Holiday Madness

Wow. That was something. I can't believe that Christmas is over, 2006 soon will be, and all I've managed to do with my holiday is knit two hats and read a book of Richard Ford short stories. The hats turned out okay, and I may post pics if I can borrow my Dad's digital camera. One was a gift for my brother, a heavy worsted earflap hat in Montreal Canadiens colours. It was knit with two strands of Zara held together, and I'm worried about wear. I wanted to get something thicker, but that was the only yarn with the particular shades of red and blue I wanted. It's a fairly heavy, and yet draper hat so I'm worried about the smooth merino not being able to bounce back from the heaviness. The other was a Kittyville hat in purple Mission Falls 1824 Wool- one of my favorite yarns. Not for me, but for my friend Emily. You see, the saga of Em's hat is a long and violent one: three different yarns, several different patterns, and a range of terrible results ranging from ones that would double as a tote bag to ones that would look just darling- on a Chihuahua's head. This is the closest I've come to a wearable hat, although I'm not sure if the earflaps will do. I followed the directions, but they seem a little too far forward for my liking. And she's in Florida (BITCH!) so I can't try it on her and fix it before I go back to school. Oh well, I'll finish weaving in the ends, block and mail it to her. She can mail it back to me to make any repairs. I don't mind, I like getting packages. Also, I finally bought a Denise set, and now I'm wondering whether or not I should get the long 40" cord just for simplicity's sake in making moebius shapes, or just stick to using two connecters and a bunch of cords.


As for the Richard Ford short stories, they were... okay. I haven't read any of his novels, although I know The Sportswriter is one of the best books of the 20th century, etc. etc. But most of these seemed like variations on a theme: people having affairs without having sex. Even when they do fuck each other it seems businesslike- just a way to get to the real meat of the story, the ceaseless thinking. They talk in in internal thoughts, speech is just another way to psychoanalyze themselves. They may be physically fucking on the bed, but they're mentally putting themselves on the couch. Their partners in adultery are just psychiatric exercises. I think I'm just getting tired of the bleak, frozen, marriages and relationships people seem to make in a particular kind of American literature. Unsurprisingly, my favorite stories weren't about failing adultery: Calling, about the fractured relationship between a boy and his gay, distant father and Puppy, about the politics of helping others. Next up is Patrick Suskind's Perfume, and maybe finishing Don Quixote.