Interesting Things That Happened Yesterday:

1. I was driving off to see the cat and the house for the night and I saw something cross the road in front of me. I thought, "Wow, that's a really big hunchbacked cat." But it was, in fact, a raccoon. On I Street and Third Avenue. Lock down your pets!

2. I found a yarn store in West Jordan that has a really impressive yarn selection.

3. Ditto for a fabric store in Gardner Village, of all places. (Well, almost ditto. The fabric store had a nice selection of fabric.)

4. There was a line in the old movie Sabrina that I liked, spoken by Miss Audrey: "I thought I was all grown up. But I just got a new hairdo."

What I'm Doing With My Life This Week:

Mostly, finishing small knitted projects:

A mostly-completed sock, also known as The Ninja Sock of Death.


A spy hat made of alpaca that gets black lint on your hair.




The last of the Christmas gift knititng. I like this pattern so much, I will make a purse like it come spring. (This is a cosmetic bag.)


Also, house- and cat-sitting without a laptop. (For the love, people--a little patience, please?)

And finally, making lists of what I've learned during this seemingly endless week of introspection:

1. I don't want to live alone.
2. I like brightly-painted walls.
3. I like my job and the structure it provides.
4. Baking is soothing.
5. I really enjoy living ten minutes away from a walk in the foothills.

Come back tomorrow for MORE LISTS! Really!

See The Blazing Yule Before Us

Fa la la la la...okay, you get the picture.

Yesterday was the Winter Solstice, or Yule. Here's all sorts of internet knowledge about the Yule log (not to be confused, of course, with the pastry version of it, the buche de noel). I hope God blesses us (one and all!) and that we all enjoy our versions of Christmas. Or Yule. Or Hanukkah, although I think that's finidhed.

I'll be posting next week (just for you home readers, Annihilate) but probably not every day. Stay tuned.

Thumpety Thump Thump, Thumpety Thump Thump

Look at Frosty go:


(Yes, from a Hopkins sonnet to jokes about snowman poop. In the SAME WEEK.)

Silent Night, Holy Night

All is calm, all is bright:

O Holy Night

Oh night...when orange kitty replaces Mary:

Why I Should Show More Compassion to Those on Match.com:

As we recall from last week, I spent my Thursday night mocking men's profiles on Match.com. And while it was mean-spirited, in Friday's case it was justified, because WHO PUTS A PICTURE OF THEMSELVES DANCING LIKE A MUNCHKIN ON A SITE MEANT TO ATTRACT THE OPPOSITE SEX? (Scornful mockery is also justified when men announce things like, "I want a woman who isn't afraid to ditch her 'inner man'...preferably long-haired brunettes with nice knees.") See? I scorn him! You can't make this stuff up.

Anyway, I was out walking on Main Street Friday with its usual colleciton of odd and mostly unlovely people, when an unlovely person caught my eye crossing the street and looked worried. And I thought to myself, 'Good god, woman, have some compassion on people. You're scaring the passersby with your scorn.' And then I remembered this Hopkins poem:

As kingfishers catch fire, dragonflies dráw fláme;
As tumbled over rim in roundy wells
Stones ring; like each tucked string tells, each hung bell's
Bow swung finds tongue to fling out broad its name;
Each mortal thing does one thing and the same:
Deals out that being indoors each one dwells;
Selves--goes itself; myself it speaks and spells,
Crying Whát I do is me: for that I came.
 Í say móre: the just man justices;
Kéeps gráce: thát keeps all his goings graces;
Acts in God's eye what in God's eye he is--
Chríst--for Christ plays in ten thousand places,
Lovely in limbs, and lovely in eyes not his
To the Father through the features of men's faces. 

And in this season of the lion lying down with the lamb and a Judeo-Christian riot of card below my twig tree, let's remember that "Christ plays in ten thousand places" and we get "to thhe Father through the features of men's faces." And let's also avoid Match.com.

Why I'm No Longer On Match.com, Reason One:

This is a REAL photo of someone with an active profile, online last night. Somehow, I ended up looking through the "Online Now!" profiles with my roommate last night and laughing my head off. I will leave you with the question my gay roommate asked: "Is he trying to dance?"

Christmas Happy Fun Cat

It's Beginning To Look a Lot Like Christmas, Part Three

Isn't there a verse in Isaiah somewhere that predicts, "The lion shall lie down with the lamb"? Do you think somewhere in that same chapter there's a verse that predicts, "And the Jewish dog greeting card shall be displayed next to the postcard depicting the Pieta"? Because lo! it has come to pass:




















It's a dim picture (the roommate believes in lighting effects), so here's a close up of the postcard from a friend in Rome, with Mary mourning the body of Jesus:















And here's a close-up of the Hanukkah card from another friend, with a very nice dog:



















And they are both co-existing peacefully at the base of my crazy twig tree. If that isn't a sign of the season and God's love for us ALL, I don't know what is.

Kind Of

It's kind of dark this morning. I think it snowed in the night. It might be raining right now but I'm not going down to get the newspaper until I'm dressed and on my way to the car, because it's kind of cold. Kind of reminds me of this section from "Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird," by Wallace Stevens. (Well, it's kind of a stretch. But it's a good description of a snowy afternoon, which is kind of like a rainy morning.)

XIII
It was evening all afternoon.
It was snowing
And it was going to snow.
The blackbird sat
In the cedar-limbs.

It's Beginning To Look a Lot Like Christmas, Part Two

I Blame Wallace Stevens

I was out of sorts all day Thursday, and couldn't find a reason why: Work was fine, roommate was fine, everything was fine. I thought maybe I needed excercise, considered a walk in the winter twilight that evening, then decided against it. Then I remembered this Wallace Stevens poem, The Poems of Our Climate:

II
Say even that this complete simplicity
Stripped one of all one's torments, concealed
The evilly compounded, vital I
And made it fresh in a world of white,
A world of clear water, brilliant-edged,
Still one would want more, one would need more,
More than a world of white and snowy scents.

III
There would still remain the never-resting mind,
So that one would want to escape, come back
To what had been so long composed.
The imperfect is our paradise.
Note that, in this bitterness, delight,
Since the imperfect is so hot in us,
Lies in flawed words and stubborn sounds.

I felt better. And since "the imperfect is our paradise," I decided to watch Pirates of the Caribbean II with the roommate and knit a muff. Yes, I said it: a muff. Here it is, three steps away from being finished:














The reasons behind wanting to knit a muff are probably more complex than I care to explore (I'd have to blame the J. Peterman catalog, too), but the surface reasons are:
1. I tried starting a new project last night and it didn't start well (never try to knit lace and watch an action movie)
2. I had a ball of varigated blue yarn, which reminded me of a bluebell I saw at the top of Hidden Peak this summer, and some leftover grey yarn from a project last year
3. I have a Dr. Zhivago-esque grey coat from Target without any pockets.

So when I fold this in two, sew up the bottom seam, and add a strap, I will have a coordinated place to put my hands. And if that doesn't put someone in a good mood, I don't know what will. Except, maybe, some Captain Jack Sparrow! Yarrr!!

It's Beginning To Look A Lot Like Christmas, Part One

Part one of an infrequent series...



This one is my favorite:

Finishing

So the floppy items that were not hats



















became genuine felted cosmetic bags Tuesday night and are now FO's (Finished Objects). (Yes, an Unfinished Object is a UFO.) Look, they have zippers! They are thick and felty! They stand on their own!















And check out the full view of the background, which is my bed. Yes, three different patterns in six feet.

Considering Kitties

Cats have been on my mind, lately. No, I won't be adopting one, since my roommate claims he's allergic. But I enjoy visiting the cats of my friends and relatives. And posting cat poems!

This one is by Christopher Smart and is an excerpt from Jubilate Agno, part of which he wrote in an asylum. But I enjoy it, crazy as he was. (And this is only part of the it--read the rest here.)

For I will consider my Cat Jeoffry. For he is the servant of the Living God duly and daily serving him. For at the first glance of the glory of God in the East he worships in his way. For this is done by wreathing his body seven times round with elegant quickness. For then he leaps up to catch the musk, which is the blessing of God upon his prayer. For he rolls upon prank to work it in. For having done duty and received blessing he begins to consider himself. For this he performs in ten degrees. For first he looks upon his forepaws to see if they are clean. For secondly he kicks up behind to clear away there. For thirdly he works it upon stretch with the forepaws extended. For fourthly he sharpens his paws by wood. For fifthly he washes himself. For sixthly he rolls upon wash. For seventhly he fleas himself, that he may not be interrupted upon the beat. For eighthly he rubs himself against a post. For ninthly he looks up for his instructions. For tenthly he goes in quest of food. For having consider'd God and himself he will consider his neighbour. For if he meets another cat he will kiss her in kindness. For when he takes his prey he plays with it to give it a chance. For one mouse in seven escapes by his dallying. For when his day's work is done his business more properly begins. For he keeps the Lord's watch in the night against the adversary. For he counteracts the powers of darkness by his electrical skin and glaring eyes. For he counteracts the Devil, who is death, by brisking about the life. For in his morning orisons he loves the sun and the sun loves him. For he is of the tribe of Tiger. For the Cherub Cat is a term of the Angel Tiger. For he has the subtlety and hissing of a serpent, which in goodness he suppresses. For he will not do destruction, if he is well-fed, neither will he spit without provocation. For he purrs in thankfulness, when God tells him he's a good Cat.

Productivity, With Pictures

My weekend:

Friday night, I had five organic lemons and about half a quart of vodka. I was going to make limoncello--until I read the recipe again and realized I needed 160 proof vodka (or "grain alcohol," which I think is Martha Stewart Living's polite term for Everclear). My Absolut is only 80 proof, so we'll see what it turns into. All the floating bits of organic lemon peel look like some odd Victorian science experiment.

After that, I had five naked little lemons. So I juiced them and made a tart Saturday afternoon. It's like a French lemon meringue pie, sans meringue.















In between the fun with lemons, I knitted two presents for the office mates: No, they're not failed hats; they're going to be cosmetic bags. They got felted (shrunk) in my parents' washer, but were too damp to photograph.




















On Sunday, I fought other crafty types in the impossibly narrow aisles of the JoAnn Fabric and Craft Supercenter, looking for zippers for the not-a-hat felted cosmetic bags. Then I raided the parents' yard for tree branches and set up my Christmas tree back at the apartment:



















It's not the best picture, but I'm happy with the overall effect. My roommate hinted that adding some greenery would improve it, but I like the look--somewhere between Charlie Brown and something crazy and Victorian. (Crazy Victorian again--it's a theme!)

Other things I did this weekend that didn't get a photo: Worked on more (secret) Christmas presents; worked on a knitted garland (with pom-poms!) for the office; cleaned the house; did laundry; fell down in the icy apartment parking lot twice; got a new battery in the Focus, courtesy of my clever dad; and listened to Palestrina's Missa Papae Marcelli repeatedly.

Unrelated Information on December 1

1. Mark Strand did not wear a turtleneck. He did, however, wear a suit with a lavender shirt. And he had some sort of scarf-y thing draped around his neck.

2. I did not like his new poems.

3. I guess my brother is feeling better after his wisdon teeth surgery, from the "Light Meadow" comment last night.

4. Here are PUNS a friend forwarded to me:

A vulture boards an airplane, carrying two dead raccoons. The stewardess looks at him and says, "I'm sorry, sir, only one carrion allowed per passenger."

Two fish swim into a concrete wall. The one turns to the other and says "Dam!"

Two Eskimos sitting in a kayak were chilly, so they lit a fire in the craft. Unsurprisingly it sank, proving once again that you can't have your kayak and heat it too.

Two hydrogen atoms meet. One says "I've lost my electron." The other says "Are you sure?" The first replies "Yes, I'm positive."

Did you hear about the Buddhist who refused Novocain during a root canal? His goal: transcend dental medication.

A group of chess enthusiasts checked into a hotel and were standing in the lobby discussing their recent tournament victories. After about an hour, the manager came out of the office and asked them to disperse. "But why?” they asked, as they moved off. "Because," he said," I can't stand chess-nuts boasting in an open foyer."

A woman has twins and gives them up for adoption. One of them goes to a family in Egypt and is named "Ahmal." The other goes to a family in Spain; they name him "Juan." Years later, Juan sends a picture of himself to his birth mother. Upon receiving the picture, she tells her husband that she wishes she also had a picture of Ahmal. Her husband responds, "They're twins! If you've seen Juan, you've seen Ahmal."

A group of friars were behind on their belfry payments, so they opened up a small florist shop to raise funds. Since everyone liked to buy flowers from the men of God, a rival florist across town thought the competition was unfair. He asked the good fathers to close down, but they would not. He went back and begged the friars to close. They ignored him. So, the rival florist hired Hugh MacTaggart, the roughest and most vicious thug in town to "persuade" them to close. Hugh beat up the friars and trashed their store, saying he'd be back if they didn't close up shop. Terrified, they did so, thereby proving that only Hugh can prevent florist friars.

Mahatma Gandhi, as you know, walked barefoot most of the time, which produced an impressive set of calluses on his feet. He also ate very little, which made him rather frail and, with his odd diet, he suffered from bad breath. This made him ( a super calloused fragile mystic hexed by halitosis.

Oh, it hurts so good.

Mark Strand is Coming! Mark Strand is Coming!

One if by land, two if by sea!

Mark Strand, the turtleneck-wearing author of such delights as the poem in the Gallivan Center and Dark Harbor, will be reading from a new collection of poems tonight at 7:00 at The Kings English. Come to see Mark--maybe he'll be wearing a turtleneck! (I know I'll be wearing one.)

Holden Catfield!

This kitty's name is Holden Catfield! It really is!

(Wow, how obvious is it I slept in and didn't have anything ready to post?)

Knit-tastic

Here's some evidence of the knitting frenzy of the last week or two: The hat, vest, and mitten (no, it's not an oven mitt) were all completed over the weekend.

As I was working on the vest, I was worried it would be too big, or look like it came from a circus; I was worried that after all that time and effort it wouldn't turn out. And I had to think, "This must be what parents feel like about their children."

A Long Literary Tradition

I spent most of the long weekend finishing knitting projects (my own, so I could move onto Christmas Gift Knitting). I knitted while everyone talked on Thanksgiving, I knitted the next day at the laundromat washing the living room rug, I knitted at home in the evenings listening to Brahms or watching the Matrix movies

And, while knitting, I had time to mull over...some things going on in my life. And I had to conclude that the Relationship With an Age Disparity (or the "inappropriate" relationship) had a lot of tradition to back it up. (Not my own tradition; that's an entirely different post. And probably a lot more knititng.) Consider books sitting on my shelf right now: There's Jane Eyre, in which Jane is 18 and Rochester 35. There's Across the River and Into the Trees, in which the lovely Renata is 19 and the Colonel is mid-fifties (universally derided, but Hemingway always said it was the best thing he'd written). There's Rebecca, there's Fugitive Pieces (highly recommended; yes, Dad, I have your copy), there's even the wholesome and sentimental Little Women, where 26-year-old Jo ends up marrying the 40-ish Friedrich Bhaer.

I'm not sure what I'm proving with this book report, except maybe to say it happens fairly often and sometimes it works (unless your boyfriend is dying, or his country house burns down and he loses his eyesight trying to save his secret first wife, or you have a crazy housekeeper). Maybe I'm saying this, from The Hours: "They could have had a life as searing and potent as literature itself."

(Unless, of course, you're in love with a gay man dying from AIDs, like Clarissa in The Hours is. But that's a different sort of "inappropriate" altogether.)

Like Being Out of School

Starting tomorrow, I'm taking a holiday from posting until Monday. Most of my six readers won't be at work, either, so I don't think I'll be missed much. I promise to read something worthwhile over the weekend, so I won't have to post any more...

CAT PICUTRES!!

Good Old J.S.

With all the cat pictures lately I haven't mentioned I've been on what can only be described as a knitting frenzy--in the last 10 days, I've finished legwarmers, a hat, half a mitten, and about seven inches of my vest. Needless to say, my hands were stiff Monday while I was typing at work. But after eight hours of typing about Microsoft I desperately wanted something soothing and intelligent to do. My hands said, "No knitting!" and then I remembered the Goldberg Variations. I remembered how much I love Bach. And I remembered this passage from An Equal Music, which I read in college only once.

This passage ends the book; it's thought by the narrator as he watches his (married)beloved perform a recital of Bach's The Art of the Fugue: "Music, such music, is a sufficient gift. Why ask for happiness; why hope not to grieve? It is enough, it is to be blessed enough, to live from day to day and to hear such music--not too much, or the soul could not sustain it--from time to time."

(By the way, I had copied that passage into an old journal sometime between May 7th and 16th, 2003, when I was moving. And if anyone thinks catching up on reading my blog lately makes them want to "go on antidepressants"--well, try searching through four years of journals to find a passage that asks, "why hope not to grieve?". That's all I'm saying.)

Maybe

Maybe someday I'll have something original to post here...maybe I'll run out of these cat pictures soon and return to literature...maybe I'll read somthing with more literary value than Little Women...BUT UNTIL THEN:

Whee!!!

Can't...Resist....Cat....Pictures.......

I'll just declare this funny cat picture week and bring it to an end, how's that?

Oh, the--

This Wordsworth sonnet came up in conversation last week, and I hadn't thought of it in a long time. It's a good poem to think of if you haven't been hiking for a while, or if you've been writing too much Microsoft marketing materials, or if your roommate has found a Russian pen pal who wants to come visit. Very soothing poem, I'd say:

The world is too much with us; late and soon,
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers:
Little we see in Nature that is ours;
We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!
This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon;
The winds that will be howling at all hours,
And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers;
For this, for everything, we are out of tune,
It moves us not.--Great God! I'd rather be
A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn;
So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,
Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;
Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea;
Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn.


And in the same spirit, if you feel it's all too much but you don't want to read a poem, take a look at THIS:

BoingBoing has been posting some good stuff lately. Excellent.

Ch-ch-ch-CHIA

It just gets better, really: My brother was joking that instead of a dog, I should get a Chia Pet. Then, in true brother fashion, he decided no, a Chia Pet was a bad idea because I probably wouldn't be able to keep even that alive. So I saw him Sunday and he and his wife had found me this:

It's a PLUSH Chia Pet, one that cannot be killed, no matter what, and will always "grow" and always love me. Its name is "Puppy." I love Puppy. Sherlock Bowie loves Puppy. Life is grand.

The Cheesiest

So I got the macaroni and cheese made this weekend, and it did not disappoint. (Anything that calls for 3/4 pound combined white cheddar and fontina is going to be good.) I looked for a good recipe online and found one, along with the history of mac and cheese, on marthastewart.com. (Apparently, Thomas Jefferson liked it so much he served it at dinner parties. Who knew?) "It all started during the age of European colonization, when seafaring men transported dried macarone—one of the few staples that could survive a year aboard ship—from Italy to Britain and to the American colonies. American colonists did not have the selection of fresh produce and other ingredients that the Italians had; their meals were improvised from a larder of fresh or sour milk, stale bread, and pork drippings. So the imported pasta would often be served with a simple white sauce—milk thickened with flour and butter. Sometimes it was baked in a casserole with buttered breadcrumbs on top. A recipe for a casserole of macaroni, white sauce, and grated yellow cheese was first recorded in the “Boston Cooking School Cookbook” in 1896."

And look what else you can find online!

Says It All

Yes.

Kitty power!

Oh My God, It Could Happen! It Could Really Happen!!

(Thanks to Miss Amber for another delightful image.)

Some Unrelated Information

1. Did you know that women in the U.S. did not have the right to vote until 1920? That's only 76 years, folks--I know people who were alive in 1920.

1a. Women who did not vote: Now, really. This is still kind of a big deal.

2. It's hard to cook when you're sick. I've had a sore throat all week, which makes swallowing very difficult, which means endive and the makings of a Frenchified, gratineed macaroni and cheese are languishing in the refrigerator.

2a. Thanks god for frozen cheese ravioli, so easy to make, so soft to swallow.

3. I think I might have to get an imaginary dog, to go with my imaginary boyfriend, because people don't want to give dogs to single working ladies who live in apartments. Even though they're nice ladies. Here's a lyric to a Neko Case song that went through my head today: "Her jaw aches from wanting..." You can read all the lyrics here. (They are not about dogs.) But still.

Really. Big. Ears.

So remember the picture I lifted from Cute Overload of this goat with enormous ears? Well, take a look at Jack, the schnauzer-mule deer mix. How 'bout them ears, huh? Jack is in Idaho. Maybe he wants to come live with me! (To my roommate, if he's reading: At least I don't want to adopt a goat. Or a monkey.)

Alpaca Wrangler

Yep, that's me. With a real live alpaca. I spent Saturday morning holding alpacas by the necks while the owner of Blue Moon Ranch trimmed their toenails. I talked to them all in a soothing voice, although it didn't prevent two of them from trying to shake me off their neck like a rag doll. Then I got to help halter train a few. This is Bindi, who was a good girl and only tried to run away once.