… what do you think?
I believe my love for a contrasting edge is well documented. So last night when the opportunity presented itself (or, rather, when I remembered that I had some Ultra Alpaca leftovers in charcoal and in between episodes of Rock of Love) I decided to give it a try. After all, I’m going to have to buy another skein of yarn no matter what. But does it work? Or is it just contrast for the sake of contrast?
It’s a bit like the coffeshop dilemma: I want to be all hip and stylish and monochromatic, but there’s that part of me that just can’t do it and must embrace my (secret) flashy tendencies.
Also, for some reason these colors makes me think of Jem and the Holograms. I’m okay with that.
Alice is thinking it over. She’ll get back to me later.
And now, since I’m out of yarn, I’ve got to get on to today’s main project. (Could I knit the albers shawl in all that kidsilk haze I’m probably never going to use for the dreamy wrap? A high-stakes move, since kidsilk is both expensive and impossible to frog.) No, must stay on task. I’m going to talk about etymology: I love etymology. Not as much as I love kidsilk haze, but … let’s be honest, Derrida does not write much about mohair.
It’s bird by bird for me:
“So after I’ve completely exhuasted myself thinking about the people I most resent in the world, and my more arresting financial problems, and, of course, the orthodontia, I remember to pick up the one-inch picture frame and to figure out a one-inch piece of my story to tell, one small scene, one memory, one exchange. I also remember a story that I know I’ve told elsewhere but that over and over helps me to get a grip: thirty years ago my older brother, who was ten years old at the time, was trying to get a report on birds written that he’d had three months to write, which was due the next day. We were out at our family cabin in Bolinas, and he was at the kitchen table close to tears, surrounded by binder paper and pencils and unopened books on birds, immobilized by the hugeness of the task ahead. Then my father sat down beside him, put his arm around my brother’s shoulder, and said, ‘Bird by bird, buddy. Just take it bird by bird.'”
Anne Lamott, Bird by Bird: Some Instructions on Writing and Life (New York: Anchor Books, 1994) 18-19.