No boughs have withered because of the wintry wind
The boughs have withered because I have told them my dreams.

That little bit of cave-dwelling miserable beauty is from Yeats, whom I love.  I stuck it out there because I’m starting to trot out wool poems over on Eating Poetry.  Check it out if you’re so inclined.

Remember all those promises about pretty pictures and words words words?  My computer just up and died.  Nicely played, oh Dell P.O.S.  You heard I had some money saved, eh?  Well, maybe all my talk of reducing and limiting consumption was bunk, huh.  Did’ja ever think of that?  Maybe I’ll just go and buy a shiny silver laptop like those other knitters did.

I’m handling this as calmly as I am because yesterday was a three-hawk day.  Some people like to shop.  I like to see hawks.  I also bought a touch of yarn because my mother and the Hunt Country folks ganged up on me, and I think maybe there were torches threatening the yarn.  Anyway, I now have all of the Bearfoot.  You canna have annym so dinna ask.

So this will be quick and dirty, since I’m borrowing Scott’s machine.  Let’s just go from now back to then, with a minimum number of words.   I’m working on:

A mitered-square sock-yarn blanket.  Because I cannot help myself.  And because I lie to myself, claiming to be patient.  I am not patient.  I am short-sighted, and view tiny acts of completion (like, say, a single square) as victories.  I have, like, 13 gold stars: one for each square I’ve knit.  I’ll run out of yarn pretty soon.  And then make excuses to knit socks even faster than I already try to so I can use the leftovers in the blanket.  I will not buy the blanket yarn.  I will not buy the blanket yarn.  I will not . . .

Also:

Freaking never-ending kilt hose.  I’ll be done one day, I hope.  And then I’ll just have to pray that none of my kilt-wearing friends talk me out of them. 

And:

A recycled cork-board

Which is really close to finished, thanks to Bo-Ro, who set me up with a bajillion corks.  Scott and I are clearly not drinking enough wine.   Once I’m done with it, I’ll make another one.  I’ll tell you how to make one, but realize that I feel like I’m insulting your intelligence.  Save corks, buy frame, attach backing, attach corks, hang somewhere, stick things to cork-board with pins. 

And also:

It doesn’t look like much yet, but that’s a moebius strip, which I started at the KR Retreat in Cat Bordhi’s class (love her), and which will be the top of a fantabulous felted bag.  The yarn is a hand-dye from the Youth Program (that’s what they’re called)  folks whose tent abuts the Tuatha tent at Maryland Sheep and Wool.  The bulk of the bag will be made with Lopi.

The color inspirations for the bag?  Walker Valley, NY.

Lichen, and birch trees.  And pines that open up like doorways

And mingle their roots with mosses and mushrooms.

I have no other worthwhile pictures of the retreat.  My brain was too busy learning people to remind me to photograph them. 

And Samhain . . .

Oona’s wearing a tunic I made for her about a decade ago.  That  band of color at the top is all embroidered.  Thousands and thousands of stitches, there.

Assembled masses, in what will eventually be the long hall (those peeled poles are part of the soon-to-be-walls, not assaulted living trees).  It was so cold we gave up all pretense of doing things right and just got warm and stayed warm.  And once warm, we got weird.  I think Bodwin brought the gummy eyes. 

They were put to good use.

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