It's true! Needful Kikki has been discontinued. Woe indeed.
I have seven skeins of the bluish colourway in my stash for, what now must be, an extra special project. Also, I think I will be one skein short of the green. So, I must hunt. Either that, or turn my top into a sleeveless vest.
30 July 2007
28 July 2007
No Knitting
So, in the spirit of semi-regular posting, here is a lovely picture of a cat. His name is Nemo. He belongs to our neighbour at the last apartment. He used to regularly slip in our door and spend the day with us.No knitting. No much of anything really this week. How is it possible for so many hours to pass with nothing to show for it?
22 July 2007
Sunday Knitting
I cast on a new project this afternoon. It's one of the corset inspired tops from the lingerie book. I'm using some green Kikki from my stash and it looks quite pretty. I worry that I'm a tad short on yardage - probably one skein short. Another concern: when I went looking for the yarn specs on the Needful site, Kikki wasn't listed. I hope it's not been discontinued.
Don't you dig the beautiful patio table? Upside milk cartons never really go out of style, do they?
Re, the poem in the last post. I came across the volume in a book store in Victoria. The fellow at the counter told me the poet is a local. Her use of language knocks me on my ass. I keep coming back to Excess. It's taken me a week to be able to read it without weeping. It's just so effing perfect.
18 July 2007
Excess
Excess
You wake each day feeling the alphabet has grown
overnight, your mouth too full of words
Even silence is a long vowel that will not end,
a five-mile tunnel of ricochet and echo.
You offer simple semaphores to pare things down;
your head in your hands instead of grief's explanation.
When you need help ordering the day's steps,
you cut memory down to a stone you can swallow.
Clear away the tables and chairs, clutter of dishes
and books, the ringing telephone and the clock's tick
until all that's left is one small room
the size of a grown man's skull.
With a key carved from bone, you unlock the door
and bend low to enter; strike a match to find
a place you call relief: that green and simple valley,
the sky unhinging its white ramp of clouds.
Carla Funk
The Sewing Room
Turnstone Press 2006
You wake each day feeling the alphabet has grown
overnight, your mouth too full of words
Even silence is a long vowel that will not end,
a five-mile tunnel of ricochet and echo.
You offer simple semaphores to pare things down;
your head in your hands instead of grief's explanation.
When you need help ordering the day's steps,
you cut memory down to a stone you can swallow.
Clear away the tables and chairs, clutter of dishes
and books, the ringing telephone and the clock's tick
until all that's left is one small room
the size of a grown man's skull.
With a key carved from bone, you unlock the door
and bend low to enter; strike a match to find
a place you call relief: that green and simple valley,
the sky unhinging its white ramp of clouds.
Carla Funk
The Sewing Room
Turnstone Press 2006
17 July 2007
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