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Archive for the month “February, 2013”

I’ve fallen into yarn and I can’t get out

Yes it’s true…during one of my manic episodes I knitted what could not be achieved in two whole months. I knitted till my fingers knitted themselves and I made the strangest scarf. It has several textures of wool and colours and is not the same width all along its three metres. But that’s really beside..I mean it is therapeutic. When the night seems endlessly long or not even long enough and when I have to defy that buggery bollocks alarm clock my incredible side kicks in and says ‘knit, knit like the wind’. But what will you knit dear? I don’t know, I haven’t time to consider it, all I know is that those stitches don’t stitch themselves and that purling and seeding sound so very rude it could have something to do with woolen dildos. But it doesn’t, besides they would scratch and wouldn’t really be of any use..except perhaps as a dildo holder. But I digress. And I will have to present some of these mistress pieces as evidence of this strange obsession. It’s a little like grinding your teeth except with needles and you don’t get much tooth damage.And then there’s the kindle. Listen judge me not too much yet…understand I left a great many boxes of books behind when I traveled and am so grateful that I have about 1000 books now accessible..70 percent of which I own in dead trees. But it’s been a strange ride for me and this is day four and counting. I don’t think my partner has essentially cottoned on to my manic episode that has put no-one in danger, except people made of yarn. I don’t really sleep, it seems ridiculous and obvious. Well I sleep, but fitfully dreaming of yarn and colours and who those people are yarn-bombing the city and whether they would be too cool and crafty for the lackadaisical knitted outpourings of myself. But I haven’t left the house in four days. Now if this was a big house you might understand, well yes that’s a lock down, that’s easy. But I live in a shoe-box, not a shoe. And if it was a shoe it would be a red glittery shoe–god damn it– it would be THE SHOE from the Wizard of Oz. Were they not technically the Witch of the East’s shoes? Or was it Glinda or Glenda the good witch? It’s so unfair, I mean what did the good witch do other than talk to Dorothy in a condescending matter and steal the shoes from the other witch who had been squashed? Oh and she waved her wand and helped her get home. But the other witch had flying Monkeys ( a capital M ) and a castle and she was GREEN!! not just a little green but a lot green. (me thinks I have written about this in another blog) Anyway where was I…

Oh living in a box. Well look, it’s a nice box as far as it goes and of course it isn’t a real box as in a box that is lived in by someone who literally has to live in a box. Hmm imagine being able to build houses from boxes and somehow waterproofing them, like portable tents but much roomier and then homeless people would have access to homes that they can move when they want, and are secure and safe. The actual nomadic box, let’s call it a yurt, is free to homeless people. This isn’t to suggest or to simplify the conditions of homelessness since the conditions and circumstances are often complex and ongoing and a microcosm of what is occurring within the macrocosm of society, but to offer moveable, water-proof, lightweight, comfortable and secure accommodation that is owned by the people living on the streets. In actual fact students could have them to. They could be quite big, think Harry Potter tents in one of those books, and we could paint them and decorate them and vacate them when we wanted to. Waterproof, resilient, strong, comfortable recycled cardboard houses. I know there is genius furniture being made from it. But houses…no-one to get suckered into mortgages. Aren’t they bizarre. These incomprehensibly large loans you get from the bank to buy a house to live in, but not really live in, because you are working like a sucker to pay for it and then when you own it, well that’s nice. I wonder what it would be like if land was not owned by anyone, would it be like Mad Max? or Survivors? Could we do it without a centralised government?  Imagine if we lived between things, between the trees, between the buildings, between each other. We would have personal space, but we would not be owners, we would be custodians, much like the indigenous custodians of this land. But the box. Well maybe I live in a shoe box and instead of many children I have many dolls that I make.

Oh but the Kindle. Well let’s just say I’m reading about twenty books at the same time. Yes yes I am actually reading The Art of Laziness, and Alice in Wonderland, and I am America and You can too by Steven Colbert, and Latin for beginners, and Russian folk tales, and Animal Farm.  My dreams are disturbed by my readings. But I have decided to make a blanket for my bed and given the dimensions of the bed and also the patchwork blanket I will make, think a licorice allsort kind of affair, I have calculated it will take me realistically about six months. In my fantasy it will take three weeks because I will be in a frenzy and my hands will kit in my sleep. I’d like to hope it’s ready for the deep winter of Melbourne. I want to wake up to the yellows, purples, blues, greens, oranges of this knitted mania. I want to feel the time embedded in it, the work, the mistakes, the beautiful surprises, the miscalculations, the warmth of its embrace. A yarn affair.


Witches brew, pussies stew.

IMG_3286It’s true, sometimes we brew far too much. I drugged myself and ended up in a lavender oil coma. I did this to myself, my partner, and almost to my neighbour. Yes lavender flowers good, but lavender leaves….well let’s just say that after consuming this potent mixture I was knocked out for around ten hours or so and could barely stumble out of bed the next morning. I was completely drugged and had slept as the dead. By the fourth night of this wonderful new herbal tea experiment I looked forward to the quick sleep of the dead that would take over me, sometimes infused with strange dreams involving zombie brides haunting houses I was visiting, but for the most part these potions ensured a very very deep sleep. But by the fifth day the waking was getting harder to enact. My limbs dragged like water-logged jellyfish and my  head swam with the whispering ghosts of drugged sleep. The nausea also began to creep to the forefront of my morning wake-ups and it proved to be the clue to my poisoning. So good had this new lavender leaf tea infusion been that I had recommended it to my neighbour and thankfully she decided with her better judgement not to have it. One look at me, across the fence at six in the evening as she had just come home from work was enough to convince her perhaps her witchy poo neighbour might not be onto something, for what she saw I can only imagine in retrospect, my five-day old mascara built upon my lashes like shabby velvet-tapestries, my tangled black hair wherein lay the feathers from the doona, or the dress I had been wearing for the last three days. My hands reached across, brown and keen to give her the ‘good stuff’ and she took it warily. Of course I have told her since discovering my poisoning ( it was not me but he who quickly researched the mistake of the lavender leaves) not to infuse them.  I have told my beloved I would never mention it to anyone, that I must not speak of our mutual poisoning, because no-one will want to eat my curries, my soups for fear of some new experiment.  The strangest thing is, I have a book of herbal remedies but failed to remember the leaves were toxic. At the time the potion was so wonderfully strong, it felt so good and certain in its effects. So I ground up some charcoal and made us both swallow sufficient quantities to absorb the poisoning. I swear my cats had been nesting in my hair whilst I slept this narcotic sleep, they potentially could have stewed me up in their own mad cat sabbath, in their strange mewings at the moon and I would have woken, naked in a forest in a pile of goose feathers, with bird bones clutched in my hands.  It may have happened.

Black dogs and wayward stitches

I don’t want to tie up the black dog, but it came again, as it does unbidden. It came nuzzling my mind with its hot sweet breath, it came up over the bed sheets and sat its largish body upon my chest and henceforth I found my breathing labored. But the sky was meridian and peaked with splashes of gold and the birds were giving me their watcher calls as one of my two cats prowled outside, prowling like a dappled shadow over hot cement and drying leaves.  And the black dog sat on my chest and enveloped me and so when I could I read from my book on smells and discovered the chemical components of various objects and …where was I? Oh sorry I was lost again in a mild brew of disconnected sensations. Sometimes the sensations range from being incredibly bodily aware of little things–the taste of the lip gloss on my lips, the feel of my toes being curled up as I sit with one shoe resting on top of the other, the jarring sensation of my fingers running in recklessness over the keyboards.
I hadn’t left the bed in two days except to go to the bathroom and have spent most of last night knitting the most erratic scarf. The scarf is filled with all types of wool I have literally found on the side of the road over the last three months and it will be a birthday present for my darling. In this particular climate of black dog, I have noticed that the black dog has given birth to the most adorable but very needy black puppies. They get into my knitting, they throw my books out of my bed, they make the sheets stale, they demand to be fed but I can think of nothing to feed them. In this space  I chew the resin amber and drink the sap of the thistle, of the nasturtium, collect the seeds of the poppy, crush the pods of cardamon and mix them with clove and soak them in oils to rub over my dry face, my antlers for they are shedding and I am coming to blows in a fight with the walls. The walls crash down as though they were made of violent crumble and I step out in a kimono sleeved red velvet cloak, my body tattooed in the scrolls of tree shadows, my eyes piercing through the impression of trees to find the owls and hunt with them.

I have found a perch in the tallest oak to gaze with the eyes of an owl that doesn’t appear to be surveying the ground. I have become a tiger moth resting on the bark of a tree, I have become the unborn growing fetus of of a wolf cub, I have become the sucking salmon, I have become the sticky legged bee listening to the hum of nectar, drawn on the thread of scent by wildflowers, a delicate purveyor of honey.

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