Almost too beautiful

After consulting 2 YouTube videos on the Seed Stitch I present my morning knitting:

This may be the most beautiful thing I've ever knitted. There's still time to fuck it up good, but for now I'm basking in the glory of some solidly mediocre knitting and it feels like victory.

Entropy on the needle

They say that things often get worse before they get better. My Seed Stitch is a shining example of this. Even the cat agrees.

I will post no more photos after these because I am going to rip out the mess and start over. This time I will consult knitting resources to try to peel-back the mystery of the Seed Stitch. The shittyness of what I've created is a horror. Zoom in for better detail if you really must.

Beyond shitty

In starting my next washcloth I decided to employ a stitch pattern I like called Seed Stitch. I remember it being k1p1k1p1.... so I dove into it and the shittyness of what's collecting on that needle is fugly. I reflect on my stubbornness that keeps me from consulting resources to aid my quest. I force myself to muddle-through and live with whatever develops. It is a disease of the mind! Thank you, shitty knitting, for helping me see my illness from a fresh perspective. Maybe I can knit my way out of this pattern.

It's not always about knitting...

right now it's the reason behind the knitting that needs expression. My profile reads, flippantly, that I'm knitting myself back together. I hate to take myself, my story, my perspective too seriously. But we all have a story, right?

Sometimes I can't think straight. Bending yarn in to stitches, combining stitches in to rows, and rows in to whatever-the-hell, it helps clear the mind. The cacophony of life fades to a distant mumble. Calm settles like a blanket over me, and for as long as I knit, I'm serenely engaged.

I've spent a lot of time trying to figure out what is wrong with me, only to find that I'm not unlike everyone else - living a lie based on assumptions made about myself, other people, the way of the world. Through therapy and spiritual work I've examined these assumptions, how they began and their impact on my present level of function.

Good to know. But, what I'm faced with now is a re-shuffling of the deck. Things aren't where I want them. An inordinate amount of time has been squandered searching for meaningful employment in all the wrong places. I'm adrift in a sea of possibilities without a compass.

The misogyny of Trump ignited in me a deeply unsettled distrust of men, patriarchy, government, and corporate motivations. Recently, mainstream news has born signs of shifting tides. Women are coming forward and telling their stories. I've been paralyzed by the thought of sharing mine, and each time I read another woman's story of sexual abuse my heart stirs, lifts, falls. The gravity of it pulls me back every time.

Until now. The details of my undoing will remain private, but at the age of 12 my innocence was preyed upon by an older boy. The age of my dis-empowerment. Like the first Domino tipped, every sexual encounter that followed bore the taint of that experience. My sexual identity was shaped by a predator and I didn't realize it until I was 53 years old.

I was 52, and feeling really fine physically, mentally, professionally. One day, out of the mist, a shark swam toward me. Not a real shark, but another sexual predator. They are wily, slippery folk with velvet tongues. They say all the sweet things in every language to get your attention. Their persistence is impressive. They look both ways before entering to assure their stealth. I would compare him to the wolf in Little Red Riding Hood. The wolf paid attention to me in a way that triggered a quickening of my pulse, a flush of pheromones, and like a brainwashed operative from The Manchurian Candidate I started down a path as a different person.

The path was short, but the damage, substantial. I literally left my consciousness as I'd known it and wandered in someone else's shoes for 8 weeks. When I came back to myself I was aware of everything that had transpired and was horrified. I couldn't explain it. It wasn't me!

Therapy ensued. Lots of ground covered. Alcoholic mom issues, check. Divorced parents, check. Highly-sensitive childhood profile, check. Drug abuse, check. Low self-esteem, check.

It wasn't until I was visiting a dear girlfriend, and over a bottle of wine our conversation wound around and she told me the story of being molested as a child. It was heartbreaking. We laughed and we cried and in that moment a realization started to coalesce. That time, when I was 12. It wasn't my fault. I didn't want that experience to happen. I shared my thoughts. We discussed. She understood. We laughed and cried some more.

My lost 8 weeks were inhabited by a confused 12 year-old girl.

So, back to knitting. I'm taking yarn and making sense out of it. Sometimes it's a gnarled ugly mess, but it's my mess. I can work with it, try different things. So I knit. My knitting may be shitty, but at least it's mine.

Washcloth: A New Beginning

The washcloth is done. Fini. It has been put to the test at the kitchen sink and early reviews are stellar. "It really works!" exclaimed one household occupant. I am so proud. It could have been shittier, but hey, a gal has to have a goal. I tried casting on a new washcloth this morning. It didn't go well. I woke up at 3am and the attempt occurred at ~9:30am. Apparently this is a high-level skill that requires a good night's sleep. I will try again later. For now, I submit a photo of my first completed washcloth. Bow down to me!

Another day, more shitty knitting. The weather here in America's Dairyland today was beautiful. It's hard to believe that it won't be long before cold weather sets in for the season. Today, however, was abnormally warm and delightful. I made more progress on the washcloth, so I accomplished something tangible. Laundry, too!

One of the reasons I need to shitty-knit is because we live in times dominated by lightning-fast everything. The pace of life is increasing every day. Shitty knitting is the perfect antidote. 

I quit my job 6 weeks ago so I could "find myself." Today, ennui taking roost, I picked up my bamboo knitting needles and started casting on. I did not remember how to cast on, and in my malaise I said 'fuck it' and just did whatever-the-hell until it looked almost right. I could have opened any of 1.2 million sad how-to videos on YouTube, but I really wanted to chart my own course and see where it led me. Here is a photo of today's results. It's going to be a washcloth. Yes, it's sitting on a gas stovetop. I don't care.