Old Hat, New President

I can feel it in my bones, and no mistake. Usually happens to me about this time of year, when winter taps constantly at the window like a persistent but unwelcome gentleman caller. It's too early for spring cleaning by months, but I feel I must do something productive indoors or run mad. So I line up all the unfinished projects and give them marching orders. You, you, you, you and especially you–outta here!

Happily, this weekend I was entirely surrounded by knitters. A body can really get things done in such company, as at no point will it be suggested that wouldn't you like to put your needles down and sleep, or eat, or pick up the Wii controller and pretend to shoot things. (There was some fuss on Ravelry about a knitting game being created for the Wii. I find the idea ridiculous, but could see the point of a game in which you get to slap people who tell you that you knit too much.)

My house guest, as I mentioned in the last post, was Carol of Go Knit in Your Hat. Carol is one of those knitters who make you wish you had six hands so you could knit three projects at once. Ideas bubble out of her effervescently.

In spite of brutal temperatures, a good crowd turned up at Loopy Yarns to pick up Carol's book and meet the author. I got to sit at one side and watch. This is Carol, signing.



(Some of her inscriptions, I regret to say, were quite unmaidenly. My delicate tastes were affronted.)

The next day we were back at Loopy again, to rendezvous with Knitters for Obama.



They were putting together the batch of chemo caps knit by the group for donation to University of Chicago Medical Center. There were (I think) about 200 hats to sort and label. We were awash in hats. Submerged in hats. Inundated. Very nearly immolated.



Meanwhile, I was working on a hat of my own. I'd started it in August, using a handout from Knitting Camp. I was determined to learn from it the basics of Bavarian Twisted Stitch. Unfortunately, when I hit the shaping at the top I suddenly felt quivery and unequal to moving ahead. There were no instructions, you see–only Meg's very sensible advice to proceed according to one's own taste and best judgment. Alas, I am prone to question daily whether I have any of either.

When picked up the hat again on Friday, I couldn't understand what my trouble had been. There wasn't much left to do, and all of it was straightforward. I closed up the top after about two hours' work, and shoved it onto the head of Lumpy, my phrenology bust/hat model.



I'm not cuckoonuts about the way the shaping turned out. Next time, I'd arrange the decrease points differently to keep the major patterns in play longer. On the other hand, it's always interesting to see–once again–that if you plot a course of action in your knitting and you stick to it, the end result will at least have a certain orderliness to recommend it.



I am, may I add, extremely taken with Bavarian Twisted Stitch and wish to waltz with it again. In spite of my Urge to Finish Everything, I can't help contemplating what new project I could work it into.





Probably I'll tackle another hat, in a different color. Because I put this one on and realized the yarn (Shepherd Classic Wool #1816) doesn't suit me. So Susan, if you're reading this, I sure hope you like your new hat.

Tomorrow

I can't sign off without mentioning the Inauguration, but find better heads than mine have already written of it so eloquently that I have nothing of much merit to contribute.

I will say this. For eight years, I have watched the government–my government, the one I was always taught was of, by and for the people–do everything in its power to divide the country into us and them. I have listened, shattered, as my fellow citizens have questioned my loyalty, my liberty, and my right to exist.

Well, I'm still here and I'm still loyal. This place ain't perfect, but it's mine and I love it. In spite of eight years of misrule by as sorry a pack of weasels as ever held office, I still believe that America, at its heart, is a nation founded on noble instincts and good ideas.

As Mr. Obama takes the oath, I wish him luck. And I hope that when the history of this era is written, that January 20, 2009 will be remembered as a good day–the day we took our first, uncertain step on new and upward path.

Lurching Toward Epiphany: Day Four

On the fourth day of Christmas, Dolores gave to me



four letter words,
three clenched men,
two hurtled jugs,
and a party that lasted 'til three.

My Fellow Americans

Hi, it's Dolores.

Laura Bush was saying to me the other day, isn't ambition a fickle thing? One minute you're all comfy in your boudoir, leafing through the Vogue summer preview and considering whether it would make sense to move the chaise longue a little closer to the liquor cabinet; and the next minute you're tits up on the shag carpet wondering what life's about and why you feel so unfulfilled.

Cupcakes: I, too, have had such a moment, though unlike dear Laura I did manage to keep both myself and my cosmo off the rug. I was going through my morning e-mails about a month ago and read:

Dear Dolores,

Hi! Such a fan here. I work at a rehabilitation center for wayward girls in Wheatgrass Depot, Oregon and not a day goes by that your name doesn't come up in conversation at least twice!

Anywhoo, not to get too personal but I was wondering, how do you manage it all? I come home from an eight-hour day and all I want to do is drop into a chair with a big old Fiesta Platter from the Taco Bell and watch "Ugly Betty" reruns. You have your writing, your music, your celebrity lifestyle and your duty to the public as a fashion icon. Does the pressure to be the best ever get to you?

Respectfully,
Mitzie

Now, I must get at least a dozen questions like that every day. But until this one, I always sent a form response explaining that like a tender South American orchid growing on a rugged cliff, I gotta bloom or perish. It's the reason I left the farm where I was born. I didn't want to wind up like my mother, who wrote "Today I ate some grass" on every page of her diary until the day she died.

When I read Mitzie's message, well, the veil dropped from my eyes. I've lived, yeah. Songs? Sung. Books? Written. Parties? And how. And yet...and yet...it's not enough. But when you've done it all and are still shockingly youthful, what are you gonna do next?

I don't mind telling you I was on the verge of weeping a little weep like Alexander, because there were no more worlds to conquer. And then a voice in my head thundered, "Dolores! Now is the time for all good sheep to come to the aid of the country."

And I thought, how true.

So what if I've always been an artist? Many artists have evolved into inspiring political leaders. Think of Ignaz Paderewski, Vaclav Havel, Fred Grandy, Sonny Bono. If Arnold Schwarzenegger can stand on a lofty peak, why shouldn't I reach the summit? And as my Great-Aunt Wilma used to say, if the world's going to go to Hell in a handbasket you might as well try to grab the handle.

Today, therefore, I am announcing my candidacy for President of the United States of America, as representative of the newly-formed Fibertarians party.

We are a small but powerful fledgling coalition. According to exploratory canvassing our power base is extremely diverse, witness the chart below.



Talk about strange bedfellows. Of course, all are welcome in this tent.* We only ask an allegiance to party principles, which are as follows:

1. Vote for me.
   
2. See above.
   

Here's our entry in the American political menagerie. Clip 'n' post it as a blog button or Ravelry avatar, or pick a way to display your party allegiance in the real world. [Edited to add: due to popular demand, Dolores for President gear is now available to supplement the line of Fibertarian items. –F. Habit, Director of Campaign Swag.]







Now, my campaign promises.

Unlike the other candidates, I readily admit that I'm in this for the bling. Free travel by private jet, a huge expense account, my own office, and a posse of humpy bodyguards in suits and dark glasses? Betcherass. So just tell me what you want, and I'll want that, too.

Let's get the ball of yarn rolling with a few suggestions collected by my press secretary, Harry.

1. Elizabeth Zimmermann's birthday will be declared a national holiday.
2. All fiber-related purchases will be fully tax-deductible.
3. Knitting will become a mandatory subject in American public schools.
4. Government subsidies for the establishment of independent yarn shops in high-need areas.

It's your country, kids. I just plan to run it.



*You don't even have to live in America or be American. After a stay in the White House, I'm thinking world domination might be a freakin' hoot.

War: Enough Already

This is my Independence Day post. The fourth itself was a very glum, solitary day for me and I wasn't up to posting, so consider this my way of prolonging the spirit of the occasion.

There used to be a custom in American families that on the fourth of July, the Declaration of Independence would be read aloud to remind everyone present of the ideals upon which the nation was founded. This has fallen sadly out of fashion; perhaps in the age of the sound bite we could at least read this bit to our children, before it winds up on the scrap heap:

We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness. — That to secure these rights, Governments are instituted among Men, deriving their just powers from the consent of the governed, — That whenever any Form of Government becomes destructive of these ends, it is the Right of the People to alter or to abolish it, and to institute new Government, laying its foundation on such principles and organizing its powers in such form, as to them shall seem most likely to effect their Safety and Happiness. [The rest of it is here.]

You know I seldom get political in here, but you know I also do not support (and never have) the present war in Iraq. Of course, there is only so much one can do about it. I'm not over there fighting in it, and I keep voting for people who say they're going to try to end it.

My opposition goes well beyond that particular war to encompass all wars, everywhere. I'll still pray for peace in Iraq even after the Americans leave, although I think our leaders have done their best to ensure that the ruins will smolder for generations.

There's a protest being staged in Chicago, and I plan to be there. I like the format because it's not the usual march-and-shout affair. If anything, the descriptions of the planned action suggest it will raise no more than a murmur, and that on the shore of Lake Michigan well north of the center of the city.

It's called "Prostrations for Peace," and a blog of sorts has been established for it here, with details about where and when and how. I heard about it through a message the Buddhist Peace Fellowship sent to the Zen center where I practice. In spite of the name, the action isn't only for practitioners of Yoga or Buddhism, which makes me like it all the more.

My participation will be 108 prostrations, each with the intention I've made every morning since I became a Buddhist: May all beings attain enlightenment. Enlightened beings, you see, do not blow one another to smithereens in the name of religion, patriotism, or cheaper gasoline. It sounds to me like a pleasant change from the present arrangement.

How is touching my forehead to the ground 108 times in a public park going to help stop war? I don't know. I just have to believe it will. I can't sit here and do nothing. And as we still have 500 or so days left to go before our august warlord scampers back to his ranch (he should only stay there) there's precious little else I can do.

By the way, I know there are a lot of new readers in here lately, and I'm glad you're here. If you find this post disconcerting, please understand that along with Franklin the knitter and Franklin the cartoonist and Franklin the gay dude with the talking sock yarn, every so often you get Franklin the tree-hugging peacenik.

Tomorrow, back to knitting. Specifically, the mathematics involved in working a lace shawl. Hotcha!

Dolorocrats?

I came upstairs after voting (the lobby of my building is, conveniently, a polling station) and found the apartment in disarray.

"Dolores," I said. "Dolores, why are all the sheets and towels on the floor in the hallway?"

"We needed office space," she said. "Say, have you seen the hammer lately?"

"It's under the bathroom sink," I said. "Office space for what?"

"Comin' through," said a soft voice near my feet. "Move it or lose it."

Harry rolled past with a bunch of the other sock yarns, carrying between them a placard that read "HEADQUARTERS."

"Where are you going with that?"

The phone rang.

"Hello?"

"This is Jack at the front desk. You got a delivery here for D. Van Hoofen. Send it up?"

You will of course understand that I no longer accept deliveries to the apartment without checking them out first. Upon inspection, I found that Dolores had ordered two hundred yards of red, white, and blue bunting and fifty very small straw boaters with star-spangled ribbons.

"Dolores," I asked, not for the first time, "What the hell is going on?"

"In time of great need, my country is calling me," said Dolores. "And like Sir Francis Drake, I can but answer."

"Calling you? Calling you to what?"

"To organize. To lead. To inspire. Last night, I had a dream!"

"Oh, shit."

"Watch your mouth. It was beautiful! I was standing on a platform in the middle of Soldier Field, and there were thousands of people there, and I had a new hat, and everybody was cheering, and then a giant finger appeared in the sky and wrote DOLORES IN 2008 in flaming letters. I've never thought of myself as a political animal, but you don't have to tell me twice."

"You're running for President?"

"Well, I don't want to jump the gun, cupcake. We're in the exploratory stages. Listen, do you mind if I pull out the good bridge cloth? I have Libby Dole and some of the other girls coming over for lunch tomorrow. Hey, you okay? You look kinda green."

"It's one of my headaches coming on," I said.

"Again? You should get that checked. Hey, Harry–I need you to correct this welcome banner, she spells 'Hillary' with two Ls."

"You got it, chief. Ann Coulter is on the phone again. She's crying this time and wants to know pretty please can she come to the party?"

"Tell her to buy a box of Kleenex and remember that the restraining order is still in place."

"This is insane, Dolores," I said. "Stop and think for a minute. You're a heavy drinker. An elitist. With notoriously low morals. Related to any number of shady characters. You have no foreign policy experience. Your head is full of wool. Why on earth would anyone vote for you?"

"Who says lightning can't strike a third time?" she sniffed.

Peace

Angel, Tarquinia, Italy

I had a blog post ready for today, but I've yanked it. The news coming out the Middle East has dampened my urge to amuse. I thought I'd been completely numbed by all these years of Iraq, but no. I feel like I've been punched in the gut.

The world can't go on like this. Although of course it always has, hasn't it?

Fighting has broken out between a land of people I've always admired deeply and the land from which my father's family came.

I read all I could about it, trying to decide whose side I'm on. Can't do it. There are not two sides. People are killing people. Human lives are being disrupted. All that matters is that this must stop.

If you pray, please pray for peace. If you don't pray, go out of your way to put a little goodness into the world today.

Maybe it'll help. Something had better. And soon.

Namaste. Shalom.