And now take the time to write, knit, weave and crochet... I eat good food, I walk the dog and I care about what people think about everything. While I have shelter and sustenance, I am calm and peaceful, but I'm not assured that the serenity I live in now will abide if I were to lose my income and lived under a bridge. I do not live under any illusions that life is fair. I have had too much heartbreak to believe in justice and so have you.
And my heart breaks that they, the young, will have to have their hearts smashed and crushed. And because of hope, they will go down there again and again.
Learn not to hope, learn not to believe. Turn down the flickering, weak lights of love. Turn them down. Love has no strength. Like a flower that opens in the Sun, it turns to dust in the cold, cruel darkness of night.
Reality then comes in like harsh light. Too strong for love. Love runs. It disappears, it seems, as soon as it appears and then vanishes.
You’ll find that I’m right. I will be there to take you in my arms while you cry bitter tears. But only time will teach you what I already know.
So I cry for you, as you hope for what can never be.
Ancel’s tangle of electronics and cords were gathered up after his visit. My lowly charger must have appeared to be just another USB with a wall plug, so whoosh, into his bag it went.
My prayers to the finding gods had gone unanswered. It hid among its companions until I had a bright idea… it may have come from the finding gods, who knows. I thought to ask Ancel directly. “Ancel! Do you have my phone charger per chance?” With a clear sense of what belongs to him and what doesn’t, he responded, “Oh! Is it a USB with a wall plug?”
“Yes, yes,” I nearly screamed (but didn’t since we were sitting in a public place and I didn’t want to sound accusatory). “It’s in my tech drawer,” he said calmly, not being cognizant of the suffering I had been experiencing. “Your tech drawer? Where is your tech drawer?”
I tried to sound calm but I wanted to run to his “tech drawer” and steal away my charger, charge my phone and once again be connected to my world, but I had to wait. Ancel wasn’t going home quite yet.
At last I had dinner with Jesse, Hannah, and Enora. I was happy for dinner and the great company, but I knew that my charger would be with them, which added to my joy. At the end of the evening, Hannah pulled out a tangle of USBs and a wall plug that had been pulled from the “tech drawer.” We identified mine from the bunch, and now my phone is cooking beside my bed once again, reunited with its lifeline, and I with mine.
The Stockholm Vest is well on its way. Not even a month ago, I had started two other vests that were absolutely beautiful and using beautiful yarn, but I just couldn’t get past the first 20 rows on either pattern.
I thought I had lost my ability to knit. It was so until I picked up this pattern from Petite Knits.
The yarn I’m using is The Border Mill North Coast Tweed, from Scotland. The label says that the colorway “Black Isle” was inspired by a road trip around Scotland’s far north coast. It is spun from pure Shetland wool. Though the foundational colorway is black, there is a lot of deep dark brown and even some gray tones that give it a very earthy look, peaty even.
I love this yarn, and once I got started, I loved the pattern, as well. It’s funny how you can get caught up in a failure or what seems to be a failure, only to find your inspiration once again.
Though it doesn’t look like much yet, I would say that I’m three-quarters of the way done. I’ll keep you posted on my progress.
He’s driving a little bit buzzed and fast because he believes he’s above the law.
Got his rocks off with a couple of prostitutes on 82nd and Sandy.
After, while driving home, blue and red lights behind him flashed.
His brown skin alone and that he’s also draped in gold make him immediately suspect.
“Roll down the window”, they shout. Get out of the car, and put your hands above your head. Put your hands behind your head. Spread your legs,” they shout, as they pat him down. Do you have a gun”?
Now, the confidence, the natural bravado drained from his brain and his body. “Yes, I was with a prostitute. Yes, I paid for sex, ” he offers, though they hadn’t asked that question, says he.
They shouted something about red lights and red lights, they keep repeating. His body shakes. ICE is rounding up immigrants. And what he doesn’t know is that he’s part of a sting. Though he is a naturalized citizen, the news spreads fear… nevertheless.
He doesn’t know how lucky he is. He walked away only the worse for wear. The citation reads: solicitation for prostitution. Nothing about a red light.
He reads it confused and brings it to me. I explained: a class A misdemeanor, up to a year in jail and over a $6400 fine. There’s also a court date.
What he doesn’t know either is that some johns had their cars impounded and were jailed that night. He finds out from friends that his name is published online.
“How many more stupid things are you going to do that I have to help you with,” i hiss through my teeth, over a bowl of phò.
Find a high-powered lawyer. $8500 retainer. Attend classes. Go to court. Maybe go to jail.
Enough money, and his god will help him, he believes. “God did this,” he relentlessly reiterates.
On the stand, he’ll perjer himself. He lies. A big liar. The lawyer will try to keep him off the stand.
Through all of his other petty crimes, he has never had to suffer the consequences. “God helps me,” he says, and he really believes it. I sigh and say, “Money talks.” He doesn’t believe me. He never does.
I talked to Jack for a long time today. What I love about still being able to be close to him is that our memories are the same and that we share those memories.
My dad, in jest, used to call himself “dirty dog Anderson,” and my brother Steve, when he was in high school, called himself, “Beatleman”. If you saw how he dressed, you would know why.
There’s no one else on earth that would know those things. We have laughed about them now for 60 years. I don’t know if you can possibly know how precious this is to me. If Jack and I were completely estranged, which for a while, I thought we would always be, we wouldn’t be able to share these memories.
My family loved our dog Gypsy so much that when we would see home movies of her, the entire family would be in tears. I found Gypsy, a small, tan, beagle type dog lost in front of our house. Jack and I share this memory. His memory is so sharp that he remembers things in such clear detail that he can fill in areas that I no longer can remember.
He remembered today, exactly the little secondhand shop where he bought me an authentic Navajo ring of carved silver set with a deeply orange/red carnelian stone. I’ve been remembering how much of myself was formed as a young girl from 16 through our entire relationship because of things that Jack said and did. I remember the things that he bought me. He encouraged me to learn and to stay curious.
He bought me art supplies and paid for art classes. He introduced me to music and artists, and literature that I may not have run into on my own so early in life.
He bought me clothes and artwork of all kinds and taught me the value of handmade everything. We shared foreign films on days when we didn’t feel like going to school. Instead, we would spend time in the art museum, in galleries, in cinema houses and the library. We lived in houses with character and historical value. I could go on and on, but I don’t know where we went off the rails.
But off the rails, we did go… some 30 years after we started. We used terrible words with each other, though we knew so many beautiful words. We hurt one another, and yet we held it together for so many years. I’m not sure that we could have salvaged our relationship. I don’t think I could stand it if I thought we could have saved it. It’s easier and less painful for me to think that our parting was necessary for our growth. Just as a plant needs pruning to continue to grow and produce flowers and fruits and vegetables. Sometimes, those plants need to move away from one another and give each more room to grow.
Regardless, I treasure the times now when we do talk, and when we remember. It’s good to know people who have known you through the journey.
And now, as far as my immediate family, there’s just Steve who knew me back when. Maybe it’s our ages, but with these two, Jack and Steve, my life has contiguous meaning.
I was knitting a super lovely sock named “Sheperdess” designed by one half of the podcasters “Grocery Girls,” Tracie Millar.
I was knitting them in Schachenmayer, merino yak, 4 ply, in colorway: 07516. I envision that color as spring green turned fall green for lack of light.
This is an easy and well written pattern. I loved the yarn and the color. It’s so perfect for dark November days and nights.
In the first photo, there lies a book containing a collection of essays titled “Vodou,” written by my mentor Dr. Donald Cosentino, a world expert on Haitian vodou. And there lay the socks sprinkled with my beloved candy corn.
In the 2nd photo is a yule card by a Swedish artist, who’s name escapes me, old photos of my grandma and grandpa, Eduardo Galeano’s book, “Memory of Fire”, Alice Staremore’s book, “Glamourie” and a notebook of my writings. And there are the beautiful socks in progress
I love an assemblage photograph.
Knitting calms me in the midst of the chaos that is our world… our reality. I hope that handcrafting does that for you, too.
PS: This was written maybe three or four years ago, but it’s still pertinent for today.
When I was rummaging around my room this morning, I came across this hat that was peeking out of a basket from under other winter wear. It has been years since I paid much attention to it… since I had begun to knit my own hats some years ago.
I, at first, mistakenly identified it as the art of the Cowichan Indians of British Columbia because of the natural colors and unplied yarn used by the tribe to create mostly sweaters and hats.
Sometimes, I’m good at remembering details, but other times, I’m not.
Actually, Jack reminded me that it was the famous Paula Simmons who knit this hat. She was one of the first PNW (Pacific Northwest) artists to raise and shear her own sheep. She processed the fleece, carding, and spinning the fibers, creating the yarn to finally knit garments and accessories like this hat.
With the help of Jack’s memory, he reminded me where we bought this hat. The time frame had to be between 1969 -1972, when we were living in a small house in St. Johns in North Portland. We were just married, and before children. We bought it on a trip to Seattle, Washington, at an art gallery/ craft store at the Space Needle. The store and its name are long forgotten.
Part of my confusion was that I did own a Cowichan Indian sweater, and the hat was created in a similar yarn. I know we bought it before 1972 because I have at least one photo of me wearing it in 1973 – 74, walking through a snowy forest with two year old Hannah, riding on my back. ( I will post the photo when I can find it). That means it would be about 52 years old. (I found it)
The hat, the sweater, the girls, and Skokie the dog
It is knit in unplied and undyed natural sheeps wool. It’s never been washed, and you can still feel the lanolin. The wool is very rustic and rough to the touch and still causes my forehead to itch, but it’s the warmest hat I own. The wool, in its natural state, is completely waterproof… not water resistant but waterproof.
It is in perfect condition without so much as a moth hole. It could pass for “unused.” This hat is one of my most treasured possessions, and it’s probably worth only a few dollars. The Cowichan Indian sweater was bought around the same time, but unfortunately, it burned in our house fire in 1974-75. I so wish I still had that sweater.
Jack bought the sweater for me when he worked for Norm Thompson. (A thorough history of Norm Thompson Outfitters is interesting and can be found on wikipedia.)
If you’re curious about the Cowichan Indian’s trade in knitwear, please see the following website for more information. Here, you’ll see lots of photos of the sweaters and the knitters, and their fascinating history: http://knitwithpurpose.com/knitters
I see that the Cowichan Trading Company store, established in 1947 in Vancouver, BC, has closed permanently. I don’t know what this might mean for the trade in sweaters, but I see that there are stores still stocking them, and there are many new and used online.
Original, authentic Cowichan Indian sweater
All of this interesting stuff because I found my hat made by Paula Simmons.
His long, curly, disorderly salt and pepper hair exposed his age, for his body did not.
Every morning, he sailed his small fishing boat out into the bay of Zihuatanejo and back again in early afternoon.
The rest of the day was spent selling fish and cleaning the boat inside of a small boat house perched over the bay. Fe Dáncio had been a fisherman from childhood and had lived in Zihuatanejo from birth.
While in Zihuatanejo, I spent my days on the beach where the pounding waves pummeled me, where I lay in the sun, where I ate in the small cafés along the beach, where at night I could be found in the small clubs along the beach, dancing.
Tired early, I returned nightly to a small hotel just steps up from the sand. At one time, it had been painted pink with white balustrades with cool orntamental Spanish tiles to walk on. I slept on the balcony in a hammock swinging under palms and flowering plants. I slept soundly. The soft breezes swished through the leaves, murmuring secrets from the past, as did the waves on the sand.
I woke early with the sun and watched the fishing boats bobbing out into the bay. All I wanted to do was the same thing that I did yesterday and the day before and the day before that. For a few dollars, a small cafe next door offered my favorite breakfast of pancakes, papaya, and other fresh fruits and all of the orange juice I could drink… And Nescafe.
Throwing on a swimsuit and a pair of shorts, i would walk into the sea, spending hours doing nothing. The waves were unpredictable. At times, they were gently rolling, and at other times, they came in violently, casting me to the hard sandy bottom. More than once, I hit my head on a rock. My brown skin was often bruised.
From my place in the sand, I could see the fishermen coming in, and as usual, Fe Dáncio drew my attention as he walked from the boathouse. I can’t explain it, but to me, he was muyatractivo. His skin was dark. He was muscular. He was weathered but smooth and shiny, if you could imagine it, and his hair was wild and wind blown. I, of course, noticed that he had an eye for the women.
One day, he approached me. We took up a conversation, and he invited me into the boathouse to see his small fishing boat. Since I am fluent in Spanish, we talked for hours, and he told me about his life. We sat in the sand later, continuing our conversation. He seemed as curious about me as I was about him. We ate some dinner, and then he invited me to his house.
(My acceptance of his invitation was not unusual for me, for I visited many houses belonging to strangers. Remind me to tell you the story of visiting a family on an island in a yellow lagoon in a village that grew coconuts only accessable by flat bottom boats.)
Not Fe Dáncio’s place
We walked to a secluded area of the beach where the locals lived in small houses, surrounded by gardens. He lived in a small board cabin outside of his mother’s house in the soft sand among mango trees and lush plants. His mother offered to feed us, but we declined having just eaten.
It grew dark. We sat in his house and talked into the wee hours of the night. I grew tired. He offered his bed for me to lie down on. As he laid down beside me, he offered me a smoke. We smoked quietly, staring into the darkness of the sky. The candle light was dim, and I began to drift away. I was high like I had never been before. I was mesmerized by his gentle touch.
Once in a while, he would send me to the outdoor shower where soft, cool, and refreshing water woke me once again to a night so pleasant, I didn’t want it to end. I only remember waking to a chicken crowing in a tree outside his front door.
Fe Dáncio had gone fishing. He left me a plate of mango and papaya and a glass of orange juice. I hadn’t heard him wake or leave. I slowly dressed. After a night of such indescribable hallucinations and pleasure, I was surprisingly refreshed. I went to my regular café for breakfast and returned to the beach to swim and to lie in the sun.
I never saw Fe Dáncio again. I did not see his boat return, nor did I see him walking along the beach. Though I spent weeks in Zihuatanejo, I was left only with this memory of him. It is so vivid, yet I wonder if it really ever happened at all.
eyeamdust 