I’ve bought some beautiful yarn that I want to use to stitch up a shawl. I may or may not have been watching the BBC’s Pride & Prejudice adaptation at the time this decision was made *clears throat awkwardly*. Anyhow, that set me off on the long and arduous trek of navigating Ravelry. For your perusal, then, I present…
WHAT RAVELRY THINKS SHAWLS ARE:
It’s that time of year again, when I am fleetingly bitten by the knitting bug and end up searching Pinterest for ideas. Some ideas are…more equal than others. Here are some of the items that didn’t make the cut.
My friend Izzi put met onto Revenge. I’m about halfway through the first season and hello new obsession.
Part of it is the series’ resident rocker of the Kinsey Scale, Nolan Ross (actor Gabriel Mann). I did the obligatory “new fangirl” trawl on Pinterest and was surprised and delighted by the variety of sexy, especially since I’m still on S1 hair.
For your appreciation and perusal:
I wasn’t planning on yarn shaming today, but I made the mistake of searching the “knitting” tag on Pinterest. Here are just some of the things I found. Please be warned: these images may disturb sensitive viewers.
“Oh please excuse us as we blaze past in a tornado of yarn!” I especially like the fear in the eyes of the model on the left.
This man’s super power is not constantly fidgeting with the off-center buttons. It may be why he has that slightly “medicated” look about him.
Today knitting; tomorrow levitation.
I’m concerned for the orbital cavities of her friends and family members.
Let it never be said that her vampirism held Octavia back from a fruitful career as part time knitwear model, part time matador.
I like how baby knitwear designers always prioritize practicality and skirt needless whimsy and hats bigger than the child wearing them.
Hipsters can’t be choosers.
You can now buy knitting needles that look like they have little olives/zombie nipples at the ends.
This is actually a very clever design. The top half is to keep the mohair yarn away from that delicate, itch-prone skin around your neck and face, and the bottom, mohair, half is to keep other people’s delicate, itch-prone skin away from you. It’s like a rape whistle, but with wool.
I think there’s someone else in there.
I like how both the turkey and the sweater match each other in terms of terrible taste and questionable judgment.
The kids hate when creepy Aunt Jenna makes her lambs bo peep them.
I think it makes more sense when you realise that it doesn’t and never will.
I feel very strongly about not making whatever this is.
For those days when you want to look like the lint and dust bunnies under your bed.
Excellent! You already have all the kindling we need to set it on fire and watch it burn.
There’s no time like a deadline to indulge longform.org, an archive of long form articles on every topic imaginable. Yesterday I read about how Wired writer Evan Ratcliffe tried to #vanish while being manhunted by the entire Internet (this was back in 2009; “not following it live” is now among my top five worst regrets of all time, a list which includes two perms and most of my friendships up to age 21). I also read about orgasmic meditation which is surprisingly even dodgier than such a moniker would initially suggest and, for bonus points, includes this gif:
Some other interesting finds include the (now popular) Pixar theory; an old article meticulously detailing just how creepy Woody Allen is (in all fairness, not a hard gospel to sell); how feminism in Denmark cockblocked a “professional pick-up artist” (still not as creepy as Woody Allen); and a skeptic’s report from an “afterlife conference” (which is exactly what it sounds like).
And, whoops, I’ve opened up six other articles while scanning the website…
We who are
your closest friends
feel the time
has come to tell you
that every Thursday
we have been meeting,
as a group,
to devise ways
to keep you
in perpetual uncertainty
by neither loving you
as much as you want
nor cutting you adrift.
Your analyst is
in on it,
plus your boyfriend
and your ex-husband;
and we have pledged
to disappoint you
as long as you need us.
In announcing our
we realize we have
placed in your hands
a possible antidote
indeed against ourselves.
But since our Thursday nights
have brought us
to a community
rare in itself
with you as
the natural center,
we feel hopeful you
will continue to make unreasonable
demands for affection
if not as a consequence
of your disastrous personality
then for the good of the collective.
–Phillip Lopate (from Bird by Bird by Anne Lamott)
There are so many textures, I’m not sure which one to rub up against first.
“But how?” my students ask. “How do you actually do it?”
You sit down, I say. You try to sit down at approximately the same time every day. This is how you train your unconscious to kick in for you creatively. So you sit down at, say, nine every morning, or ten every night. You put a piece of paper in the typewriter, or you turn on your computer and bring up the right file, and then you stare at it for an hour or so. You begin rocking, just a little at first, and then like a huge autistic child. You look at the ceiling, and over at the clock, yawn, and stare at the paper again. Then, with your fingers poised on the keyboard, you squint at an image that is forming in your mind—a scene, a locale, a character, whatever—and you try to quiet your mind so you can hear what that landscape or character has to say above the other voices in your mind. The other voices are banshees and drunken monkeys. They are the voices of anxiety, judgment, doom, guilt. Also, severe hypochondria. There may be a Nurse Ratched-like listing of things that must be done right this moment: foods that must come out of the freezer, appointments that must be canceled or made, hairs that must be tweezed. But you hold an imaginary gun to your head and make yourself stay at the desk. There is a vague pain at the base of your neck. It crosses your mind that you have meningitis. Then the phone rings and you look up at the ceiling with fury, summon every ounce of noblesse oblige, and answer the call politely, with maybe just the merest hint of irritation. The caller asks if you’re working and you say yeah, because you are.
—Bird by Bird, Anne Lamott