Wednesday, January 18

Sad tale of sad silk

From this:
100_0082

To this:
100_0313a

And back, ultimately, to this:
100_0321
(What the uninformed reader may not be able to discern is the exquisite artistry of that last photo. Really, Kubrick would be proud.) "Wherein the poor yarn, wound, knitted, ripped, re-wound and, for the moment, cast aside, is sitting on the windowsill, staring sadly into the rain," which is, of course, streaming down the panes of glass like the tears that would be streaming down its fibrous strands, if only it had tear ducts. (If only!)

The yarn was beautiful. Magisterial, even. (It still is.) I don't know of many people who aren't made a little weak in the knees by the sight, hell, the thought even, of pure silk. Our saga began at Rhinebeck. It lured me with its siren song of gorgeous colors, with the way it shone and glistened in the dusty-barn-diffused sunlight. I touched it. I never even had a chance. A tiny, 100-yard hank came home with me. And I fondled it daily while waiting for inspiration to hit.

Then there was this pattern. I thought it would be the perfect thing. It would look fetching and, moreover, it would mean I could neck with that glorious silk whenever I wanted.

But, like many things in life, it was too good to be true. It knitted up quickly, like, in an hour. Blocking it was hardly a chore. And then the fateful moment. I tried it on.

It looked like a clown collar. Or like the perfect accessory for a tribal witch doctor, the thing that not only accentuates her unruly mane and crazy stare but that she could take off in the most dire of cases and hold to the fevered cheek or forehead of some ailing, hallucinating villager as she exhorted the demons to be gone and leave this poor child be.

At the very nicest, it just wasn't me. Not at all. Not even a little.

So it was ripped. And re-wound. And sent back to the holding pen with all the other yarns that are waiting for inspiration to hit.

My silk deserves better.

Tuesday, January 17

Shorts in a twist

I am a mess of indecision. So what if I have several projects on the needles at the moment and further so whats if I don't feel like working on any of them right this moment? Who's going to stop me from my knitting daydreams? The misty thoughts of perfect, beautiful knitted garments, when they aren't keeping me restless and awake at night, lull me gently into slumberland. No project ever looks as wonderful as those projects you're just dying to make.

Am I right?

This is how I felt about Wendy's fabulous Somewhat Cowl. (I still adore this sweater, or perhaps more accurately, the little sexpot I imagine it will make me. But, whoa nelly, that's a talented sweater that can make sexpots of mere mortals, and all the props for that magical feat of designing belong solely to Wendy.) Unfortunately, the progress on this came to a screeching halt during my Christmas vacation, when I heartlessly cast it aside for a more gratifying (read: quicker) scarf for the Mr.

I also expereinced these feelings of devotion with that ever-so-popular Apricot Jacket from Rebecca. The you're-so-f'ing-close-to-the-shoulder-shaping-why-won't-you-just-finish-me-already back of this piece has been languishing in my knitting basket since, oh, October. Christmas knitting took precedence.

And now. Now. Despite the fact that I could be working on either of these projects, or that wonderful Silk Corset by Annie Modesitt for which I have both yarn and pattern, or any of the other projects I have earmarked/considered for any of the other numerous yarns I have, I dream.

I dream of this, and this. And this.
And don't forget this.

Sigh.

What's a girl to do? Certainly not post more frequently...

(Pictures of my WIPs soon. Maybe that'll be enough to guilt me into finishing what I start. Didn't my parents raise me any better? Honestly.)