A few interesting developments . . .

Sorry about that last post. I was feeling all moody and introspective, and next time I get to feeling like that I want someone to come along and keep me away from the internet while giving me hard candies. About once every month or so, I’ll have a night like that. I don’t know what triggers it, or what brings it on, but I do know that it happens. I was due for one. That having been said, I’m fine now. It was a glorious day today — and I actually did get to see some of it. I also finished (mostly) a paper — which took about six hours instead of the twelve that I was planning on, which was nice. I also studied a little. (Or I may have just thought about it, I can’t remember.)

I also have actually been knitting a little bit. (Go a month without blogging, the knitting will pile up.) I’ll start with the big thing.

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Here I am wearing part of the Cousin Naglar. So called because it is “cousin” to all of the other, standard yoke treatments. Instead of knitting the body and the sleeves, then joining and increasing for the yoke, you knit the body only, then increase out for the sleeves. When you’ve got 40% for the sleeves, you then put the body stitches on a piece of wool, to be grafted later, and then knit the sleeves down. I have done one sleeve when this was taken. (I took it with me for a visit home and there it stayed because I didn’t want to transport it back and forth and then have another thick sweater to pack up before I leave. Yes, that means that I’ll have to wait till fall next year to wear it, but I’ll live with that.) I’d managed to knit the other sleeve by the time I left it at my parent’s house.

The body is knit out of an old (older than me, and probably my mother), butternut wool, and the yoke is knit out of this wonderful Noro stuff that Cindy gave to me a while back. I didn’t have enough for a full sweater or a vest, but I wanted to use it in a way that would highlight it’s color changes. I feel like this yoke did just the trick.  I started this toward the end of March, and was able to make decent progress on it, due to its being knit at four stitches to the inch. As a matter of fact, the only knitting that remains to be done on it is the button bands and pockets. (I plan to steek it for a cardigan — you can see that belly a mile away.)

I also finished these.

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They were started way back when in the pre-college days. (Back when I still did things like knit socks.) I knit all but a toe on them (one toe), and then for some reason put them away. Who does things like that? Me I guess. I found them when I was rummaging through some old baskets in my room over spring break, and decided to bring them back here and finish them. It wouldn’t take long, to just knit a toe.

Well, it did take me the better part of a month to knit them. I let them languish for a while longer. But I knit finished them up in the odd moments of this past week.

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They were knit out of some German sock yarn that I bought at the Great Lakes Fiber Festival a few years ago. I think it might have been the first year that I went, maybe the second. So I’ve had this yarn for a few years — languishing seems to be a theme here.

They are a bit big, but I like them just the same. I wore them to a concert the day that they were finished so with all that standing and sweating they have already started to shape to my feet nicely.

And I enjoyed the idea of having more socks that I started these . . .

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But that was only about an hour ago . . .

If you think I’m forgetting my Zimmermann knitting, fear not! I swatched for my next sweater today. (I almost wrote last sweater. There is only one left after this. Yikes!)

Where Did I Go Wrong?

You know, how when you’re young everyone tells you to go to college, how much fun it’ll be, how much you’ll learn, how you’ll set yourself up for life? You probably have said that to  someone my age, and probably had it said to you when you were my age. I would like to pose the question to you, how did I end up here? The road to hell is paved with good intentions, as they say, and I guess that’s how I ended up here.

I am here. Here is the library. It’s almost midnight. I should be working on yet another paper (my third in a week, not due till Wednesday, thankfully), but I’m writing this instead.  I’m up to my elbows in work, with two exams next week, three the week after, and two research papers to write.  I have been exiled from my room, where I could be typing this, snug in my snug bed, because my roommate is having sex. (To much information, maybe, but it’s late, my inhibitions are low.) I am surrounded by stacks of dusty books, (a situation that is losing its charm fast). The dead bugs on the window sill are my only friends. I’m wound so tight that I might snap here really, really soon.

I had this Snickers cheese cake after dinner (I had a salad, I’m okay), so I’ve got that going for me, which is nice. Plus I had dinner with this amazing person I haven’t talked to in almost a year. I’m also listening to A Prairie Home Companion while I write this. I’ve got a sweater (at home) that is close to being finished. I left it there, I can’t handle steeks and graphs and percentages during the end of the semester, and I didn’t want to cart it back home.  (And yes I know it is confusing that I use home to refer to both Wadsworth (where my parents live) and Kent, but they both have a lot of home-y aspects to them. I feel more myself here than Wadsworth, but my parents still live in the house I was raised in, so that means a lot too.) I also was just elected Secretary for the English Club, which is good, considering that I am an English major.

I know that I’ve got a really good life here though. I am confident of that. I am well fed. I am studying what I love. I am grateful for the chance to do this. And most times, I love it. I really do. The mornings with the sun rising beyond the trees in the distance, the fact that so many people here know things and can hold an intelligent conversation that doesn’t reference guns, children, or God. The trees that are just starting to flower, and the daffodils that are planted all around the May fourth area (I find that fitting. Daffodils are very peaceful flowers. And there is a bower of them!)

However, it’s nights like this when I just feel like giving up. Not on college, not even necessarily on life, but just in general. I don’t know how to explain it, but if you’ve felt it, you understand it. It’s dark outside, the wind is howling, and I’m just ready to be done. But I can’t be. I’ve got work to do, things to learn, and a life to live. And it will go on, and when I wake up tomorrow, all this will be in the past, and I will look toward the future. It’s hard to do that though, when your eyes are bleary, you either want sex, sleep, or to punch someone in the face, and the Japanese kid at the next table has been looking at you strangely for the past hour.

I didn’t intend for this post to be all sad and whiny. I hate that I’m sad and whiny. I always tried to be like a combination of Garrison Keillor and Jane Austen — witty, funny, artful, and charming. They weren’t always like that though, they had their moments too. Maybe it was because they are from different times (Even though Garrison and I are both alive, we still have a severe generation gap considering that he is in his seventies.) they didn’t share every emotion. Trust me, I am from the generation of sharing — we will spew any emotion if we think it will give us a slight amount of attention. Not that I am trying to do that. With my small (but lovely) readership I would certainly be barking up the wrong tree. There is more to my life than knitting, reading, and shenanigans, and while I typically try not to pour that here, I feel the need for an outlet, and I left my diary back at the dorm room.

It doesn’t help that even though I am really ready for this semester to be over, I really, really am dreading the thought of spending the next few months at home.

Oh dear, I’ve become one of those whiny college students that no one likes. “Oh, life’s so hard. I’m so busy. Wah, wah, wah,” Someone smack me the next time you see me.

 

 

(Please don’t really.)