the Village Knittiot

I keep a notebook with me at all times. Usually I have three of them, but no matter what, whenever I leave the house, I bring my smaller notebook with me so that I can jot down important things, unimportant things, great ideas, not so great ideas, snippets of conversation, words whose definitions I want to look up and interesting billboard phrases. When I was in college this sweet, wonderful professor led us through Walt Whitman’s Song of Myself and lovingly spent an hour talking to us about the Poet’s chief occupation as a cataloger of life.

I often jot down ideas for blog entries in my little notebook and today was struck with the thought that if I followed through on them all, I would have a post or two a day. On Monday when I wrote about Feed and my Sisyphaen difficulties with finding my starting point, I realized that I was onto something.

The most crucial part of writing for me is the first paragraph, the first chapter, even the title. I need the seeds of a beginning to help me get started. And a holistic approach to thought, in which all the pieces are interconnected, makes it difficult to find the starting line. Perhaps it is because, in the midst of my inclination toward holistic thought processes, I have almost all my mental training in linear progression. When I learned how to outline in grade school so I could take notes, I used to cry trying to make it all work. I just always felt that things were missing, connections weren’t made and I didn’t know how to fit everything into a nice neat order. Life never struck me as particularly nice, neat or orderly. Also I’m fond of following rabbit trails, and tend to find some of my best thoughts happen in tangents. I also resist definitions, because, well, inevitably they miss something, some subtle nuance. I think my third grade teacher is still living in my head telling me that I’m not following my outline.

Years later I was introduced to spider web outlines — the kind that start with a main topic in the middle, which branches out into other major subtopics and their little parts beyond that, and you can draw lines between them to show how minor subtopics are connected to other minor subtopics. It was a brave new world, but you try turning in a spider web outline to your teacher for a report on the salmon and see how that goes over. Not very well I can tell you.

Thanks to the new job, I have been learning a lot about my own writing process. When it’s something I don’t have to care deeply about and I can recognize it as a writing exercise with a point (namely gainful employment) it makes it easier to face some of the blocks and to analyze them step by step. This then translates into my own personal writing.

The word I use most often to describe the cluttery state of my mind is “overwhelmed.” When it comes to taking all my thoughts and getting them down on paper in a way that both makes sense and communicates complexity and depth, I sometimes have trouble breathing. It’s as if I have to go back to the beginning (in a linear sense) and suddenly I am hyperventilating in my third grade classroom trying to explain to my teacher the inadequacies of an outline and getting nowhere. I slump back to my desk in defeat and half-heartedly attempt to start at Roman Numeral One. (***I understand that part of school is supposed to be about learning a certain number of skills, but sadly that often turns into squelching actual critical thought when it crops up. Shouldn’t most of school be about encouraging people to really think about things?)

So I’m thinking, maybe it’s time to let go of those expectations I’ve been carrying around since third grade? Maybe it’s time to stop worrying so much about how it will all come together in “the way it’s ’supposed’ to” and just let it come together the way it will. Maybe its time to start figuring out what really works for me. Revolutionary thoughts, I know.

Last Monday I finished the book Feed by M.T. Anderson. For the past week I have spent hours and hours trying to pull my collected thoughts into some semblance of order. It hasn’t been an easy task and I know that I have only begun to scratch the surface of what I want to say.

I tend to interact with my literature pretty personally (what’s the point of reading if you don’t?). I internalize what is going on. Make connections. Everything I read seems to relate to every other thing I have ever read, seen or heard. The side effect of this kind of approach is that finding a starting point for commentary can feel at times like a sisyphean task. I try to start at the beginning, but each time I discover my beginning, I realize that some event preceded that one and we are rolling back to the bottom of the hill and starting our way back up.

Feed takes place in an all too believable future. Forget Big Brother governments that rule exclusively through fear and intimidation. Watch what happens when corporations control our lives, exploiting all our emotions to turn us into better consumers. Complacency abounds when the toughest decision you have to make is which shirt to buy.

Told through the eyes of an average, ordinary teenager named Titus, Feed doesn’t deal strictly in stereotypes and generalities. Anderson’s teenagers are people. He has respect for them. And that reason alone is what will make this book required reading for all my future English classes.

The title Feed, refers to the system installed in the vast majority of Americans. It is like the Internet in your head. Not only is it the place that you chat with friends, watch television or movies and find all the information you need (sure beats that pesky need to exercise your brain and remember facts or think), it is also tied in to all your vital functions, even your memories. But its primary function is to make being a consumer easier than ever. As it analyzes your every thought, every impulse, every action, it takes that information to feed you the appropriate remedy or enhancement. “Buy this!” flashing in your brain 24 hours a day and always sounding like the voice of reason and clarity.

In this society, what makes you a valuable member is your ability to consume. Sound familiar? The environmental, psychological and spiritual consequences of this extreme world are tough to take. I find myself walking along the sidewalk now and noticing the blades of grass shooting up through cracks in the cement creeping outward and I just want to bend down and kiss them. I want to shout, “Hooray for you! Keep growing! Don’t let them stop you!”

Not everything is perfect in this future (she said facetiously). The poor are still marginalized (imagine that! people without the ability or desire to consume are considered unimportant? who would have ever thought!?) and the opportunities are reserved for those who have the means to access them. The worst part about this, is that the absolute destruction of the environment makes it impossible to hike into the wilderness and just drop off the grid. There is no place else to go. Not to mention the toxic conditions which people would rather tolerate than change, as long as they get to continue to live in their nice houses, buy their stuff and keep getting entertained.

The book is centered around American existence, but hints abound at the hatred which is felt throughout the globe toward the Americans. The good news, as far as I can see, is that the Earth itself will get extremely pissed off with us long before we can complete this vision and she’ll find her own ways to take care of the situation.

This jumbled mess doesn’t even scratch the surface of what I want to say. I’m not sure what is going to happen with this, but I’m not by any means done writing about it. There’s just too much. But whatever you do, go get this book from your local library. Read it. Give it to your favorite teenager, your friends, family members. And please, talk about it together.

When I was a kid, the boys in our neighborhood got together one summer and built their own fort. Up until this point, we had all played and worked together harmoniously as a group. We had even managed to completely transform this area around a large old tree into a comfortable somewhat fort-like structure. It hadn’t required any hammering or building materials, we just used the landscape and environment to naturally provide shelter and doorways and room partitions. We all brought items from home or that we found to add to it and there was much playing and climbing and having fun. So, when they erected this monstrosity on the side of our favorite sledding hill, it felt like a bit of an affront. In a scene like something from an old movie, they even took a piece of paper and wrote “Boys Only” in their very awful little boy handwriting and tacked it to the front door.

In no way did I understand this action, and so I did what anyone would do. I cracked the combination for the lock they had put on the door and went in to have a look around. Sitting there in the middle of the floor was a bucket of paint, which I can only assume they were going to use to spruce the place up — and boy did it need it. The place looked just awful. How could this possibly be better than our tree fort? Feeling a spurt of resentment, I opened the lid on the paint bucket and turned it over on its side, leaking paint all over the floor of their fort, little hoodlum that I am.

I’m sure I don’t have to tell you they were angry. But so was I. Here we had spent all summer working together and then they just went off and with a few boards and nails managed to shut me out. Well, my anger only lasted a moment and then I felt a bit sick. Of course they discovered it was me. I don’t remember how, probably I did something stupid like step in the paint and then walk home leaving a trail of footprints right to my front door. My mother suggested that I bake them brownies to make up for my bad deed. I thought that didn’t sound like it would work, but I was pretty desperate at that point and was ready to try anything. This is how I learned to apologize, and unlike my girlfriends, who I would discover over the years continually punished one over and over again for even the most minor of transgressions, when the guys heard me say I was sorry and had the chance to tell me how lame it was that I did that to their fort, they each took a brownie and it was over. I like boys.

In July when Mr. Knittiot and I visited Philadelphia to see if it was our kind of town or not, we stopped by this great bookstore. To me, the hallmark of a town that I can live in is the presence of a bookstore precisely and only for younger readers. Philadelphia, fortunately, has one of those and there, on a bookshelf I found a collection of writings from some of my favorite authors of all time called Guys Write for Guys Read which turned out to be a bunch of short pieces written by various children’s authors and illustrators on, well, being a guy. Some of the contributors (and this is a paltry sampling) include M.T. Anderson (who wrote the brilliant book called Feed, which I am in the middle of right now), Eoin Colfer (Artemis Fowl), Neil Gaiman (who forever changed comic books for me), Daniel Handler (who is as funny in person as you would think), James Howe, Brian Jacques, Walter Dean Myers, Christopher Paolini, Daniel Pinkwater, and so many many more.

The book was compiled by Jon Scieszka and all the proceeds go to his organization called Guys Read, a literacy organization which he started in order to generate and celebrate reading enthusiasm amongst guys of all ages (though particularly kids and young adults). When we got back, I requested the book from the library and last week it came in. I spent much of the weekend making my way through several of the entries, many of which I had to read outloud to my husband because they were the kind of hillarious you feel the need to share with someone else. We were both laughing so hard at points that I thought I was going to pee my pants.

I think the best one so far — and I’m still only in the H’s (the book is alphabetical by author) — is called The Follower by Jack Gantos, which you can read if you go to the website and click on Adults, then Help Guys Read, then Jack Gantos. The website is done in flash, so I am having trouble figuring out how to link directly to it, which I suppose is a good thing if you want people to roam around your site, but mildly irritating if you just want to link to something.

So, if you get a chance, check it out. Better yet, if you know a young guy pick up a copy for him. Then do him the favor of reading him The Follower and watch as even the most non-reading kid gets interested in reading. The best part is that each author has a selected bibliography after their name, so if the guy likes what the author said, he can go to his local library or bookstore and request something.

On a final not, if I hadn’t got this book, I might never have discovered that there is a book out there called The Day My Butt Went Psycho — which, you have to admit, would be pretty sad for a girl who owns all the Captain Underpants books and goes by the name of Loopy Stinkerchunks in some circles…

At thirty years old, I still find myself energized by the beginning of the school year. I sometimes wonder if I am the only person my age who feels that something in the atmosphere actually changes. What I mostly feel is a *need* to study and write and think and read. Theoretically, I love to study. That is to say, I love learning new things. I love delving into a topic and exploring it. I love to pause in the middle of a blissful study session and think about how happy I am to be surrounded by books and taking notes and using my brain. I love sipping tea in my office and jumping back and forth from one book to the other and then looking up the definition of a word and taking down a few notes about my thoughts on this person or that idea.

When I was out of school I thought it would be fun to just write research papers. Give myself a topic, study it and write about it. My trouble, it appears, is in the actually getting started. Seriously, it is a real problem. I have lots and lots and lots (did I mention lots?) of plans that never get started. These unfinished ideas usually turn into criticism in my head. I’m sure it must be pretty obvious by now that The Critic tends to run the show around this village most of the time. The hard part is that all the derision makes it even more difficult to get started. Needless to say, the voluntary research papers, my writing projects, my blog, studying for the GRE — it all tends to get waylayed by procrastination and its accompanying self-defeating litany of doubt and despair.

Once upon a time, I think these tactics probably worked. The Critic was born out of an empty space that needed filling. He played an important role in getting me motivated. Unfortunately what happened was that he started only truly being effective when it came to making other people happy — teachers, employers, friends, even family. This didn’t do a lot to make *us* happy, but it didn’t really matter if we were happy as long as other people liked us. Which, in this poorly laid plan, meant that we were pretty much stuck on the hamster wheel of approval and subject to the whims of everyone else. I think we are finally tired of running — and also of getting nowhere. But to change my life at this point, puts The Critic out of a job. And if nearly nine months of my husband’s unemployment has taught me nothing, it is that things start feeling pretty damn desperate when your job is on the line.

It’s easy for me to look around and feel that I’ve made very little progress. It’s easy to see all the areas that fall short. And it’s easy to blame myself for every single thing that is “wrong.” Then I notice that portly insurance salesman perched on my shoulder in his tacky tweed suit, whispering little cruelties in my ear, chewing on a big fat cigar and I think maybe it’s time to work without a safety net. I don’t really need insurance against failure, because, guess what — I am going to fail. Sometimes. That’s called being human. But I’m also going to do okay and sometimes, even great. And I don’t want to need fear to motivate me. And more than that, I want my own approval to be what matters.

This morning I was thinking about the GRE again and how I haven’t really manged to get the necessary studying underway. Some days it is easier to think without arousing the suspicions of The Critic. Sunday mornings seem to have just the right amount of casual to pull that off. I could tell, though, that he was listening in on the conversation, ready to intervene at a moment’s notice. And then, before he could butt in, it suddenly occured to me that feeling overwhelmed is a pretty natural response when all you’ve got is a big thick book, a few crappy practice test scores and absolutely no plan whatsoever. I thought, perhaps I shouldn’t feel so bad about not knowing where or how to get started when my idea of studying has been to just tell myself, “Okay, you have an hour, now go study,” without any direction or a sense of what my objective is beyond “Do well.” And then, just as quickly, the words Lesson Plan came to mind and I knew what I needed to do.

Today is the perfect day for studying…

So, what’s the point? I often find this question wandering around in my brain at the strangest times. I think it is a slightly more world weary, perhaps mildly pessimistic and/or cynical version of the eager childlike question — “Why?” I think that it is also a question that is far more concious of limits. Particularly the limits of time. It is a question we start to ask as we get older. It is also a bit rhetorical in nature and the assumed answer is, “Well, there isn’t really a point then, is there?”

This weekend a blog which I find very inspiring turned one and we were treated to a nice walk down memory lane. I really admire this guy, because he has such a clear vision of what he set out to accomplish with his blog and he just does it extremely well. Throughout his discussion, he eventually came around to the role of community in blogging and talked about how things have really opened up in the blogosphere and how much is out there. And, consequently, how much mediocrity exists. Hmm, I thought. And I began to look around my own blog for the tell tale signs of mediocrity. Regime change begins at home, right?

So, lately I have been giving a lot of thought to the point of my blog. It started in the the throes of new knitting love. And don’t get me wrong, the knitting love is still there (more on that later, I promise), but as I knew it would, the new love has waned a bit and I feel decidedly less passionate about wool and sticks. Or at the very least, less need to talk about it. What is left in its place is the usual — writing, reading, education, movies, good television (yes, it does exist) and relationships. In essence what I am passionate about is stories. My stories, other people’s stories, true stories. These are the things I come back to again and again.

And as I examine the point of my blog, I am thinking about my own existence and how I have often said that I didn’t want life to be something that just happened to me. What I mean by that is not that I want to control the circumstances, because that is just foolish. Life, on some level, does just happen to you. I guess I more mean that I want to take an active role in meeting those circumstances and shaping the general direction they move me in. I want to help my own common themes emerge in a way that I feel satisfied with. So often it seems we are at the mercy of our own lives and emotions and we forget that we can learn the skills we need to bring about true change. An unhealthy pattern or a useless behavior is not a fact about us, it is merely an opportunity to learn something new. I misremember this sometimes. I imagine most people do. Stories help take us outside of ourselves and give us a glimpse into whole other universes. They are the catalyst for knowledge and change or even stagnation and ignorance. In the end, it seems that story is all we have.

So, I got to thinking about what it is that I do with this space here. Since the beginning, this question of What is the point? (or another variation — Why am I doing this?) has always been present. There are as many answers as there are blogs, but the basic few are — for myself, for a sense of community, for a little validation, because I have something to say. Because I want my story to matter. We all do. And here is the secret. It does. It matters to the writer, and that really should be enough, shouldn’t it? But isn’t it remarkable how knowing that other people read it adds new levels of legitimacy? This is enough food for thought to keep me busy for months.

Last night Mr. Knittiot and I watched the last episode of season one of the all new Doctor Who series that aired in the UK earlier this year. A friend managed to *cough, cough* obtain *cough, cough* all 13 episodes prior to their release over here, and so we were treated to the blessed event a good year earlier than expected. All I can say is god (or whoever is in charge out there anyway) bless the BBC. They managed to snag Christopher Eccleston — who was just bloody brilliant — to play The Doctor (Doctor who? No, just The Doctor) and it was simply a fantastic romp of an adventure right from episode one. The mind blower was the last episode however, which resulted in me saying, “No, no, no, no, no!” for about ten minutes (and yes, even a whole 24 hours later I am still mumbling to myself).

They managed to add a little more sophistication to the classically campy effects, but maintained a somewhat unpolished feel that comes across as a brilliant homage to its humble beginnings. What I remember of earlier Doctor Who episodes comes from late night childhood explorations of a world that I suspected was meant to be traversed while under the influence of something a little harder than grape soda and sour patch kids. Nevertheless, they are fond memories and I was delighted to see such an excellent revival of the series.

According to the wikipedia article Doctor Who boasts an unbelievable 26 seasons. I’m not sure I’m up for that many episodes, but I am starting to wonder how many sweaters one could knit over the course of 26 seasons of Doctor Who…

Halfway through the season I realized that the reason Christopher Eccleston looked so damn familiar was because he was. He was in the one and only horror movie that I do not regret seeing, only he looked less like this

and more like a psychotic military leader intent on forcibly repopulationg a zombie ridden England through any means necessary in 28 Days Later. He also played the Duke of Norfolk in Elizabeth, but if you have ever seen 28 Days Later, you will understand why that is the image that sticks out in my brain.

I would link to the BBC site for the new Doctor Who, but it gives something away and I don’t want to ruin the surprise for you when it comes out on DVD. Because you are going to buy it, right? I mean, why wouldn’t you? At least promise me you’re going to put it in your Netflix cue. Go on, do it now, I’ll wait. *hums to self hmmm hmm hmmm* Right then, there you are. As I was saying, I would link to the site, but I don’t want to give away surprises.

So, there you go, my geekdom (once again) on display for the world. But as I am fond of reminding people, geek is the new black…

Last night Mr. Knittiot and I watched A Very Long Engagement, the new Jeunet movie starring Audrey Tautou. I am exceedingly fond of Jeunet. The first time I saw Amelie, I went to see the movie with the then just-a-friend now a spouse. Before we arrived at the movie we had a fairly short discussion about “Why you make me so nervous” in which I told Mr. Knittiot he made me nervous. With a twinkle in his eyes, he asked me why, prodding gently. I later realized he knew exactly why, but at the time I said, “I don’t know, you just do.” Indicating that the conversation was over. But it pretty much haunted me for the next week and I finally came to the conclusion that he made me most nervous because what he represented in my life was a real relationship with someone who knew — and I mean really knew — me. All of me. There was no pretending, no games, no safe places to hide behind. There was just me and someone who saw and knew all of it.

So we went to see Amelie and here was this amazing and magical and charming story of a girl who needed to learn to open her heart and take a risk if she was going to find love. And when it was over, I could hardly talk to Corvus about the movie except to say something safe and inane such as, “Weren’t her clothes lovely?” (Which is *incredibly* unlike me, a person who normally needs to talk and talk and examine and disect a movie). Corvus laughed and said he would see me on Sunday (right before leaving for a week to attend a convention in Austin) and then he wrapped his arms around me and did this thing that only he does and which makes me feel as if nothing could bad could ever happen — he placed his hand at the back of my head and we fit together in the most amazing way. This, I finally realized, was what it means to be held. I never had been before.

By Sunday I had discovered what he apparently already knew, but this only served to make me feel more nervous. I told him that I didn’t think we could work out and then I made him leave because what I really wanted to do was hold him and kiss him and that didn’t seem to fit with the “I don’t think we’ll work out” line. So he left. The next night my bestest best friend in the whole world gently helped me realize that I was an idiot. Still, I had to wait a very long and miserable week for him to return so I could tell him I was wrong. I was terrified I was imagining everything that he didn’t really have any feelings for me and so on and so forth. Halfway through the excruciating week my dear friend Gerg (that’s not a typo — his name is Greg, but we call him Gerg) sent me a very nice email about how I deserved happiness and not to be afraid and then he took me out to see Amelie and it was as if I were seeing it for the first time and oh how remarkable it was to realize that a movie has a message just for you. When Corvus returned, well, the rest is history.

So, when I heard that Jeunet had another movie coming out with Audrey Tautou, I was excited. And I was not disappointed. The thing that I love most about Jeunet is the hope that is always so present. It is not that pain and suffering do not exist or that life is perfect. But it is always bittersweet and such a gift that you feel grateful and reflective about every moment. Who else could portray the massive loss and misery of World War I and still give you hope and joy? Only Jeunet. Only him. Also, as my lovely sweetie pointed out, he takes incredibly sensitive and talented Americans and puts them in his movies. People like Ron Perlman (City of Lost Children) and Jodie Foster (A Very Long Engagement). There is so much tenderness in what he does and he treats humanity with delicate hands. I needed to see someone treat humanity with delicate hands after this week…

I mentioned some time back in a post that there is a line in this country that you drop below and you cease to be a person. And nothing has demonstrated this so visibly than what has happened in New Orleans this week. I am so sad these days and frightened. Things feel bleak, like we are looking through a haze of misery and suffering, and I find I am looking for the bittersweet and tenderness in everyday existence more and more.

On top of which, I finished Harry Potter this week. Those of you who read it know what I mean.