Category / Bunberry

by Sixer

On knitting

I don’t knit.

I know how to knit. I belong to knitting websites and live a fiber filled life vicariously through knitting bloggers. I stalk sweaters. I keep a mental list in my head of what I want to knit.  I buy yarn. I cast-on to knitting projects. But I don’t knit.

Sometimes when life is really bleak and gray, when I seem to be stuck in the first fifteen minutes of The Wizard of Oz, I’ll yearn for yarn and pattern. Sometimes when I’m tired, or when I’m full of energy and need something to occupy my hands, my fingers will itch for the feel of merino and the smooth, solid rainbows I use as needles. I stifle these feelings whenever I can. Because I don’t knit.

But sometimes the longing to be, not just a partaker in beauty, but an orchestrator – a crafter, not a user –sometimes that desire is too strong to silence. And sometimes the need to be useful, to produce something, to say “see, I have accomplished,” sometimes it threatens to break forth into the world. To do something truly impulsive. When my dreams of beauty and ability combine, then I forget. I forget that I do not knit.

And so, I cast-on.

I delve into my basket of  WIPs (works in progress).

And I start to knit.

And it is beautiful. And it is calming. And, somehow, even though it’s enjoyable, I feel it means something.  It’s not like I’m watching TV, reading Heyer, or composing a poem about the sky. Those are ways of consuming time. But knitting, knitting is using time. It’s taking it and making it into something else. The sticks in my hand click together, catch the yarn, pull it through, and in that instant also catch a bit of time as it hurries past, and so the time I spend knitting is saved. It remians with me for as long as the knitted object does.

But the more I knit the less time I capture.

Before long I am lost. I’m rereading charts, counting stitches, checking deffinitions for common terms (K2 tog,  ssk, psso). I’m not knitting. Not anymore than a drowning man can be said to be swimming. At first I try finding the source of the problem. I tink, unknitting my project stitch by stitch until I reach an area unaffected by my confusion.  I frog, pulling out my needles and ripping back two or three rows with a grim enthusiasm. I’m not knitting. I’m tinkering. I feel doubt creep up on me. Maybe this project really will never get finished. Maybe this yarn is a bad choice for this pattern. Maybe I’ll just go bury this out in the yard and pretend it never happened. So, in an attempt to salvage my urge to create, I take short cuts. I decrease redundant stitches, create necessary ones out of thin air. I stubbornly ignore the instructions in order to stay in pattern. I am not knitting. I am fudging.

Eventually I reach a point where the ideal world of knitting becomes worse than real life. It becomes a world where everything I touch falls apart, gets knotted, felts. A world where I can’t do anything useful or productive. Where trying to make things better only makes things worse. At this point I lay down my needles, stuff the yarn back in its cubby hole, and vow to pick it up tomorrow when I’ve “calmed down.” But I never do. I leave it there, gathering dust, until I’ve forgotten that I don’t knit. Until that world of intense focus wrought by missing stitches and mis-crossed cables starts to look like peace again.

In the ‘tween times, when I am sane(er), I remember: I don’t knit.

But maybe I sew.
by Sixer

Syfy, or what we can look forward to

A dear friend and I often lament the fall of Sci-fi. Televised sci-fi, that is. Now that Stargate has ended (sob) there dosen’t really seem to be anything left in that genre. The shadow kings of the entertainment industry managed to kill star trek with a single season of Enterprise, and Josh Wheddon’s Firefly was forced to use alternative media options, like comic books and movies. Even Heroes, which was more syfy than sci-fi, was helped, limping, off air a few years ago. Where have all the good plots gone?

Well, the same friend has emalied me a list of possible upcoming T.V. shows, and I thought I might use it to show the world that hope might not be that far under the couch cushions. Out of the seventeen shows listed, I thought five of them sounded like fun. Not necessarily “Where have you been all my life,” but at least “I’d like to watch your pilot and see if you’re as nutty as you sound.”
 
Once Upon a Time
This show sounds like Eureka. Only with fairies. That’s right, faries. I’m a little shocked by how many of the shows mentioned on the list featured fairies. They’re not like witches, vampires, or zombies – edgy and badcore in mass-marketable ways. They’re, well, they’re fairies. I’m wondering if this show (and the other shows that plan on featuring them, like Grimm) will be using fairies from fae, or fairies á la Eion Colfer’s Artemis Fowl series. At any rate, I’m not really interested in watching this show. Eureka was fun, but it’s format was too limiting for any ground breaking plot. Once Upon a Time will probably also  have a new catastrophe every week, but at least it will have to be creative when it does. Eureka could call on aliens, hidden nukes, and clones whenever it needed some excitement. What is Once Upon a Time going to do, delve into necromancy?*
17th Precinct
      Again with the fantasy. Here Civil Servants, of some sort, will have to operate in a world where magic trumps science. But this comes from someone well steeped in Sci-fi, Ronald D. Moore: Klingon specialist and Battlestar Galactica re-imaginist. . . .  Re-imaginer. . . .

Developer.

Though I’ve never watched Battlestar Galactica myself, I’ve been coerced taught to respect it. It’s deep people – that’s what I’ve heard. So even though I’m so over the whole police thing I’m really curious about this show. May Mr. Moore follow the example of Diane Wynne Jones and make a method for his magic.

REM
    This show looks painful. In a scripted way. But it is actual sci-fi, complete with dimensions. No namby-pamby fantasy creatures here, instead the main character finds himself jumping between two different realities, one in which his son is dead and the other in which his wife is, well, dead. Talk about a rock and a hard place. I can’t really see myself watching this all they way through, because I like sunshine and rainbows in my cup of tea, but I’m assuming that this show is actually going somewhere. You know, plot-wise.

Locke & Key
      Definitely the winner of the Cute Tittle award, according to blastr the main characters in this show are a coupe of siblings. Add in an uncle, an old house, and the discovery of  a few “special doorways” and I’m thinking this one might actualy hold my attention for a whole season. Maybe it’s just my age, but I love stories with kids in them, and I don’t think there are enough of them on T.V., unless you count youth programing, which of course I don’t. The doorways sound hopeful, but I do have to wonder if this show will be Narnia or Bridge to Terabethia. That is, knowing the kids have gone through some ordeal, can we really assume these doorways are real?

Touch
I guess, technically, this would be categorized as sci-fi.  Clairvoyance goes either way, but since in this case the prophet is an autistic child, fake science seems to be in play. With the dad as a peon for an airport, I’m not sure how the writers are going to pursue the inevitable “imminent demise of the planet/ country” plot-line successfully, but I’m sure they have a plan. My hope is that this show will be better than Dead Zone, which managed to keep it’s psychic visions modest until near the third or fourth season. I wish directors would realize that once apocalypse begins nothing else really seems important (i.e. we no longer care about the drama with your girlfriend,  the fact that your cat has gone missing, the death of the local baker, etc.). If the characters are going to be in a panic over a perceived threat for half a season it had better be really scary-bad, with long-lasting results, if it’s going to happen at all. An apocalypse that no one seems to remember next season is going to be forgotten by viewers too. Or worse, they’ll remember enough that they won’t care when the next one comes round.

There, those are the pilots I would watch. I’d like to note, again, that only two of these even remotely resemble a really good sci-fi show. And those were the major sci-fi players out of a list of seventeen. It would be equivalent to wishing for a pony if I hoped for a show as well done as Babylon 5 – which was novel in that it had a well-developed plot which spanned multiple seasons, but was beautiful because it gracefully folded itself away when the plot ended –  I’d be happy with a second Voyager at this rate. I don’t know guys, you read the list and then tell me what shows you think will pan out. Better yet, tell me what sci-fi shows you’ve enjoyed watching in the past. If the networks decide not to carry anything decent we might be stuck with reruns this fall.

———————————–
*That sounds disturbingly close to werewolf/vampire/witches to me, though, and they better not mix those with fairies. Let’s keep our unrealities separate, okay?

by Sixer

Interesting Corners of the Net

Does a net even have corners?

I’m going to have a lot of fun going through my bookmarks. The vast majority of them aren’t blogs, or other places that you’d go to everyday, but just interesting pages to browse through. Seen by themselves these pages are a little eccentric, but I hope that by arranging them in eclectic groups they will form the virtual equivalent of a sight seeing tour. Perfect for the rainy weather we’re becoming accustomed to.

A good example, Handwriting-L talks about how to give people a psychological evaluation merely by studying their penmanship.  Not the kind of thing you’re going to need, but if you click on the tab that says “analyses” and skim through an example of how to tell someone’s a control freak through the tension of their writing, you will have all you need to analyze your own handwriting. Once you’ve done your own it’s only fair to do your friends’ too. What does your middle zone say about you?

Equally entertaining, if more educational, is the Exploratorium, which I have bookmarked so that I can quickly pull up my age on other planets. How old am I on  Mercury? Why, 89 – I know, I age well. On Neptune? 0.13 years. That’s pretty mind boggling, to think that in the whole course of my life Neptune hasn’t completed even one rotation around the Sun. According to the Expolatorium, Neptune takes almost 165 years to make a complete orbit, so the chances of me celebrating my first Neptunian birthday is solely dependent on the invention of cryogenics. On the other hand, I’m turning 35 on April first (tomorrow!), if you go by the Venusian calendar. Maybe I should throw a party?

Maybe you’re not in the mood for reading, maybe you want to do something. No fear, my bookmark file has something for you too. This has been on my to do list for a long time, actually. It’s instructions on the coptic stitch, one of the stitches used in book binding. If you do a google search on it you can actually find whole blogs written by people who bind books by hand. Just the thought makes my head feel a little lighter. This link leads to a picture on flikr, though. A simple sketch of coptic stitch basics, which can be applied to either a few sheaves or reams and reams, binder’s choice. It’s a simple little project, but the one time I attempted it I managed to get my holes all out of line. Moral of the story: precession matters.

If you are in the mood for reading, let me direct your attention to The Pioneer Woman Cooks. Run by the spunky Mrs. Ree – mother, wife, rancher, cook, and author – The Pioneer Woman Cooks is great fun to read even if you hate cooking. For one thing, it features the most gorgeous photography (and of food! It makes me think of a passage in C.S. Lewis’ Screwtape letters actually, the pictures are that bad). Then there’s Mrs. Ree’s “keeping it real” wit, easy instructions, and love for butter. As if this weren’t enough, the food all taste good. Even if you don’t want to make them yourself, you might want to share some of the recipes with people in your life who love you. Then you can guilt them into cooking for you as a way of saying thanks. I’ve made the sheet cake twice already, hampered only by the fact that, when I made it the first time, I didn’t believe I was really supposed to let it cover the whole pan. In my defense, I’d never had sheet cake before. Unlike the other links, which you’ll probably go to once and then never go to again,  the PWC demands constant surveillance and a place in your blogroll. Bon Appetite!

by Sixer

Putting a Period to it

Georgette Heyer’s magic is starting to dwindle away, but I am determined to get the last drops from her. I’m trying to deide which shall be the fourth, and probably last, novel of hers to be read. Her books are light and airy, with a tone of not taking themselves too seriously which instantly puts readers at ease and lets them simply enjoy the lark to follow rather than analyze it half to death. Her characters are capricious, come in various outside wrappings, but in the end all look rather them same. The Brother, the Sly Hero, the Outspoken Heroine . . .  they are starting to pop up in at an alarming frequency. So far my favorite is still Cotillion, the first one I read. I love the male lead in this book because he is so different from so many other male leads, but also because he has that breed of sensibility that is often overlooked: address. Plus, his dialogue is great fun to read. All those short sentences! The Convenient Marriage I didn’t like at all. Oh, I enjoyed it of course, no one can deny that it wasn’t prettily written, but I felt distant from the characters. They weren’t people I could really care about, and nothing can spoil a book faster than that. Oh, and why, if you had an awful name like Horatia, would you shorten it to the equally tragic handle “Horry”? It makes no sense, rather like the girl it belongs to. I don’t think seventeen year-olds of that period would have been that unaware of how their own world worked one moment, and so  fast the next. The third one I read, Arabella, was decidedly funny,  because how could that man have done such a horrible thing? But – I hate to say it  because it sounds so trite – but really it was fantastical.
All of the books put me in mind of amateurish fantasies, since Heyer spends so much time reminding us we are in Regency England. I understand why she felt she had to, but entertainment should not require an encyclopedia of historical fashion, or an exstensiv knowledge of Dandy slang to be completely understood. I like slang, I would love to own an enclyopedia of fashion, but I can’t be bothered to look up words when ten to one the are not in my dictionary. A glossary in the back of the book would have transported me beyond the realm of description, but I didn’t see one. Perhaps that’s just the kindle version? And how come none of the female characters remembered the need for a special license? In Heyer’s world, where marriage is The Goal of every girl, you would think they’d know that if there is no time to issue banns before a wedding then a special license must be procured. It is interesting to note that Jane Austen, who actually lived at that time, managed to write books that didn’t drown in period references. Then again, none of her rakes ever get the girl.
Now that I have brought up Jane Austen, I might as well roll up my sleeves and make a job of it. I don’t want it to seem like I am tearing these books apart, but really, some of the reviews have said they were The Thing after Austin, and I find this to be a little inaccurate. And somewhat insulting, though I’m not sure why. Jane Austen’s romances, besides being delightful reads that have stayed accessible for two hundred years, have deep three dimensional characters who make tough decisions, undergo the blows of fate, and mature beautifully  by the end of the book. They are, some may argue, beneficial to the reader’s character. Georgette Heyer’s . . . well, they are’t. In Cotillion the heroine may at least be said to realize her wrong and grow up, but the other two novels I have had the pleasure to read are thoroughly shallow. The girls  know better but – we may as well not wrap it in clean linen and call it a mistake – by a complete lack of self-control, principles, and foresight they do it anyway. The book is then a record of the other mistakes they make trying to get themselves out of their first one, until the catastrophe reaches a climax. The climax, of course, takes places between the hero and his heroine and results in all the joy of a happy marriage. I say “his heroine” because the hero in these novels has no problem finding out exactly what the heroine’s first mistake was and why it was made and is, though it’s never so bluntly put, the one who finally ends the whole messy cycle.
What I dislike about this whole plot structure is that it leaves no room for the characters to either grow or feel sorry for their actions. After all, that lie caught them a guy who wouldn’t have paid any attention to them otherwise. To resolve to not be so impetuous in the future is nothing at all like being actually repentant. To feel sorry for what you have done means little if your sorrow is only for how it has affected you. These heroines will probably make another mistake of a similar sort in the near future, and it’s doubtful their husbands will do anything but laugh and watch them flounder until they grow bored and come to their rescue. The end result is that these “strong willed” females end up being ten times more dependent on their male counterparts than a more docille lady would be, which is kind of funny when you think about it. Especially when you admit that very few of the male leads are actually nice people. In contrast, Jane Austen’s  female characters (well, most of them) develop a undeniable strength as the novel progress. I’m thinking of Elinor mainly, from Sense and Sensibility. She is the ideal image of a strong willed woman in the regency era, even more so than Elizabeth. And yes, she falls in love and eventually gets married. It’s how these things work. Austen’s characters in general are three dimensional and her plots contain themes. Georgette Heyer’s heroes and heroines have only obtained to the second dimension, and there’s not much to discuss aside from the clothes (lots and lots of cravats and boots). But, as I’ve already said, this does not stop them from being a delightful romp.
If you are still not sure whether you want to read Heyer let me describe her in the best way I know how: by comparing her to other books. If you have already read Heyer and enjoyed her I hope you will try some of these next. Off the top of my head I’d say Sorcery and Cecile, or the Enchanted Chocolate Pot, an epistolary romance set in a regency England which, as one would expect from it’s co-author, Patricia Wrede, contains magic. Sadly I would not recommend the sequel to this book for the world, but Patricia Wrede’s Enchanted Forest series (while having nothing at all to do with Heyer’s romances) has to be one of my all time favorites. The first two book are the best – and the second one has the decided advantage of being also a romance –  while the third one is just weird. My sister and I still fight over whether the fourth one is the worst of the lot or “okay in it’s own right.”  Anyway, returning to the light hearted romances, I would have you read Daddy Long-legs,  which I must admit a particular fondness for, along with Lady Jane by Mrs C. Jamison. These are both older novels set in America, in the early 20th century I believe, but they could be about ancient Rome for all they reflect modern life. Daddy Long-legs is the lighter of the two, though neither of them are as wonderfully edifying as Louisa Alcott’s Rose in Bloom or Old Fashioned Girl (which, if you are looking for something just like a Heyer you should not read. They do, however, have some interesting descriptions of clothing, and even speak of how to use old dresses to make new ones, as Arabella’s mother does).
Somewhere between the moralistic Alcott and the jolly-good-time Heyer is Martel’s The King’s Daughter, which has nothing at all to do with turning dress, or finding an eligible match. I think this was actually a school book once, since it’s set in the Canadian wilds, but it’s so completely a romance that anything educational in it can easily be overlooked. The same goes for Mara, Daughter of the Nile, which insists on appearing in home-schooling catalogs as if it were a treatise on Egyptian culture and society, but is nothing more than the most dramatic of romances. All one has to do is say slave-girl and spies and you know that no one is reading it because  they like history. None of these, except of course the first one, is a regency, but they are all helpless romance novels which I’ve managed to read (*cough* more than once *cough*) despite my prejudice against that genre. If you’re looking for something to fill that Austen-ian void try Jane Eyre or Alcott’s works, which aren’t as subtle as Austen’s but are perfectly fine specimens all the same. And don’t forget Elizabet Gaskall, her North and South not only deals with the themes of pride and prejudice, but also with capitalism and charity. I listened to it via Librivox and found it particularly interesting since social welfare is hip nowadays. I mean, you can even benefit the world by buying a doll. If, however, all you really want is a cute love story minus the drama, do what I do when I really want to smile and read a copy of Montgomery’s Further Chronicles of Avonlea or Kate Wiggin’s Ladies in Waiting. They’re both collections of short stories and may be likened, with only the slightest bit of artistic license, to a sampler of Godiva chocolate in a world of king sized candy bars.

by Sixer

Bookmarks

I haven’t accomplished much today, but I have that very satisfying, full-up feeling that seems to wrap itself around my spine whenever I have enjoyed a book, and I have definitely been enjoying a book. I obviously need to extend my circles, for I had not heard of Georgette Heyer until a week ago, even though anyone who knows me must realize that anything taking place in the Regency period is sure to elicit, if not absolute delight, at least a little polite amusement. Even in the realm of science fiction, some of my favorite works have been described as “space regency.” Oh, just the idea of dinners, and etiquette, and giving someone the cut all while piloting spaceships and discovering plots of intergalactic espionage . . . well, whose heart wouldn’t give a little leap?
Just because I haven’t been productive today (or the day before that) doesn’t mean I never get anything done, and it is to prove this that I present to you The Kindle Case:

Design: my own.
Execution: my own.
Awesomeness: the fault of the orange and blue, plastic coated fabric which takes the place of honor on the outside of the case.
Inside is providence, in the form of some blue fabric scavaged from wht I’m am informed was once a curtain, though surely I can’t remember my family ever having curtains of either this style or shade. I still need to affix the closure, in the form of a hook and eye, to the tab and front flap. Also, having used it to read Cotillion this morning, I find that it might be sensible to add a small strap for my glasses to hang off of, and perhaps a small pocket for that most necessary of companions, the tissue. I can’t seem to go anywhere without wanting one eventually, and as of yet, my wardrobe is singularly lacking in pockets. Yes, I often feel like Corduroy.
I’m loving my kindle, despite my passion for the feel and smell of it’s ink and paper counter parts. I love that when it turns off it shows me pictures of Agatha Christie, Jane Austin, or Charlotte Bronte, as if it knows that these ladies are particular favorites of mine. The knowledge that I can lay it aside to transfer a load of laundry, or nuke a plate of pancakes, without having to worry about finding my place is quite comforting. I slide the switch to the right and the green light flickers on as the screen hesitates. I catch my breath, will my page be lost? I know that if my kindle’s recall fails the chances of me finding my page will be wholly dependent on my patchy memory and dexterity in querying. I can only feel apprehension as the page loads. Slowly the ink dissolves away and then reforms itself. Letters, words, in truth the exact page I was perusing not a moment before, restores itself to my sight. It makes the necessity of bookmarks quite unnecessary, which is good. I am out of the habit of using them, even for really long, ink and paper books, and it has been many years indeed since I dared crease a corner for the purpose. I might stow a tissue in between the pages when interrupted suddenly from time to time, but I can usually navigate the pages of a book without any such aid.
In fact, the only bookmarks I use with any kind of regularity are those found on the internet. These I find quite useful, and employ them to the point where they are almost a collection. I have some that are older than my current computer, and some that were added just yesterday, and the task of keeping them properly organized is my constant delight. Some of them deserve more than to be stored in my dusty files (though, I suppose there is no dust in an electric folder). With this in mind, I propose to introduce them to you in hopes that, even if they don’t end up on your own list of bookmarks, they will at least be a little aired out.

(Emily Dickinson, another favorite, as I too have “never seen a moor.”)