs). I think she is completely indifferent to her job, but in a positive way somehow, and I would bet big money she volunteers somewhere on weekends, probably with kids and/or animals. I like her a lot.

The Earth Mother transfers at the same bus stop as me. She wears her hair up in the most fascinating assortment of combs. I've sat behind her trying to figure it out. She looks at the teenagers on the bus like she understands and is slightly amused by every feeling and thought they are having. She commented on a fair-isle mitten I was knitting once, and told me she's more of a spinner than a knitter. We just smile at each other now.

I can't believe it took me this long, but it occurred to me recently that my fellow commuters can see me, too, and might be playing the same game. Their knowledge of my entire existence on this planet is, like mine is of theirs, constricted to 22 minutes, five times a week.  To them, I am that black-haired girl in the green hat. I am always wearing headphones (listening to books, or, if I strangle a giggle, Lime & Violet). Sometimes I have a backpack (gym stuff) or a red briefcase (meetings out of the office), and sometimes I don't. Sometimes I'm at the bus stop in plenty of time, sometimes I run half a block in heels. 

Other than the headphones, only one thing is constant: I'm always knitting.  A sock, or a mitten, or, during the Knitting Olympics, a grey cardigan. I'm sure that's what would stand out - it's what I would notice. An entire life, boiled down to five pointy sticks and half a sock.
 

She is the Knitter in the Green Hat. And for 44 minutes a day, she is everything I am.