the Village Knittiot

Monday, in the mail, there was an envelope addressed to me from a dear friend back in Minneapolis. When I opened the envelope, I found two pages, apparantly cut out of my friend’s most recent issue of Cooking Light, and a hastily scribbled note on a recipe card (probably the first thing she could get her hands on) that said, “Ok, I don’t run or knit, but still managed to be offended by this bitch who appears to want to spit on me.” So, I looked at the pages. The first was an ad (click on it to enlarge):

In case you can’t read it, it says: “I guess I could take up knitting. People who knit seem happy. But then, I’m too competitive. It seems like highly competitive knitters are frowned upon.” The best part, though, is the smug look on her face.

The second page, which appeared in the magazine not more than a few pages later, I might add, was a little blurb about how knitters (and crocheters) are using there skills in charitable ways to benefit their communities and the world around them. Apparantly they had an article on knitting in the previous issue and this was the section where people write in and say they liked (or didn’t like) the article. This quote appeared at the top of the page:

Apparantly non-competitive knitting is okay — as long as it is charitable.

I have been a runner (had to stop because of knee troubles) and I am a knitter and I can honestly say that competition entered into the picture less for running than it does with knitting, and I wouldn’t classify myself as a competitive knitter by any means.

But what this really brought to mind for me were endless discussions I have had with various women from many backgrounds about this sense of competition and the role it plays in our relationships with one another. I’m sure this is a very clever ad. I am, after all, talking about it. And it did manage to make it’s way through the postal system from the Midwest to the East Coast and into cyberspace without the company having to do anything but piss somebody off. Still, it’s strange isn’t it?

I don’t like it, not only because it sounds condescending, but it seems to insinuate that wanting to be happy is a silly little game and that the real grown ups are out there in the rush of competition. I know it’s “just an ad,” but when our lives are inundated by ad upon ad upon marketing campaign upon ad, if we don’t time out every once in awhile and analyze the messages that are getting through, then those messages tend to get free reign in our little brains and do all sorts of interesting things. And if advertising is not only an influencer, but also a reflection of the worlds we live in, then it is worth analyzing the messages that catch our eye.

Much progress was made on Rogue this weekend. Not only that, but yesterday I even managed to capture a rare and elusive picture of the Rogue in light that doesn’t make it look like dirty, washed out Prison Rogue. And though Prison Rogue is infinitely better than the frightening Prison Poncho of Martha Stewart fame, I’d rather just avoid prison altogether as a source of inspiration for knitting.

See. It is Purple. Actually, I have to confess it isn’t even quite that purple. There really is more grey in it than that, but I’ve given up on accurate color. At least this one looks lively.

I just finished Chart A (the cables that run up each side) and am heading into the well documented waters of Chart C, which winds it’s way up into the hood. I’ll be working away on the hood this weekend, I imagine, and then it is only the sleeves left. There are many things that I want to say about how much easier it is to knit a sweater than I had thought it would be, or how quick of a knit this Rogue pattern is (despite it’s intimidating 19 pages), but I fear that I may anger the knitting gods and end up hanging myself on the fast approaching hood portion of the pattern. So I will reserve judgement, observations and any self-congratulatory speeches until I have safely sewed in all my ends.

Saturday night I wore the Dramatic Shawl out to a party hosted by none other than Big Geek. People, let me just say her knitting room is like a religious experience. You wouldn’t believe her stash even if I told you, and the number of books she has…it’s like a little library of knitting lore. I was particularly pleased by the number of comments I received on the Dramatic Shawl and I am hoping that since many of the comments were immediately followed by a “Did you make that?” it was simply because, being of the creative ilk as so many of them were, they assumed that, like themselves, I am a creative genius, and not because it was the knitting equivalent of a finger painting that someone with the artistic understanding of Donald Trump would make.

Also, thanks to the Easter Bunny (Thank you Easter Bunny! *bawk, bawk* — Does anyone else remember that commercial? I think it was for Cadbury Eggs) I now have $50 burning a hole in my pocket and urging me to get to the yarn store post haste. There is actually a constant litany in my head lately that goes something like — socks, socks, socks, socks, socks, SOCKS, socks, socks… — you get the idea. Anyway, Saturday is the monthly Linux Meetup and it is not 50 yards from a yarn shop — a yarn shop that, even though the owner is vile and once searched through all the books in her store, counting them to make sure that my copy of Stitch-n-Bitch was really my copy and that I hadn’t stolen it despite the fact that I pulled it out of my purse and was talking to her about a pattern in it two seconds after she watched me walk into her shop and pull the book out of my bag to consult the pattern I was having trouble with, nevertheless has some very nice sock yarns (Is yarns a word? Or is the plural of yarn, yarn?). So, it appears that socks are next on my knitting agenda. Any pattern recommendations and/or advice, as always, are more than welcome!

Okay, round two, which I assure you is not so long and self-indulgent as the last one. Also, I actually manage to answer them all this time

More from Alyshajane:

2. If you could have any job in the world, what would it be?

Writing and Teaching at University (in that order).

3. Who do you admire?

This could also turn out very long, but let me just say that I admire anyone who is honest and does their best. I admire people who are self-aware and who pursue their dreams. As a writer, I tend to admire a lot of other writers — and I mean a lot, and all for different reasons, which is why I can’t possibly list them all here (I promised at least an attempt at brevity, remember?). But in general I just admire creativity and intelligence in any field. I admire people who stand out from the crowd and who live conciously every day (or at least a significant portion of the time). I admire people who have high-standards for themselves and who expect a lot out of me — to me that communicates respect, and I admire people who communicate their respect. I also admire people who find it possible to both see the state of things as it is in all it’s horrific splendor and still love every single moment of their existence in this life.

And from Colleen:
1. If you could speak another language, which one would you choose and why?

I would choose to speak Japanese, because my best friend is Japanese. I very much like to think that Hiroe and I communicate on a level quite beyond language, but I can’t help knowing that it would add another layer of depth to our understanding of each other. Also there is the practical side of her family and friends speaking Japanese and I really want to be able to communicate with them better than I currently do. That and it’s always been a dream of mine to live in Japan at least for a little while someday.

Pictures of Hiroe speaking at my wedding last year, and also one from the prom we went to together (starting a lot of very fun rumors).

2. What are three of your ââ?¬Å?guilty pleasures?ââ?¬Â? You know - the things youââ?¬â?¢re really embarrassed to admit you like to do for fear of being made fun of (like Iââ?¬â?¢ll readily admit to loving the movie ââ?¬Å?Greaseââ?¬Â? - how pathetic is that?).

Hmmm. This takes some thinking…

One thing that jumps out is a recent embarrasment upon discovering my Dan Fogelberg MP3s playing on my computer (Mr. Knittiot who set up the playlist kindly remembered how much I enjoyed Mr. Fogelberg and added them to the mix for my benefit — what a sweetie pie) at a party where there were several musically hip people in attendance, most of whom I didn’t know well. I will on occassion admit my fondness for 70’s soft rock and if pressed will even fess up to having gone so far as to see Gordon Lightfoot in concert a couple of years ago when he came through Minneapolis. But I’m not sure I was ready to confess it that evening. Of course I did.

I think that the embarassment in “guilty” pleasures often stems from a fear that people will form an opinion of us based on just a snapshot of who we are. This seems less and less important as I get older. And also, I’ve embraced the geek within and I’m much more comfortable with myself than I used to be… Still, I’m sure there are other things that could be classified as guilty pleasures, I just for the life of me can’t think of what they are right now! (And yet I can ramble on and on and on about it — amazing!)

3. If you didn�t have a knit blog, what kind of blog would you have and why?

Well, even though this is a knit blog, I write about a lot of other things including my writing, computers, life in general, video games, and whatever happens to strike my fancy at the moment. So instead, let me tell you about the kind of blogs I wouldn’t have.

I’m pretty sure that I wouldn’t have a political blog because all the ignorance and stupidity I would be certain to encounter in the comments and emails and so forth would really piss me off. And also because, though I am quite informed, I know a lot of people who know a lot more about politics than I do and I would feel shamed by my own ignorance too probably. Also I am still in the post election funk struggling to believe there is anything we can really do anyway.

I would also probably not have a blog about physics as I know nothing about physics except that it affects me in practical ways every second and that I don’t need to know how in order for it to continue to work.

Sometime earlier in the week, I published a little Meme I found over on Knittin’ Honey’s site. Part of the bargain was agreeing to answer three questions. I was going to try to answer them all in one post, but as I started to write, the answers got, well, long. Concise is hard for me. Good thing I want to be a novelist, eh?

Alyshajane asked what I consider to be a very open ended question — “What is your favorite childhood memory?” Yes, I realize that to most people there isn’t anything open ended about the definition of “favorite” (which means one preferred), but with my notorious inability to answer questions like that without rambling on and on, we’ll see how it goes.

So, how do you pick just one? And why are the first things that rise to the surface always the painful memories? I guess I just needed a good long chance to wallow in the bitter before the sweet started to emerge and the really remarkable-in-spite-of-it-all started to come into focus. But now that I can see them, it’s all I can see, and there isn’t a bit of bitter that isn’t infused with sweet.

A few weeks ago I went home to see my mom. I actually went home to take care of her following an operation to fix the knee she broke when she fell earlier this year. Being back to take care of her meant being stuck in the house with little opportunity to galavant across Minneapolis. Which not only meant lots of time to knit, but also a little luxurious free time to poke through the boxes of pictures she keeps stacked in her office. One afternoon while she napped, I took the boxes down and started sorting through them so I could take a few of them back to New York — a few pieces of old home for my new home. I’ve been looking through some of them again this morning.

My first thought on answering the question was going to be a short generic answer that stated my favorite childhood memories were mostly about reading. And then I added, if I wasn’t reading, I was usually swimming. And then if I wasn’t in the water or burying my nose in a book, I was probably riding my bike. Or I was spending time with my two cousins, who were more like siblings. I practically lived at my aunt’s when I was growing up and to this day, when I refer to my “parents” I usually mean my mom and my aunt. And all of these, while memorable and worthwhile, didn’t quite seem to provide any vividness — didn’t cause my brain waves to flash much. These are the surface memories…

When I was three years old, my parents split up. It would probably be more accurate to point out that when I was three years old my mother offered my dad a choice — me or your friends. He chose his friends. Of course, it would be many years before I realized that the cleverly veiled subtext of that story meant “friends” of the female variety. Anyway, she said it and he told her he wouldn’t be home that night. Shortly thereafter, it was just my mom and I. This fact never seemed odd to me.

When she went through the divorce proceedings, she also had her name legally changed back to her maiden name, and the precocious 5 year old that I was insisted (and I mean insisted) that I too wanted my name changed. The idea that I could choose my own name, even at that young of an age (or maybe especially because of my young age) sparked an excitement in me. That, and I definitely wanted to have my grandpa’s last name. Being a 5 year old, I didn’t really understand that my grandpa was a bit of a cad, I just liked him. I thought he was charming and funny. And I wanted to be part of his family. My dad’s parents were creepy, and didn’t really care for me. So, it was settled. I remember that I had to sit on the stand in a courtroom and tell the judge that I wanted to change my name and maybe I had to tell him why. I don’t remember what I said, but I do remember making the whole courtroom of people laugh. I still enjoy making rooms of people laugh, I’m just a bit more shy about it now than I was at the age of 5.

After my dad left, my mom met a wonderful man — Richard Green. Well, I’m not sure if she thought he was very wonderful, because they didn’t stay together. I don’t remember witnessing any tenderness between them, no memories of them hugging or kissing. They seemed more like really good friends than anything. And after seven years (in an off and on again sort of way) they pretty much parted paths and we didn’t see him anymore after that. I was ten years old and I still remember driving down the hill away from the apartment and thinking, “We’re never going to see him again.” Shortly after that, he married his Mexican pen pal, Hilda, and later they had a son who thinks that Dick is an old fuddy duddy and he is completely perplexed by this. Think midwestern Woody Allen if he were a painter instead of a director, and you pretty much have Dick.

But that’s not what I thought when I was a child. He was really the closest thing to a father that I have, and if I had to say what my favorite childhood memory was, it was him. He read with me, encouraged me to create, fostered a lifelong aversion to the television (which he assured me would only make me stupid), and loaned me his parents so I could have grandparents, which was really nice after my mom’s parents died. Because of him, we took vacations. We often went up to the north shore of Lake Superior and I saw a side of the world that I wouldn’t have seen any other way. We fished and we read and we hiked and lived in the outdoors like mountain men and pioneers (except in cabins, and with things like toilets and stoves).

I think that I was an incredibly difficult child with lots of what are now called “issues” but which used to just mean I was a brat. And I sometimes worry that he doesn’t know how much of a difference he made in my life, but he did. I loved him. And I felt that he loved me. And more important than that, he believed in something good in me. And I think it’s possible he was the first person who really made me feel that.

Dick was an artist, a painter, a musician. He wanted to learn to speak Spanish, so he just did. He was a photographer. And he owned parrots — Dominic was his favorite, and I remember how he cried the day that he flew away. He then got Molly and Cocoa, but they were not Dominic and they hated my mother and I. But sometimes, Molly would let me feed her peanuts.

Dick worked as a commercial artist for an advertising company. He hated this every day of his life and still, as far as I know, does. But he continues to paint, and it is because of him that I grew up believing I could be an artist. He introduced me to computers before anybody really had them, and he programmed a game he called Rachel’s Spanish into his computer for me when I said I wanted to learn to speak Spanish too.

And it wasn’t until just now that I realized how much he influenced my ideas of what a relationship should be like and how very many similarities Mr. Knittiot shares with him…

I promise the answers won’t all be this long, but nothing like your childhood to get you off on a tangent.

Last night I had every intention of coming home and settling down at my desk to an evening of writing. I hadn’t exactly committed out loud to doing it, because lately I have found that “sneaking up” on the writing is far more conducive to actually writing. Mostly because declaring, “I am now going to write” usually results in me sitting down at my desk and getting lost in my own little mental implosion. Not incredibly productive, and quite likely to shatter nerves and confidence in one fell swoop.

Focus has always been a challenge for me. I tend to multi-task (both as a nervous habit and a coping mechanism). But multi-tasking while writing is tricky. You start thinking that perhaps a slight distraction would be useful, get you out of a mental rut, help you not focus on a block (which you reason is only making it worse). But the sad truth is that more often than not the distance you were seeking quickly turns into a gap and suddenly it isn’t a harmless distraction anymore, it’s a full fledged shift of focus. Quite an addicting little trap there…

On the other side of the pendulum, there are the little writing dictatorships I have tried in vain to impose on myself over and over and over again. You WILL write for X number of hours, X number of days per week. You WILL produce X number of pages. You WILL not have any distractions while writing (i.e. unplug your network connection, pay someone to hide your wireless card, etc). But what can I say? I’m a rebel and there is no surer way to bring out my inner Revolutionary than fascism. So that doesn’t work either. And, of course, unrealistic goals (and believe me I am both King and Queen of the realm of unrealistic self expectations) only make you feel like a failure.

So, back to last night. The truth is, I wasn’t able to sneak up on an *entire* evening of writing. I was on the prowl for distractions before I even walked in the door, and news of the recently arrived Netflix (complete with the impossible to resist pull of Bette Davis and the unforgettable viewing experience that is All About Eve) was enough to push me over the edge of temptation. But, I am pleased to report, not until I had taken the time to satisfy myself by completing a little writing exercise while Mr. Knittiot made dinner.

I’ve been trying to figure out what is so overwhelming about the writing process. And I think I’ve realized that the reason it seems so big and so nebulous is because, well, it is. And further, that this is not a point to panic about. Instead, it is the place where you start to understand that you make it what you want it to be. Writing — my own particular writing — will only ever be defined by me. So, in a way, it feels like my job right now is to answer, for myself, the question — “What is writing?”. And the only answer I can come up with right now is Exercise.

I am at a point where I need exercise. Not only do I need something I can do every single day that makes it possible for me to say to myself (the writer), “Yes, I wrote today.” I also need practice. Plain and simple. And permission. Permission from the inner critic to be imperfect, and to be comfortable with being imperfect so that I don’t have to deal in panic attacks everytime I sit down to do my “real” work.

I also have realized that for sanity’s sack, a physical outlet is becoming increasingly necessary. I have known this for sometime, but am only just now finding the energy to follow through on it (Is it just me or does this sound awfully dramatic?). So, this weekend, I am going to start doing something about that too.

Unlike past declarations of this kind, I have spent some time evaluating whether or not these expectations of myself are reasonable or realistic, and I think that they are. Even so, I’m keeping a little flexibility in my back pocket to revise if necessary.

…this one sounded interesting. I ran across the following over at Knittin’ Honey’s place and thought it might make for some rainyday fun…

Are you up to the MeMe challenge? Here’s a different take on the MeMe, whereby you put your answers in the comments section of my blog. When you are through, copy-paste the MeMe to your blog, and I’ll stop by and do the MeMe for you! I’m shamelessly lifting this MeMe from another blogger, without offering them credit. So be it. I will post the answers to everyone’s three questions. . .

A. First, recommend to me:

1. A movie:
2. A book:
3. A musical artist, song, or album:

B. Ask me three questions, no more, no less. You may ask me anything you want, but I can decline to answer anything which makes me uncomfortable.

C. Copy and paste this in your blog.

I’ve already posted my recommendations and asked my questions over on her site.

Movie: Dogville
Book: The Unconsoled (by Kazuo Ishiguro)
Music: Shawn Colvin (especially Steady On, her first album) or The Jayhawks (what can I say, they may be gone, but they will always have a place in my heart).

Want to see what I asked her? You’ll have to stop over there and check it out…

As far as computers go I think that I am pretty much like your average person. I like things to work. I don’t want to feel like I need a PhD in physics to use something. And despite having *some* idea about what is going on with my computer, I am still pretty much in the dark about how it works, what to do if something goes wrong, etc. I tend to let Mr. Knittiot get things to a working order, and then I try to keep everything as it is so long as I can do what I need to do. In other words, I do not muck. Not a lot anyway.

Once I get used to The Way Things Are or learn about something that seems interesting, I tend to think about it for a very long time, maybe even mention it 5 or 6 times, then casually illicit the help of my household TechnoGod (I, of course, do not immediately avail myself of that help, as there is still change/adjustment time needed). I feel extremely fortunate in this way, because I know not everyone has a household TechnoGod, especially not one like Mr. Knittiot who is a little bit like a cross between the Computer Whisperer and a Technical Savant.

Anyway, since I first started learning about Linux, the Open Source Initiative, and The Free Software Foundation (among others), I have been watching and reading and thinking and feeling a sense of excitement — almost like anticipation. I kept finding my non-technical self doing things like starting conversations about the theoretical superiority of Linux, and deciding that it is important to have a philosophy about technology. And when Mark Morford posted a rant about why it is silly for Americans to spend as much money as they do on PCs when they could run the all powerful and ultra secure Mac, I actually emailed him and told him if he was a real rebel, he would be using Linux — I, of course, being a current Microsoft Windows user (if you could see me right now, you would see the sheepish expression on my face).

I have asked Mr. Knittiot 6 times over the last several months to install Linux on my laptop, which has always been greeted with enthusiasm, but when he woud then say, “Great, let’s set up a time!” I would say, “Sure, okay…” And then change the subject. In my mind Linux meant becoming a Mucker, something I am distinctly not. It meant leaving the familiar safe womb of Windows and venturing into a whole new galaxy. I was scared — even despite the security blanket of said household TechnoGod (maybe I should knit a little deity statue).

Well, Sunday afternoon I took the plunge. Which was really more like Mr. Knittiot coming into the den (where I was happily knitting and watching Buffy) and saying (for the umpteenth time) let’s put Linux on your box. And me finally saying, “Okay, I’m ready.”

There are a lot of words that Mr. Knittiot uttered on Sunday. I thought I was doing pretty good understanding every 7th or 8th one. Even so, the process went pretty well. I learned, though not as much as I should have. And as of Monday afternoon (Mr. Knittiot wanted to spend Monday “Mucking” with the system himself) I am a Mucker. I have been successfully booting into Linux, checking my email, posting to the blog, browsing the web, setting my preferences, and learning about the brave new world that is Suse 9.2. In short, the world has not fallen apart, and there was minimal disruption to the technological flow of my life. I am participating in something that I really admire, and I’m learning how to be a Mucker. Power to the people!

Okay, so lest you think I do nothing but geek out all day, with nary a knit to show for it, I bring you the Whirlwind Fiber Update straight to you from the Knittiot.

Since receiving the infamous Fiddlesticks Triple Mohair Shawl Kit, I have been working away on it. Working away completely off gauge, I might add. And ending up with something that Mr. Knittiot suggested I could give to a giant if I ever met one. Not a bad idea. Still, though it didn’t quite turn out as planned. It still turned out and I have decided that it is very dramatic indeed darlings, and I ought to now go teach theater to high school students.

Truth be told, I think that I realized pretty early on that I was off gauge (Gauge swatch? Who knits a gauge swatch for a shawl?). The finished edge along the top is supposed to be 84ââ?¬Â?. Yesterday, Erin and I measured it, and it is close to 120″. Still, despite its short– er, rather, long-comings, it is scrumptious. Just check out these colors. Very Purpley.

In other knitting news, I have purchased the awe-inspiring Rogue pattern. And despite a little trouble with my brain and a chronic condition of overthinking (which resulted in having to rip back quite a few rows more than once), I am making some nice progress on both the cables and the pocket. Though there was a slight hiccup with the pocket as well, which can be entirely attributed to confusion — a side effect of the afore mentioned disease (Chronic Overthinking Disease — also called COD. Yes, like the fish). These pictures make it look like I am knitting a prison rogue in dreary gray. The color is called “Lavender Cliffs” (Which for some reason makes me think of the movie version of Wuthering Heights with Laurence Olivier and Merle Oberon who uttered the words, “Heathcliff, fill my arms with heather!” and which I feel a need to repeat on a regular basis).

Thanks to a well done tutorial on the importance of prepping your rovings before you sit down to spin, I have a renewed zeal to finish these:

They are the last of the rovings that I picked up last year at Rhinebeck, and I want to get done with them so I can move on to something else.

Wow! Things sure look different around here, nes pas?

Since I fired up the Village back in November, I have been hobbling along with some content management software that Mr. Knittiot (my own personal TechnoGod) managed to make function in a blog-like manner.

But, it wasn’t exactly a smooth process. Not because the software wasn’t awesome, but because it was meant to handle so much more than a simple blog. When I wanted to post a new entry, I had to code links and images using my good friend HTML, which often made writing an entry seem like a much larger task than just jotting down a few words and hitting “Publish.” Also, there were the comments, which I didn’t like from the start and thought were less than intuitive. Even so, I had a blog. So all was good…

Then, last week I was reading through someone’s blog when lo and behold, he happened to mention a little piece of open source blogging software called WordPress. I looked into it, and I knew this was the software for me. Mr. Knittiot spent a few days poking at it, and the result is this. Changes can be expected pretty regularly as I muck about with some of the features, turn things off and on, and in general run around my blog like a little kid hopped up on sugar.

This free software is an example of the remarkable tools available to you thanks to the Open Source and Free Software movements. If you don’t know what Open Source means, learn. If you’ve never been to the Free Software Foundation’s website please do. I mean it. Among other things, this is about accesibility to technology for more than just the priviledged few who can afford to pay hundreds and thousands of dollars for technology and its benefits and opportunities. More than that, it is about a thriving creative community. It’s about technology as a concept not just an abstract tool.

I have been using Open Office (which replaced the entire Microsoft Office suite for me, which I couldn’t afford) for about 6 months, I also have Gimp installed (Photoshop substitute), and last week I realized it was silly to be using Microsoft’s web browser when I could be using a secure browser like Firefox instead. So I installed that. It rocks. You may also have noticed before the link on this site to Creative Commons. They are kind of the Open Source answer to copyrights, allowing for gray areas when it comes to your creative works. Recognizing that creativity builds off of a creative community, and that art inspires art, yet understanding that my creations are still my creations, it allows me to specify in what ways anything I create can be used. Today, I am taking the ultimate plunge and installing Linux on my laptop (with help of household TechnoGod, of course — though he assures me that he is only going to stand there while I do it myself, because it is just that easy).

*steps off soap box* Okay, just had to get that out there.

Speaking of Mr. Knittiot, he did manage (we think) to keep all the registered users of the old site, as well as their comments. If, for some reason, you cannot log in to this site (there�s a link down and to your right for that), please request a new password. If you don�t get a new password within ten minutes, please send an email to webmaster [at] pjsattic [dot] com and Mr. K will see what he can do!

Writing about writing is something I do a lot. Also writing about not writing. And reading about writing. And, much of the time, thinking about writing. Usually I think about the fact that, for a writer, I write precious little. This is a cause of great concern and anxiety for me. And, of course, concern and anxiety do nothing for my ability to do any writing.

For me, lately, the task of writing feels like opening the door on the Universe. It is large and fascinating and overwhelming and not a little scary. It is big and small and contradictory and ugly and breathtaking. My brain wants to make sense of it all, but cataloging an uncooperative Universe and attempting to put it in order is no small task and it certainly isn’t one that can be done by me or in my one little lifetime. Life, in short, is messy and I’m not sure where to dig my hand into the whole big mess and begin to pull stuff out.

When I was younger I could exist with a pretty phenomenal amount of clutter, but when my bedroom came to what I considered a critical point of chaos, I was compelled to clean in a manner bordering on obsessive. I started by taking everything and throwing it into the middle of the room, which resulted in a massive pile of stuff. Then I would start pulling things out of the pile, piece by piece, and putting them away. I often got side tracked. Putting a pair of clean socks in my drawer led to the cleaning out of said drawer before returning to the pile for the next item. Sometimes the room needed to be completely rearranged.

Initially, it was an exhilarating feeling, but I always hit a point in the middle where I was just overwhelmed. I had been working for hours and the pile didn’t seem any smaller. Nothing was taking shape yet, and I couldn’t really see an end in sight. I just wanted to give up, but there was this pile and something had to be done about it. It always took a long time, but was absolutely cathartic in the end. I didn’t want to leave my room for days after that, and I took extra care to put things away where they belonged. Inevitably chaos won out, as it always does. But then I just started over again. It hadn’t dawned on me yet to ask “What is the point if it’s just going to get messy again?” And if it did dawn on me, I wouldn’t have cared what the answer was, because it just felt good when I was all done.

Right now, with my writing, it feels very much like that tough middle stage where everything is overwhelming, you feel like you haven’t made any progress, and things look almost exactly the way they did when you first started. Which is kind of a revelation to me, because I’ve been beating myself up and feeling pretty poorly about where I’m at, and how, after all this time, it feels like I still haven’t really started. But really, it’s more like being in the middle than anything. And it’s always nice to discover (even if only momentarily) that you’re further along than you thought. Puts a little spring in your step, you know?