Blogging from the kitchen . . . now I’m blogging from the library . . . blogging while walking is very hard though . . . not enough arms . . . blogging from the couch . . .

I bought a new computer yesterday, and the new wireless router seems to be working very well.  Weeeeeeeeeeeeeeee.

My new friend is shiny and black, and quite light, with a nice wide screen.  I resisted the Macs and their unexplained Mac-derived upcharge.

I’m going to go catalog the books in the library.  Ah, geek heaven.

Happy New Year, everyone.  And watch out for electrical storms.  I promise you, they are stronger than surge supressors.

John Dyer’s The Fleece is one of those works that few people read but everyone should.  Well, everyone should read it but it’s really hard to get copies.  Dyer was Welsh, and his family, being Welsh, knew a lot about sheep.   The Fleece is an epic–four volumes of blank verse–about sheep, published in 1757.   It’s shockingly modern, despite its age.  But, well, maybe I think that because it’s all about sheep.  Here’s a little piece of it.

To mend thy mounds, to trench, to clear, to soil
Thy grateful fields, to medicate thy sheep,
Hurdles to weave, and cheerly shelters raise,
Thy vacant hours require: and ever learn
Quick æther’s motions: oft the scene is turn’d;
Now the blue vault, and now the murky cloud,
Hail, rain, or radiance; these the moon will tell,
Each bird and beast, and these thy fleecy tribe:
When high the sapphire cope, supine they couch,
And chew the cud delighted; but, ere rain,
Eager, and at unwonted hour, they feed:
Slight not the warning; soon the tempest rolls,
Scattering them wide, close rushing at the heels
Of th’ hurrying o’ertaken swains: forbear
Such nights to fold; such nights be theirs to shift
On ridge or hillock; or in homesteads soft,
Or softer cotes, detain them. Is thy lot
A chill penurious turf, to all thy toils
Untractable? Before harsh winter drowns
The noisy dykes, and starves the rushy glebe,
Shift the frail breed to sandy hamlets warm:
There let them sojourn, till gay Procne skims
The thickening verdure, and the rising flowers.
And while departing autumn all embrowns
The frequent-bitten fields.

(ankle is healing, pretty but dangerous shoes remain completely not on fire [wait for it–it’s worth it], knitting is progressing but not terribly exciting, and the cookie-baking has re-commenced)

The Blackwater Lightship by Colm Tóibín.

Tóibín is one of the finest English-language writers I’ve come across.  I first encountered him as the editor of a great anthology called Soho Square 6 (it’s a series–if you can lay hands on a copy of this issue, do).  I’ve been following Tóibín since, and he never disappoints, on the page or in person.  I’ve been fortunate enough to go to a few lectures and symposia that Tóibín also attended, and his insight into the work of writers is immense.  He got his start as a journalist, and his attention to detail and depth is clear throughout his work.  And while I try not to harp on an artist’s sexuality most of the time, Tóibín’s homosexuality is very important in his work.   

As I’ve mentioned in the past, I occasionally go on reading sprees, wherein I accidentally or intentionally read a series of books on a given theme.  I’ve intentionally read only the work of women for a year, I’ve read books on water, books on dogs, only poetry, etc. 

A month or so ago, I accidentally started reading about young men dying in tragic ways.  I had to consciously put an end to the cycle almost as soon as it started. 

In this book, an Irish family is wrecked by the death of a young father.  Decades later, the fractured family is reunited by illness when the son/brother confesses both his homosexuality and his declining health as his HIV turns to AIDS.  It’s all very 90s, open-minded, brave Dublin goodness. 

Except that no one is heroic or even all that "good"  in the novel.  Mother, son, daughter, grandmother, and friends are all grimy and broken and wrong, just like in real life. 

The novel opens in Dublin and then shifts to Enniscorthy on the southeast coast of Ireland.  Declan, the son/brother /patient/friend, asks to be taken to his grandmother’s shore-side house to convalesce.  His friends and longstanding caretakers come into conflict with the women of Declan’s family.  Good smoldering anger throughout.  I won’t give away much more, but will say that there is only the one death in the book–the death of the protagonists’ father when they are children.  That was a welcome relief. 

And on the title–The Blackwater Lightship was a lighthouse in Cush, which served as a counterpart to the Tuskar Lighthouse .  The Blackwater Lightship was removed years ago, but Declan and his sister Helen reminisce about the two lighthouses illuminating their grandmother’s house at night when they were children.  The twin sources of light are, of course, significant in the novel.  Nuff said.

So, I know that we Westerners have a screwed up, Cliff’s Notes understanding of Karma.  And I generally try to rise above that overly-simplified, craptastic view of karma.  But you know what?  Instant Karma is going to get you.  It got me.    Well, maybe my longstanding relationship with Clumsy got me.  Something sure got me . . . maybe I should blame gravity.  Or the sun–I generally blame the sun–and it is ultimately responsible for gravity, and we were quite close to the sun, in cosmic terms, on the Solstice.

I mentioned that I had bought four pairs of expensive shoes, and I only "needed" one pair?  Well, that was nonsense.  I didn’t need that pair–I just loved them and wanted to keep them.  No problem, right?  I earned the money, I wanted the shoes, I do give to charity and try to accomplish positive things in my life, and I normally buy only one or two pairs of shoes a year, so it’s not like I’m competing with Imelda Marcos.  I wore the new shoes to work on the Solstice and was alternately loving them (and their name and their little lovely spirals and recycled soles and veggie-tanned leather) and feeling a bit guilty for keeping them . . . and then they kicked my ass.  I twisted my ankle badly while wearing them, and heard a terrible sound, and got to spend a bunch of time getting X-rays and trying to get a doctor to help me out.  Doctors don’t like to work over extended holiday weekends, you know.  They really don’t.  And radiologists don’t prescribe pain meds.  Guh.

Nothing is broken, my ankle will heal up . . . but I think I’ve turned against my favorite new shoes right after acquiring them.  They should apologize to me.  And bake me cookies.  And knit me some socks.

The triple-moral of this story is buy less, give more to charity, and be careful when you’re wearing clogs, because a sprain in clogs is worse than a sprain in thinner-soled shoes.  Now excuse me, I must return to my knitting, my reading, my pets, and my radio.

I’m impatiently tapping my foot, waiting for the Winter Solstice.  We’re poised on the edge of the shortest day and longest night of the year, waiting for the sun to regain its prominence in our daily cycle of dark and light. The Solstices and Equinoxes are very important to me as touchstones–the orbits of Moon and Earth gave us calendars and clocks, and our best tools to measure time and progress and change.  Out of all four compass points in the year, I am most enamored with the Winter Solstice, or Alban Arthan (winter’s light in Welsh), probably because of its importance to the Megalith Builders.*  We don’t know why they loved it so much, but we know it drove them to some amazing feats of architecture and design.  I wish I was going to be in Newgrange to see the sun illuminate the chamber tomorrow morning.

Instead I’ll be in Virginia, frantically knitting hats and trying to forget about the stuff I wish I was knitting.  And baking cookies.  Many many cookies. 

These giant jam thumbprints always remind me of suns, and are thus apt for the day.  I just pulled some Almond Blossoms out of the oven, and I think I’ve reinvented a classic for the better (Dove chocolate and almond butter are just plain better than Hershey’s kisses and peanut butter).  And maybe I’m also making a lemon cake?  Apparently I’ve been assigned a cake for the weekend family fete.  I also feel a strong genetic urge to make homemade tortellini.  None of this is helping the knitting.

But I have more important things to do than knit and cook, and this seems like the right time of year for them.  Three particular events have coalesced into something good, and not very big (no megaliths in this story), but nevertheless worthy. 

• My brother David, who was born on Christmas Eve back in the day, asked us to give him no gifts this year, and to just make charitable donations instead.  He’s essentially a minimalist, and I may just be the only person in my overly-generous family who will respect his wishes. 
• In an unrelated event, I bought four pairs of expensive shoes for myself a couple of weeks ago.  I really only needed one pair, so I left the others unworn because I felt like I was being greedy.  I could explain how I saved up to buy the shoes, including spending very little at both Rhinebeck and the KR retreat, but it would all be a bunch of nonsense.  I don’t need four new pairs of shoes–I need one new pair of shoes.  I figured I’d manage the resolve to return two of the remaining unworn pairs if I really tried.  Have I mentioned the shoes are both cute and comfortable, and one of the pairs is made with recycled rubber and veggie-tanned leather?
• And then Stephanie encouraged us to give to MSF again this year, but to give more, and to really struggle to make a difference. 

So the three things have serendipitously come together.  Say goodbye to the unworn shoes and hello to one honking big check to MSF, in honor of David.  He’s not a knitter, but he’s getting a nice new hat from me and a big donation, so I think that counts towards the MSF total.

And, what with my flirtation with voluntary simplicity and my abiding love for recycling, I give you this.  Anj the Awesome sent me the last few corks I needed to do it up right. 

I can’t believe how much I love this corkboard, but I know I love it enough to acquire the frame and backing to start a second one immediately.  We can’t decide where to hang it, and Scott isn’t yet convinced that it needs to be functional. 

And the hats continue:

The color is terrible–I know.  But there’s no sun left.  The stripey one is headless, so far.  The red is an alpaca/silk blend, and the blue is Odyssey (David’s only physical present–I figure it’s not naughty to give him that because he bikes to work and I’ve never knit for him before, and, you know, it’s not so much from a store).

*   And also, perhaps, because the sun itself is trying to kill me, but that’s neither here no there. 

My friend Danny just got a new, as yet unnamed, puppy.  Who is half Beagle and half Pug.  The cuteness, it is killing me, and I haven’t even met the pup in person yet.

No, it gets worse

When he gets sad

And even worse when he is tired . . .

I have to save him!  Look how sad!

Now, stare and the wonder that is puppy-cuteness, and forget that I have shown you no knitting.  I am still, or course, sans computer and entirely reliant on my dear husband’s good graces and generosity.  I have bribed him with a hat. The sock-yarn blanket is much bigger, thanks largely to Rachel, who was kind enough to send me her awesome leftovers (the woman, she buys nice sock-yarn).  I’m making some hats to give to folks, so I can’t show you those yet.  Two of the hats in question suffered greatly last night when Yarrow, herr KätzchenHosen himself, pulled both hats-in-progress out of my purse and dragged them all over the freaking house.  When I found the massacree this morning, I had to alternate winding and detangling with squirting Yarrow, who is not so much with the learning or the self-control.  I think I’ll make him into some shoe liners when I get home tonight.  Unless he turns on the cute.  The cute, it is like kryptonite to me.

I’m here to tell you that I officially, stridently, vehemently oppose food poisoning.  Don’t like it one bit.  Don’t try to sway me–my mind is made up.  I left work all chipper and cheery on Friday, and spent the rest of the weekend feeling like I was drunk, in the sense described by Douglas Adams in the Hitchhikers’ Guide to the Galaxy:

"It’s unpleasantly like being drunk."

"What’s so unpleasant about being drunk?"

"You ask a glass of water."

Tragically little knitting accomplished, one hell of a party missed, one hell of a trip with my niece Talia missed, and one hell of a Dancing Pig/Tuatha shopping opportunity (shopportunity?) missed, and no new computer ordered.  I sure have seen the Lord of the Rings movies again, though.  And the extras.  And I made serious progress on the very long, thankfully very good sci-fi novel that my big brother loaned me.  And I made excellent cat furniture, according to Speedwell and Yarrow, and a wonderfully generous couch-denizen, according to Kayo.  When I can’t eat the food I try to make myself eat, Kayo always offers to do the dishes and lie on my feet.  You can’t get that kind of dedicated service just anywhere.

by James Still(1937)

The spider puzzles his legs and rests his web
On aftergrass. No winds stir here to break
The quiet design, nothing protests the weaving
Of taut threads in a ladder of silk:
He is clever, he is fastidious, and intricate;
He is skilled with his cords of hate.

Who can escape through the grass: The crane-fly
Quivers its body in paralytic sleep;
The giant moths shed their golden dust
From fettered wings, and the spider speeds his lust.

Who reads the language of direction? Where may we pass
Through the immense pattern sheer as glass?

Another bit of spidery goodness.  Expect more on this theme. Oh, and promise to love James Still, or I will give you such a noogie.

by E.B. White

The spider, dropping down from twig,
Unfolds a plan of her devising,
A thin premeditated rig
To use in rising.

And all that journey down through space,
In cool descent and loyal hearted,
She spins a ladder to the place
From where she started.

Thus I, gone forth as spiders do
In spider’s web a truth discerning,
Attach one silken thread to you
For my returning.

I’m sure this will seem like another tennuous connection to our theme, but, well, it makes sense to me.  And it makes sense to Arachne.  So that’s sense enough for our purposes. 

We spent a long weekend in and around the Shenandoah national forest.  I’d encourage you to go, but you can’t, because my dog apparently laid claim to the entire region.  He was on a serious quest.  He’s never been so dedicated to the cycle of canine hydration and evacuation is his living life.

We picked the right cabin, as evidenced by the hot-tub, the ridiculous view of the Shenandoah, displayed through the two-story windows, and the decor.  Cracked paint:

Plus bleached bones:

Plus falling leaves

Equals a happy Lanea.  The knitting fit right in.  I had to fold back a mediocre mini-quilt so the swatch could lay happily on the deteriorating wood. 

The swatch is now a hat, which I alternately love and hate.  More about that later.

We spent early Saturday morning in Luray caverns.  Neither of us had been there since we were kids, and it was too close to miss.  When you go early on a winter morning, you get the caverns to yourself.  We saw Pluto:

A.k.a God of the Underworld, as opposed to that Disney character.  The discoverers of the caverns were exploring the place with just candles and mining lanterns, and they kept seeing this formation in the distance–it seemed to be floating and following them, so they decided to name it after the God of the Underworld, who had every right to tail them.

We saw Mirror Lake

Which is a much better mirror in real life.  The surface is virtually indistinguishable from the cavern roof unless you disturb the water.  It’s amazing.  It’s spring fed to the right, and has a disappearing edge to the left, which provides just enough circulation to keep the water crystal clear.

We saw a great inspiration for a Strange Hat (for a strange head, of course)

And we saw the piece de resistance: the fried eggs. 

Which are broken stalagmites with an iron-rich core and a calciferous outer edge.  I remember them being much bigger, but they are, in fact, egg-sized.

After the caverns, we picked up Kayo and took him to survey his territory.

Skyline Drive was the best route.  Both East

and West. 

If you ever want to entertain a dog, drive along Skyline Drive and get out at every observation point so the dog can be a dog.  Kayo particularly appreciated Hawksbill Peak.  We’re hawk people, you know.

Extra points if you accidentally happen upon a grazing herd of whitetail while looking for a restroom. These are just a couple of them at Big Meadows lodge.

Kayo so wanted to fetch them.

And while you’re at it, if you ever want to entertain a Lanea, entertain her dog while allowing her to obsess over lichen, moss, stones, and dead trees, particularly after she’s been reading a lot of regional poetry and studying lichen dying.

Bonus points for traveling to an area known for cultivating lichen on trees.

This time, there were no Scarlet Tanagers, but there was enough lichen to distract me from my love/hate relationship with Skyline Drive and the systematic land-clearing required to create it.   Love the park . . . hate the property aquisition  and destruction of local mountain communities.  But love. the. park. 

And now, a little James Still for the folks who’ve made it to the bitter end. 

White Highways (1937)

I have gone out to the roads that go up and down
In smooth white lines, stoneless and hard;
I have seen distances shortened between two points,
The hills pushed back and bridges thrust across
The shallow river’s span.

To the broad highways, and back again I have come
To the creekbed roads and narrow winding trails
Worn into ruts by hoofs and steady feet;
I have come back to the long way around,
The far between, the slow arrival.
Here is my pleasure most where I have lived
And called my home.

O do not wander far
From the rooftree and the hill-gathered earth;
Go not upon these wayfares measured with a line
Drawn hard and white from birth to death.
O quiet and slow is peace, and curved with space
Brought back again to this warm homing place.