April 2007 Archives

by Emily

On pain of this becoming a home decorating blog (heaven forfend!), here is another little improvement in the book-storage department:

You can see one of the skinny bookcases (now my poetry section) to the left of the built-in, and on top of the built-in is the wide, squat shelving unit that Team Johnson (my father and I) threw together last night from some shelving and plywood I picked up at Home Depot. If I were not my father's daughter, I would have paid $80 at Storables for a bookcase that would have been these general dimensions but a foot too short. But since we are a resourceful and crafty family, I ended up with a perfectly-fitted unit for significantly less.

The added storage room lets me spread out a bit, dedicating an entire bookcase on the other side of my desk to non-fiction. There is also a de facto Virginia Woolf section in the leaded-glass cabinet of the built-in, which is fitting given the esteem in which I hold her. And in case you're wondering whether I'm excited about this new development, David can vouch that I was hopping around last night singing "Books books books books boooooooks!" until he suggested strongly that I was disturbing the neighbors and should really get into bed. I do love to be surrounded by books.

Books books booooooooooks!

by Emily

As many of you know, David and I share a 400-square-foot studio. And as many of you also know, I own a number of books (450 even, according to LibraryThing). Personally, I wouldn't have thought that a ratio of slightly more than one book to every square foot of floor space would really crowd the books that much - after all, most have footprints of less than one square foot. But apparently it's also necessary to factor in space for such frivolous additions as refridgerators, beds, toilets and - oh yes - David and myself.

In the service of making the space more livable, I've been on a mad spring-cleaning rampage over the last few days, organizing and winnowing my possessions to take maximum advantage of the space we do have. Trips to Storables have ensued, and lots of satisfying developments have followed. My crafting supplies, instead of being stuffed into a series of brown paper shopping bags and shoved into the back of the back closet, are now neatly arranged in a hanging closet organizer, accessible to my smallest crafting whim. My clothes closet is also significantly more roomy, although my joy about that is tinged with sadness, since many of the clothes I took out of it were really cute things out of which I have unfortunately grown, in one way (miniskirts) or another (size double-zeroes). David and I also acquired some excellent skinny bookcases, which fit into the nooks and crannies of the apartment and give me significantly more room for knitting/sewing/cooking books, as well as an entire bedside section devoted to poetry! Hooray!

But by far the most exciting development in this weekend of organizational mania, is that I actually cleaned out my desk, for the first time...well...ever, judging from some of the things I found in there.

I regret not taking "before" pictures, but the "afters" are the best part anyway. The bottom drawer had the most things ripe for recycling, including an slew of photocopied literary criticism that my professors handed out over the years. I kept a few of my favorites - Christine Froula's essay on Mrs. Dalloway as postwar elegy, for example - but most of them sailed joyfully into the recycle bin. I also went through old notebooks from middle school and high school, and ripped out pages that were mildly interesting, leaving one thin Peechee to put back in the drawer, rather than a cubic foot of dusty old spiral-bound notebooks. At the end, not only was I left with a delightfully reduced and organized drawer, but my accordian file-folder, which was previously taking up valuable bookshelf space, now fits in there too:

The most emotionally difficult part of the exercise was my file of old correspondence, including teasing and/or melodramatic letters from old flames, loving notes from late grandparents, and professions of undying friendship from people I lost touch with long ago. These treasures (or embarrassing reminders of how much better my life is now, depending) were interspersed with generic greeting cards people had just signed and sent on. Now I have an appropriately-sized bundle of meaningful keepsakes, lovingly bundled in a top drawer along with neatly rubber-banded pens and pencils, rather than an unmanageable pile of Hallmark cards that gets in the way of finding anything:

It's the last two drawers that I'm really excited about, though. Before the purge, they were junk drawers par excellence, hiding anything useful behind a thick cloud of old Hosteling International brochures and expired coupons. Now they are neatly-organized tools that are actually conducive to using the desk for writing, of all things. One is now my stationery drawer, eliminating the huge tippy pile of stationery that used to clutter up the top of the desk:

The other is the special writing stuff drawer, home to (along with a bit of stationery overflow) my fancy pen-and-ink set (which didn't fit in the desk before) and my illuminated "E" stamp.

Look at that! Everything I need to write a letter or essay, right there at my fingertips! A great new uncluttered home for my restored laptop, and a lovely station from which to correspond with my international stable of pen friends. I actually feel peace and concentration descend upon me in a quiet blanket when I sit down at this new desk incarnation.

by Emily

MY FRIEND IS BACK WITH ME!!!!!

I am making this blog entry on my restored computer right now. It looks perfect; they even fixed the latch for me, which they had claimed they couldn't do without replacing the whole bottom casing. It is such an amazing, unreasoning relief to have this little rascal back. I actually hugged it when the guys at MacForce gave it back to me. And as a little something to make up for its long ordeal, I treated the ragamuffin to an extra 20G, replacing the 60G hard drive with an 80G. David and I joked that it was offended at having its 60G drive replaced with another 60G two weeks ago, and so looked for its opportunity to get what was coming to it. If that's so, I hope it likes its new brain.

In celebration, I have this to show you:

It's been done for quite some time now, but I haven't been in a yellow or sunshiny mood recently. My mom was kind enough to snap some photos when we were < snottyvoice > out at the ballet < /snottyvoice > last night. The fit is substantially snugger than is shown on the Zephyr page (I made the gauge smaller intentionally, hoping to circumvent the problems some folks have had with Zephyr patterns turning out bafflingly huge), but I really like it! I want to get a long string of round navy beads to knot and wear flapper-style with this outfit. And maybe a little navy hat with yellow accents? Then I would have the perfect ensemble in which to welcome topping young Barnabas Links-Basingham (the swinging clarinet sensation) home from his European travels. Beastly service you get these days on shipboard...young Barnie was forced to spend the entire voyage tossing back champagne and watching the nubile chickadees losing to their matron aunts at shuffleboard. Now where can a chap get a decent set-to in this bally metropolis?

Apart from my fantasies of existing in some sort of Wodehouse-inspired musical comedy, I like the sweater for everyday use as well. The lace panel was elegantly constructed, and makes a great insert for a top-down garment, because the leaves seem to be growing upwards rather than drooping down (as in Walker's Treasury of Stitch Patterns). Fitting for Spring, I think.

Overall, though, I don't think I'm a convert to knitting garments in one piece from the top down. The sleeve construction is super-clever and I love the little faux-seaming detail that the increases create, but it's just too nerve-wracking to be totally done with the garment before I can try it on. The seamstress in me wants to finish a stage, compare with my actual body, finish another stage, compare again, and so on. That way small adjustments - or even large adjustments - can be made early-on. If this sweater hadn't fitted, I would have had to finish the entire thing before finding that out, which would be crushing. So, all in all, I think I'll stick with seaming different pieces together - unless it's a fair isle pattern, in which case I'll just have to bite my nails and hold my breath. In the meantime, here's that little sleeve detail, complete with a purl row across the top to mark the division of sleeve and shoulder:

Tally-ho, old chum, and off to the feed-trough!

... and befriended them
(or, that's how it looked from my
end); I caught small frogs

By David, 1st Saturn Return

by Emily

COMPUTER IS FIXABLE! FOR ONLY $250!!!

This is truly a red-letter day. In jubilation, I suggest we all do a celebratory computer-saving dance and take the day off. In cases where this is unfeasible, we can merely shout portmanteaux at the top of our voices:

"And hast thou slain the Jabberwock?
Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
O frabjous day! Calooh! Callay!
[We] chortle in [our] joy."

by Emily

Apparently the universe wanted to compensate me in some small way for the loss of my computer, because yesterday it provided me with not one - not two - not even three - but four pairs of perfectly-fitting jeans for a grand total of $24.00. Which is good, since I still have no idea how much I'll be spending to get my little friend returned to me.

I bet the rest of you ladies can back me up on this: pants shopping is generally a horrible ordeal. For men, pants sizing is totally logical: there is a waist measurement and a leg measurement, both of which correspond to actual INCHES that he can measure on his ACTUAL BODY. He strolls into a shop, looks at whether a pair of pants is his size, vets them for obvious no-no's like a pleated waistband or ankle-zippers, and then buys the pants. For women, the sizing situation is totally sadistic and out of control. Sizes are just an arbitrary number, which differs not only among different brands, but also over time, as retailers try to make Americans feel better about becoming a fatter nation. So whereas I am a size 2 when I go into a modern J. Jill store with my mom, size 4's from the mid-to-late 90's fit me, and early 90's mean a size 6 - USUALLY, but no guarantees since that number is basically just something some fashion designer-cum-ad-exec pulled out of their you-know-where. Add to that, the truly heinous cuts of jeans that have prevailed at different times, and the cuts that may be intrinsically inoffensive but don't work with a woman's own particular body type, and pants-shopping becomes a horrible ordeal that is better forgotten. And yet, somehow...

My relationship with pants tends to run over a cycle. I'll finagle a pair of pants, by hook or by crook, and for a while I'll feel all right about clothing my lower half. Then the pants will start to wear out, and I'll think "I could really do with some new pants." If I go out shopping for them at this stage, though, I will never find any that I like. The very prospect is laughable. Not even at the "God! I REALLY need some new pants!" stage will the stores yield up their bounty. Only when I reach a stage of pants-related desperation, when I have cut all my existing pants into patches to fix my other, uglier but more cohesive pants, and then those pants have fallen apart, and I look at my closet and think "That's it. If I don't find new pants today I'll be wearing dresses for the next year" - only then will the universe provide. This particular time, I'd let the pants desperation build for even longer than usual, and did old Goodwill ever come through. Despite continuing sadness over the computer, I was quite ecstatic leaving the store.

In fact, I was clutching my four pairs of jeans, telling my lovely shopping-mate Ariel that we had to go, or undoubtedly something would happen that would prise the jeans from my grasp. Like, the store clerk would come over and say "Oh, I'm sorry! Those were the display jeans. They're not for sale." And then she would try to take them back, and we would get into an embarrassing and tearful altercation in the middle of the Goodwill Superstore. A scenario that just screams "class." Luckily for all concerned, we got out in time, and now all four new pairs of jeans are washed and ready for wearing. I even feel good about the selection: one heavy-duty pair of dark denim, two medium-denim pairs that can be dressed up or down, and one slightly paint-stained yet amazingly comfortable and well-fitted pair good for casual settings.

So, the news isn't all bad here at Slash We Apostrophe Enterprises. Four pairs of pants without breaking the bank is a near-miraculous gift from the heavens that I never expect to see repeated in this or any other lifetime, but I will definitely take what I can get.

by Emily

Well, the light yellow shell of sunshine and happiness is finished. But right now I'm more in the mood to show you this:

The sweaterback of tears and anxiety. And why am I such a Gloomy Gus this morning? Could it be because yesterday, only TWO WEEKS after spending $200 on a new hard drive for my computer, said computer got jerked onto the floor by the cord? Could it be because it sustained much damage, requiring another new hard drive AT THE VERY LEAST, and possibly enough repairs that I would be better off just getting a new computer? And could it be because I don't WANT a new computer, but just my nice little friend back with me again? Yes...it is.

The whole thing has been way more upsetting than I would have expected. I am the one who caused the careless accident that hurt my Mac so grievously, and I feel almost as guilty as if I had run over a puppy in my car. I know that's messed up, since a computer is not a living being, but that's how I feel nonetheless. My computer has only ever been good to me. It came to my rescue when my first laptop died in the middle of writing my honors' thesis during my senior year of college. It has facilitated music recording, photo and movie viewing, composition, and my entrée into blogland. If I can't fix it I will be very sad, and in fact I am already feeling quite low - anxious, depressed and somewhat tearful.

On the phone last night, my mom suggested that "You should just knit and knit. It's a comfort." And that's what I have been doing, channeling all of my sadness and anxiety into this lacy little confection, which will hopefully avoid becoming a shroud of woe when it's finished.

I know that getting this upset over a computer is silly in light of all the horrible things going on in the world. I live next to a homeless park, for God's sake! At least I have a nice home that I share with a person I love! There are books on the shelves, foodstuffs in the larder, and friends and family just a short walk away from my front door. I am not currently living in an active war zone, and haven't been personally involved in any random acts of violence recently. While we're playing the happy game, other things to take my mind off my computer-related angst include:

- Kidsilk Haze
- John Steinbeck ("These too are of a burning color - not orange, not gold, but if pure gold were liquid and could raise a cream, that golden cream might be like the color of the poppies.")
- the view from my window
- a job I enjoy
- Harry Potter audiobooks
- macaroni & cheese
- my state legislature just OK'ed the rights of gay & lesbian people to live normal lives and not be persecuted by religious zealots, at least until they enter Idaho
- grapefruit juice
- Eudora Welty ("There, outside, was all that was wild and beloved and estranged, and all that would beckon and leave her, and all that was beautiful.")
- New Seasons groceries
- French knitting patterns
- good friends
- I look forward to spending time with my family and my partner's family
- the days are getting longer, not shorter
- I still have all my data backed up from the last time my hard drive died two weeks ago
- BookCrossing
- warm baths in my clawfoot
- girls in white dresses, etc. etc.

Hmm. Unexpectedly, this little exercise did help to cheer me up a bit, although the computer quagmire still sucks at my heart like some kind of terrible hooded creature from a fantasy novel. At this point I'd just like to know what I'm dealing with: $200? $500? $1500? $Myfirstbornchild? Some kind of ballpark estimate would make the emotional course easier to navigate. Until then, I guess I'll just keep on knitting.

And what did I do?
I watched other children play;
I collected rocks...

By David, 1st Saturn Return

by Emily

So, I know I'm late on this and everything, but the man would appreciate the irony of a belated death-day greeting. I'm sure he would point out that he's hardly in a hurry - he's got all the time in the world now. What it boils down to is this:

A great soul has left the earth. And since many others have been more thorough and eloquent than I would be enumerating his gifts and lamenting his loss, I thought I would just reminisce a little bit about a time that Kurt Vonnegut was particularly helpful to me.

It was in Madrid, in 1997. I was sixteen, and more homesick than I have ever been in my life. I had been living in Spain for a summer, and had lost all perspective on absence and eventual return. "Home" no longer even seemed real to me, although now I would snap up a summer in sunny Spain without a backward glance, secure in the knowledge (and maybe I shouldn't be) that Portland would be here when I got back. But back then I was miserable as only a sixteen-year-old can be. And I was in a transitional part of the trip (transitions have never been my strong point) between the segment where I was living with my host family in Galicia, and the segment where my parents and I would be doing tourist stuff around the rest of the country. I was staying in the dorms at the Universidad de Madrid with all the other kids in my program, most of whom were just there because they could score legal alcohol. So they were staying up all night drinking - and singing, and puking - very loudly, in the rooms above and to the side of me.

I was so exhausted from acute homesickness, forced sleep deprivation and general teen angst that I broke down in tears one afternoon, sitting against a tree in the Retiro. A kind old Spanish man saw me crying, came over and tried to find out what was wrong, but I didn't have the word for "to miss" in Spanish. In my agitated state most of my Spanish seemed to desert me, actually, so the conversation went something like:

Him: "What's wrong? Don't cry!"
Me: "Nothing, it's fine."
Him: "Then why are you crying?"
Me: "Don't worry about it."
Him: "Do you need any help?"
Me: "Um...I don't have any parents!"
Him: "You are an orphan? Do you have a place to stay?"
Me: "No, I don't need a place to stay, I just - they're in America!"
Him: "And they left you here?"

And so on an so forth. He was plainly a nice old man who was touched by my totally out-of-proportion public display of grief, but unfortunately his kindness only made my crying worse. Everything made it worse, actually. The attention of one of the more sympathetic kids in my program, the worried glances of the administrators, the friendly Spaniards and their persistence in mistaking me for a Portuguese girl rather than an American - nothing helped until I wandered into a bookstore with a little English-language section, and bought myself Kurt Vonnegut's Mother Night.

It's hard to explain why a darkly funny novel about an American who pretends too well to be a Nazi would succeed where peers, elders and Madrileños had failed. Partially, it was just the familiar voice, the colloquial American English that I was missing in the air around me. Partially it was the good, old-fashioned reminder that things could be a lot worse: I could be reviled by my entire country for my role as a propagandist in the service of a cause I detested, my only friends - ironically - wannabe neo-fascists trying ineptly to recreate Hitler's regime. Everyone I admired could want to kick my teeth in in righteous anger, and I could be beset by sycophantic bigots who wouldn't even let me hear my own thoughts. By comparison a bunch of drunk high-schoolers in a European capital don't seem so bad.

Undeniably, the humor helped - the author's ear for the ridiculous and true, and his unbeatable comic timing. But I think the single most helpful and calming - yet sobering - aspect of Vonnegut's prose on my overactive teenage brain was his knack of describing human society - adult society, complex society - as if to a child, thereby exposing how inexcusably ludicrous our behavior comes to be, and the way in which all of our excuses and the stories we tell ourselves only serve to make our behavior more preposterous, rather than less, as we like to think. In many ways it's a dark vision of the world, but looked at in another way it's a valuable tool, incredibly useful whenever one's lack of perspective spirals out of control. Reading Mother Night on those hot evenings in Madrid, while adolescent numbskulls partied above me, Vonnegut's prose began to force my brain to break the situation into its components: humans, lots of humans, doing their best (often not very good) and acting silly. Some humans like to drink fermented barley-water until they are so dehydrated that their heads feel like exploding - they do this night after night. Some humans feel bored at home and lonely anywhere else. So it goes.

I think that, as my friend Ariel suggested, we are more in need of such perspective now than I ever was as a grim sixteen-year-old. I feel grateful to Kurt Vonnegut for, among so many other things, showing me a hint at how to achieve it.

by Emily

A poem by Google Search
(aka, Most Of These Things Are Not Actually About Me)

Emily likes to play the guitar and write. She did research and worked on graphics. She learned how to clean up the scanned pictures.

Emily likes to dress up as a princess and enjoys drawing.

And we all know how Emily likes to poke people to spill uncomfortable truths like she has before.

When not working, Emily likes to read celebrity/fashion magazines, wear striped articles of clothing and listen to 80’s music. ...

Emily likes to hide. IN A BUCKET. IN THE DRYER. IN THE BATHTUB.

In her spare time, Emily likes to snowboard, listen to music, read and spend time with friends and family.

Emily likes to roll on her friends. Emily still doesn't sleep through the night. Emily doesn't eat anything green without gagging and puking at the table.

Emily likes to work with both buyers & sellers. She is an intelligent & careful listener. She has renovated 5 personal loft/apartment residences for herself.

But that doesn't really have anything to do with how intensely urban Emily likes to get.

Emily likes to cook chicken parmesan for dinner. (edit). Emily really likes bell peppers. (edit). Emily stated she has recently been kissed.

Emily likes to push this all over the house!

Emily likes to go horseback riding. (edit). One of Emily's favorite snacks are popscicles. (edit). In her free time, Emily enjoys photography and yoga.

In addition to coaching and playing soccer, Emily likes to run, cook, and serve as a peer-tutor.

Emily likes to be notified if mail arrives for her at heaven.

In her free time, Emily likes to travel to Chicago or anywhere else she can visit family and friends.

Emily likes to shop and will request trips to look for desired items. She does not participate. Emily likes to be busy. She likes to cook and do crafts.

She also works for the Ingham County Health Department as a Peer Educator. In her free time, Emily likes to read, travel, play sports, and scuba dive.

Emily likes to shake paws for a treat.

This is what Emily likes to do for fun all the time. She calls this her "game" on the "Dapuder." She's scarily good at it.

Emily would do best in a home with no more than one other dog with a laid back personality, as Emily likes to be "the Queen Bee."

Emily likes to read. . .God's Word, Yada Yada.

Emily likes to read & knit. That's all well and good, except that one cannot live on paper & yarn alone.

Emily likes to play this game where we talk about what we’d be doing in alternate lives.

Our Emily likes to call out the colors as we drive some where.

In her spare time Emily likes to read, write, go to the beach, spend time with her friends and family, and take photos.

anyway, emily likes to pretend and have fun. a lot of her friends do and i really like that. she is in lifeguard school.

emily likes to party.

Just for fun and relaxation, Emily likes to knit, practice yoga, travel, read, hear live music of almost any variety, and go to the movies with her husband.

Emily likes to sing AHHHHHHHH after everything she says.

She has. one brother. She was born on October 12, 1992. Emily likes to play and. invite friends over to her house. In school, she likes math.

Emily likes to think she is one of the guys and can’t stand prissy girls. Emily, life is far too short and precious for such attitudes.

When she's not busy working for clients, Emily likes to travel (abroad as her husband Mike is a travel consultant).

Outside of the office, Emily likes to spend time with her two loves: Steve, her Jack Russell Terrier, and Rick, her fiance (in that order).

In her free time, Emily likes to read, play computer games, and pester her two cats and younger sister.

My sister Emily likes to play sports. She plays volleyball, softball, and track. My sister is 14 years old.

Emily likes to play soccer, play golf, write action novels, and knit in her free time. Emily says that she and Miley Cyrus hang out all of the time.

When she's not busy helping the rich get richer, Emily likes to take long walks on the beach and hang out with her "Freedom" boyfriend François.

Emily likes to share her enthusiasm for Michigan with kids during school visits.

And because Emily likes to keep it in the family, Patti is also her mother-in-law.

Emily likes to inte-. grate science into the classroom. She has kids participate in “experiments,” such as mixing. beakers of colored water together.

When she's not rucking away on the pitch or skating hard on the ice, Emily likes to be trilling Gilbert and Sullivan at the top of her lungs.

Emily likes to print on the back side because it makes the patterns a bit magnified when viewed from the front.

However, Emily likes to get what she wants, and her intentions aren't completely honorable, so its a safe bet to say that she may have an ace or two up her sleeve.

In her free time Emily likes to hang out with friends and family, work out, and watch movies.

Emily likes to sleep in (she slept in until 11 am this morning like her daddy) and loves to fall asleep in the swing and of course the car too!

Emily likes to smile in the morning and when she gets her diaper changed, and when she's looking at her star or swinging.

In her spare time, Emily likes to travel, watch movies and socialise.

"Glorious," as Emily likes to say!

Emily likes to ice skate better than roller skating. She said she could go faster on ice skates.

Emily likes to draw. She drew a bunch of pictures for you to color. If you would like to color them, ask your mommy or daddy to click on the links below.

Emily is doing two courses at Chesneys Maths and English. In her spare time, Emily likes to write. Her other hobbies include going to the gym and swimming.

by Emily

In the wake of the Demi sweater, I wanted a light, brainless little project that would go quickly and fill my heart with joy for the coming of warm weather and sunny days. Hence the birth of what I've been referring to in my head as the Sunshine Sweater:

The day I cast on for this sweater, it was a gorgeous warm day of radiant sun, with flower smells floating along on the breeze. I walked to a little unofficial park by my house and sat in the warm grass, knitting with this fantastically yellow, sproingy yarn that seemed absolutely to turn to fabric sunshine in my hands. Nice dogs came up and nosed me gently, and I patted their warm heads. The soles of my feet got hot where they were sticking out behind me. What an auspicious note on which to begin a project. I hope to carry that hopeful mood of burgeoning spring along with me when I wear the finished article.

The pattern is Zephyrstyle's Rusted Root, and I have been almost completely enamored with the construction thus far. Knitting the sleeves in one piece with the body of the sweater, and building the increases into a cute little raglan puff-sleeve, is a very clever bit of construction that really breaks up the monotony of the mostly-stockinette body. I love the way the neat little rows of increases mimic a seam:

The lace pattern is very suited to a springtime garment, what with its veined leaves ever-growing one from the next, although it took a few repeats to get used to seeing it emerge upside-down relative to my needles. I was convinced that I had screwed something up during the entire first repeat, but now it's looking quite lovely.

Because I do not "do" 100% cotton or mostly-cotton yarn (too heavy, abrasive on my fingers, I just don't dig it), knitting warm-weather garments on a reasonable budget can be challenging. I'm liking this yarn a lot: it's a 55% bamboo/24% cotton/21% nylon blend that is incredibly springy and has a very unusual, sort of moisturizing, almost soapy feel about it, especially in the knitted fabric. I've never knit with bamboo before - most of the bamboo yarns I've come across are too shiny for my liking, but this one has enough twist and added ingredients that it's sufficiently matte to earn my approval, with just a hint of shine to keep things interesting and ramp up the sunshine quotient when the light hits it. I love the buttery color, although I have to admit I would think twice about knitting something in such a light hue again; I've already had to wash three smudges out of it, and I'm not even to the waist yet!

So, things had been going along quite swimmingly, as you can tell by my one week's worth of progress up there at the top of the entry. Unfortunately, a small disaster struck yesterday afternoon:

Yikes! I had to tear back quite a significant number of rows, because of this stupid join between balls three and four, that just wouldn't look right in spite of my threats and cajoling. I somehow ended up with an extra loop of yarn that I couldn't manage to disperse throughout the garment without leaving a run, and whatever I did I was left with a bumpy, awkward-looking join. Worst of all, said join happened to be in a very conspicuous location known as "my left boob." So, out the rounds came, and I learned the drawback of constructing garments in the round: if there is a mistake anywhere in the sweater, everything after that point must come out in order to fix it. Which includes, of course, a whole lot of perfectly unaffected knitting that would normally be part of a different piece of fabric. But. You pay your money and take your chance. Now I have made a somewhat more graceful join, and located it slightly to the back of my left underarm, where fewer people will probably be looking. So, no harm done.

One benefit of taking it off the needles was that I got to try on the sweater-in-progress (hard to do if your shoulders are wider than the 24" needle cable - which, if you're not a freak, they really ought to be). The fit through the bust and shoulders is looking good, if a little more snug than pictured on the pattern. The snugness was pretty much expected, since my gauge was ever-so-slightly tighter than required. I think with a little assertive blocking, and only three sets of waist decreases instead of five, it will work out quite well. Here's hoping!

I had these notions
of normalcy: I was just
doing what I did

By David, 1st Saturn Return

by Emily

I'm on a major Ishiguro bender. Since I wrote a few weeks ago about his newest novel, Never Let Me Go, my enthusiasm has only grown; in fact, I just finished When We Were Orphans, which was every bit as intriguing as the other three of his I've read (Never Let Me Go, The Remains of the Day and An Artist of the Floating World).

As always, the act of narration takes front and center position in When We Were Orphans - I think Ishiguro has got to be the master of using the unreliable (or at least highly subjective) narrator to great effect. In The Remains of the Day there are some scenes that truly take the breath away with their ability to juggle multiple subjectivities while still telling a story that, while multi-layered, is riveting on its most basic level as well. So, for example, there is a scene in which Miss Kenton, the semi-impetuous housekeeper, comes to "bother" Stevens in his study while he's reading a novel, and there is a moment of acute sexual tension between them, except that Stevens (the first-person voice) both refuses to acknowledge such things as "sexuality" to his readers, and may not even understand himself the attraction he felt. In addition, the entire episode is told in flashback, with the past Stevens holding a different set of attitudes and opinions toward the events than the present Stevens. There is also a plotline in the present day which is influencing the moods of Stevens the narrator, and past embarrassment about the novel in question, which adds a certain huffiness to the demeanor of the man, both past and present. Through all of these prismatic narrative challenges, Ishiguro manages to tell a story that is elegant and affecting, as well as communicating, through the reticent and muddled eyes of Stevens, a clear portrait of Miss Kenton's motivations and emotions. No mean feat, obviously.

In When We Were Orphans, Ishiguro's trademark unreliable narrator is used to excellent advantage in the way that the novel plays off of the detective genre, creating an amazing experience for the reader by turning the whole idea of a whodunit on its head. Usually, the detective in any given mystery novel is the ultimate word in veracity: if he or she says it, you can believe it. Extreme examples of this phenomenon are many of Sherlock Holmes' cases, in which Holmes professes to know the solution to the case before he and Watson even start investigating - he's more just trying to tie up a few loose ends, and then he'll reveal everything to us.

But Christopher Banks, the ostensibly great detective in Ishiguro's novel, is wildly unreliable, constantly overlooking the obvious, insisting on the ludicrous, and attempting to paint a picture of himself that's at odds with the memories of seemingly every person he runs across in the course of the novel. Over and over, although he insists on his own social acumen, he meets old acquaintances and classmates who remember him as "a miserable loner" or "an odd duck" - claims to which he takes startled exception ("You must have me mixed up with someone else, old fellow. I was always one for mucking in."). Likewise, when he remembers or encounters anyone who expresses compassion about his orphanhood (his parents are kidnapped when he is a child), he reacts with brusque annoyance.

These character quirks are rendered mysterious rather than absurd or amusing, by the fact that there are also people who do seem to take Banks seriously - he's not simply a deluded maniac believing himself to be a great detective. There are instances that seem to corroborate almost positively certain claims that Banks makes at one time or another, and other passages where he does seem genuinely perceptive and honest, balancing out his more outlandish moments. The interplay between these elements leaves the reader floating along on a superbly-crafted bed of quicksand, always unsure quite what to believe, which events Banks has reported accurately, and why or in what ways he has been inaccurate. Banks' own frustrated description of the citizens of Shanghai could equally well be a description of his own narrative style:

"People here seem determined at every opportunity to block one's view. No sooner has one entered a room or stepped out of a car than someone or other will have smilingly placed himself right within one's line of vision, preventing the most basic perusal of one's surroundings. Often as not, the offending person is one's very host or guide of that moment..."

Generally, murder mysteries are only interesting until the detective reveals the solution, pointed out carefully by all the clues. After that, all the ends have been tied up neatly and the reader is no longer held to the story. But in this case, the novel remains fascinating long after finishing it, because the reader is never quite sure what actually happened, what motivated the characters, or, more importantly for the book itself, the larger ramifications of those events. Not that this uncertainty is ever down to poor writing or simple lack of character development - far from it. Instead, it is as if the possible realities of Banks' life are refracted through the prism of his perception, and Ishiguro somehow manages to communicate many interwoven possibilities via one impressive narration, leaving the reader to draw her own conclusions or simply wander forever among the potential choices.

Like Ishiguro's other novels, When We Were Orphans has much to say about British and Japanese imperialism - in this case, the British occupation and Japanese invasion of Shanghai and mainland China in the first half of the twentieth century. Being far from an expert on the history of foreign aggression in eastern China, I can't break down the political allegory in any detail, but I do think that Ishiguro paints a brilliant portrait of the surreal self-involvement of the occupying British society, still putting on dinner parties and hosting events while a war rages around them. Christopher Banks' own insistence that finally "solving the case" of his parents' disappearance will somehow bring an end to the Sino-Japanese conflict is an excellent metaphor for the egregiously inflated self-importance of the declining British Empire. And the scene in which Banks stumbles upon his childhood home, now almost unrecognizable and occupied by a Chinese family who have spent years dreading his return, is a poignant and bizarre reminder of the literal effects of an "occupying force." But not only do these scenes make for fascinating political commentary; they are also gripping and beautifully told on a literal level, and the atmospheric prose contributes to a craftsmanly web of suspense surrounding Banks' narration.

When We Were Orphans is what I always wanted mystery novels to be: intriguing, insightful, ambiguous, atmospheric and amazingly well-written, ending with some ends tied in surprising places, and some still dangling enticingly in the reader's mind. I've heard that the next Ishiguro novel on my shelf, The Unconsoled, takes ambiguity and strangeness to a whole other level, and I'm delighted at the prospect of continuing and expanding my Ishigurophilia. I'm sure y'all will hear about it when I do.

By David

by Emily

Ta-daaa!

I whipped out the second sleeve and seamed everything up on Sunday, and the Demi is ready (and quite willing) for some time out on the town. It's a perfect sweater for this time of year in Oregon, because it's still coolish out, but with a decent warmth of sweater a person can finally leave the house without a jacket. Also, of course, the color: foamy, springy, purply green. How luscious.

As so often with a Hargreaves pattern, I'm in love with several of the little details of this sweater. I love the long cuffs on the sleeves, and the careful plotting of the irregular rib to flow smoothly into the cabling pattern:

After a few attempts, I also managed to cast on for the neck so that the neckline ribbing flowed seamlessly out of the diamond pattern. I don't know why this took me three tries, but hey - better late than never.

David, as always, was great help with picking out the buttons. As much as I'm loathe to admit it, I think he's got more of a "button eye" than I do. In this case, I think it was me who originally spotted these beauties, but it was him who suggested going with the silver-tinted versions rather than the bronze-hued ones.

Unfortunately, there were only three of them available, whereas the pattern calls for four. So take a good look at them, and if you see another small silver button with that appealing, cable-y pattern, pick it up for me, won't you? I actually don't think the missing button is that conspicuous, and with only three I can take the sweater off and on without unbuttoning anything around the neck. Still, I'll probably check the Button Emporium and Josephine's, just for the sake of completeness. For now, I'm completely enamored of the fit through the armholes and shoulders, which the missing button doesn't spoil at all.

I've been thinking a lot about my first entry on this sweater, and how I talked about fastening a bit of my pleasant or meaningful surroundings into the garment I'm working on at any given time. I've been trying to become more conscious of all the nice times that have gone into making this sweater, which has also become a motivation to avoid knitting when I'm tired and cranky. So, in case you can't see them just by looking at it, here is a partial list of things that I knitted into this sweater:

- Sitting and people-watching downtown with David on the first warm day of spring, 2007;
- A ramble through the woods on the Banks-Vernonia trail with Ariel and Charlie;
- Basking in the glow of the sun-gilded Deschutes River on David and my 7th anniversary hike;
- Relaxing with David and Andryce over a cookie and a glass of water on one of the first nice nights of spring;
- Watching a basketball game for the first time in sixteen years, with some old friends of my parents from college, his father, and their daughters;
- Listening to great old stories of my grandfather as a boy and a young man;
- Sitting in the lovely sweet magnolia smell on a bench in Forest Park, on an end-of-week walk with David;
- Chatting with my co-workers during downtime at work; and, of course
- Listening fondly to Harry Potter audiobooks with David.

Seriously, there is so much Potter stitched into my knitting projects that I would be careful if you see me in one of them around a wand. And is it just my imagination, or does a faint aura of Hogwart's robes hang around the sweater?

In any case, I'm enjoying it to no end. Of course, I have two - uh, three - no, wait, four - other projects waiting in the wings, but that's a subject for another time.

But that all started
later on; perhaps I should
back up to before

By David, 1st Saturn Return

by Emily

For my April memorization poem, I'm giving myself a bit of a challenge: H.D.'s multi-page tapestry of words known as "Other sea-cities." Among all of the gorgeous verses penned by Hilda Doolittle, this might be my favorite. It's really too long to paste the whole thing here, but the first section, which is also a repeating motif to which the poem flows back again and again, changing its shape and context every time, is this:

Other sea-cities have faltered,
and striven with the tide,
other sea-cities have struggled
and died:

other sea-walls
were stricken
and the pride of galleys broken,
only you, remained, beautiful,
O sea-bride!

I love this poem on a level almost divorced from content. Yes, the subject is pleasing, and I'm drawn to its nostalgic-yet-troubled depiction of a long history of great and beautiful seaside cities, all but one fallen long ago. I love the layered evocation of life in these cities, as in the verses:

and laughter-
everywhere, there was laughter;

a boy with a fish-net,
a girl with a hamper
of lampreys,
the long days,
scented with tamarisk,
the long nights
sweet with the aloes,
the fruit piled in baskets,
the merchants with fresh scents
from Arabia,
from Cos,

the wind when it rose high
would open a shutter,
a girl in a blue veil
would push it,
and rain print
her garment upon her,
till she stood, blue
like lapis,
slaves drag from the harbor:

did these love sea-beauty less
than you,
mistress,
O sea-blest?

Why them and not you? H.D. asks over and over of her unnamed, still-extant city by the sea. What did you know that they didn't? Were their lives not brilliantly full enough? Their art not sufficiently perfect? Although the poem is a kind of ode to the city that remains, I come away, each time I re-read it, with more of a sense of loss for the cities that have gone. The vivid scenes she paints, the marble monuments she describes, the explorers, prophets and priests, are all citizens of the other cities, the lost cities, and although there is an implication that the remaining city does all of these things even better - has even more beautiful women, even greater artistic accomplishments - there is also a note of sadness and even reproach at the loss of her sisters. Their violet was as violet, the speaker cries. Why is it now bleached-out on the ocean? A question to which anyone who has suffered loss can probably relate.

Their blue was as sea-blue,
their purple as purple,
indigo was indigo,
violet, violet
and red ran its riot
like the open red pomegranate.

they knew all the gamut
of glass
that took your name;
you reaped fame from their fame;
crystal,
white-gold
or ash-gold,
amethyst,
or fire amethyst,
gem, salt-water, clear air;

her craftsmen wrought marvels,
sea-creatures,
sea-bubbles;

amber caught light
like the sea-weed
a-wash on the sea-stair,
but men
naming such ware,
speak of you
not of rich Tyre.

"They knew all the gamut / of glass / that took your name." Such a beautiful line.

But it's the rhythms of the poem that really get me - the way that central motifs recur again and again in unexpected ways, tying in each new idea without drawing explicit connections, engendering in the reader a sense of return - very suited to the theme of of the immortal city and all the others to which no one can go back. At times the ear picks up the melody of that opening verse, even when the words aren't repeated, or the words will be repeated with variations on the theme. These refrains also, of course, imitate a chant, an element of ritual in mourning and paying tribute. Saying it out loud can be a very meditative experience - you become awash in the motion of the poem, just as (appropriately enough) a person can gaze hypnotized at ocean waves, cresting and retreating.

And, just like the waves on the ocean can surprise you from the side or follow closer and further apart in sequence, the rhymes, alliteration and assonance in "Other sea-cities" are staggered in a gorgeous and unpredictable way, playing off each other to great effect:

Other sea-cities fell
though they built patiently and well,
other sea-cities wrought
intricate details
from rare rock,
stolen from inland,
set great lumps of lapis
above altars
and placed lamps
of alabaster or agate
before god's feet or goddess:
other sea-cities,
named Beauty
their mistress

All in all, it's a gorgeous opus. I have to admit that the prospect of memorizing the entire thing is a bit daunting, but I'm positive that being able to recite it to myself quietly while walking near my own western ocean will be ample recompense.

Tell city,
your secret:

for others built beautifully and well,
but fell
to lie
like a bleached hull;

other sea-cities have faltered
and striven with the tide,
other sea-cities have struggled
and died:

other sea-hulks
were stricken, riven
and the pride of galleys
broken,
not one beside you,
remained, beautiful,
O, Sea-Bride.

By David