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Tips For Knitting In The Wild
We headed down to Moab for the weekend, celebrating my oldest friend’s birthday there for the fourth year in a row. I’ve moved from wanting to see arches (although they’re always cool) to wanting to go find rock art, and my other friend’s knowledge of the area didn’t disappoint. We saw petroglyphs AND pictographs!
If you can get to the desert in the early spring, do it. (Stay here and eat here.) If you can bring your favorite people along, even better.
Thursday Links
1. I didn’t strike for International Women’s Day yesterday because I’m taking time off for a long weekend and my PTO is just so limited. (Is this part of what I should have gone on strike for? Yes. Let’s unionize!) So here’s some links for a longer weekend.
2. In honor of IWD, Rebecca Solnit’s essay “Men Explain Things To Me” is always worth a read.
3. I love Bob Ross’ painting show wholeheartedly and unironically, but I found David Hockney videos on YouTube last week and they are also delightful. Wisdom imparted in this one include, “There’s a fabulous lot to look at” and “It’s always now. It’s the now that’s eternal, actually.”
Happy Ending
Lemon juice is a MIRACLE, everybody. I used the juice alone on a cotton swab to get the color out of the front:
Then I made a paste with salt and lemon juice for the spots in the lining, and they all faded about 95%. This big one will need another round but, considering I thought I’d ruined a beloved 40-hour project, I think it’s pretty good.
WHEW.
Tuesday Project TRAGEDY (With A Little Hope)
The chambray I used on my quilted jacket still had quite a bit of indigo dye left on it, even after a pre wash, so I thought I’d try a trick I just used to set the color on some dark jeans: soak it for a a few hours in salt water.
Did I pause to think that a corrosive solution and antiqued brass snaps were perhaps not the best combination? Reader, I did not. And what did I see when I pulled the jacket out of the soak?
Turns out the salt made the “male” side of the snaps bleed rust onto the lining and even the main fabric (insert toxic masculinity joke here)
Yep. Just when you announce a project is your favorite ever, you go and ruin it. Turns out I’m why I can’t have nice things.
So where’s the glimmer of hope in all this? I did a little internet research on rust stains and saw that lemon juice can help remove them. I did a patch test last night and they lightened considerably, so I’ll try the full method. Fingers crossed.
That Old Saying
Friday Links
1. Did you stop worrying about our political future for a little bit? Just read this post from Kottke about the German vote in 1933.
“However, it’s also important to note that while the Nazis won the most seats in 1933, they did not win a majority of them or the popular vote.”
2. When you’re done worrying, here’s 25 women on style as identity. I love the thoughts from Rei Kawakubo (even though I don’t wear Comme des Garcons-level of challenging clothing):
“When you’re just comfortable with what you’re wearing, you don’t have new thoughts. I want people to feel something and think about who they are. You can’t become truly free if you no longer think about clothes.”
3. And, if thinking about clothes makes us truly free, I’ve just discovered this blog and have been going through the worksheets about defining personal style and shopping fasts. Thoughtfully done.
Thursday Mood
…i.e., I’d like to take a break from fighting the patriarchy and go drink patio drinks somewhere, pls.
(Images from all my Pinterests [let me show you them])
Ash Wednesday
It’s Ash Wednesday in the Christian calendar and that means posting part of my favorite T.S. Eliot poem, a repeat around here and the source of my epitaph.
From Ash Wednesday, section VI; full text here
Although I do not hope to turn again
Although I do not hope
Although I do not hope to turn
Wavering between the profit and the loss
In this brief transit where the dreams cross
The dreamcrossed twilight between birth and dying
(Bless me father) though I do not wish to wish these things
From the wide window towards the granite shore
The white sails still fly seaward, seaward flying
Unbroken wings.
And the lost heart stiffens and rejoices
In the lost lilac and the lost sea voices
And the weak spirit quickens to rebel
For the bent golden-rod and the lost sea smell
Quickens to recover
The cry of quail and the whirling plover
And the blind eye creates
The empty forms between the ivory gates
And smell renews the salt savour of the sandy earth.
This is the time of tension between dying and birth
The place of solitude where three dreams cross
Between blue rocks
But when the voices shaken from the yew-tree drift away
Let the other yew be shaken and reply.