The Seated View

Before the flame was lit, I had wanted to find 'something yummy' with which to knit my bookmark. Time got ahead of me ( quelle surprise ) and in the end, the yarn chose me. For which I'm grateful. When I first started knitting again, after years of not, my first project was a pair of slouch socks for my mother, who has cold feet. When she wore the socks at night, she told me that her feet were warm for the first time in years. This yarn – the Olympic yarn - was from those socks. This yarn has good karma. After the initial derailing, I got back on track. Exactly one week after the opening ceremonies, I picked up my knitting. Feeling the nubbly bumps of fuzzy stitches in my hands was like coming home. Knitting that first stitch was magic, all over again. Heaven. By the time I’d knit the third stitch, I knew this was going to be my last project. My muscles were protesting and not the kind of protest that says ‘take it easy, go slow and you’ll get used t

My cat’s abiding love of bags and boxes is legendary. She once made a basket out of a large paperbag and used it as a combined play area, hang out space and safety net for months. I have two cardboard boxes in my apartment because the trauma she experiences when I try to thrown them out is heartrending. Yesterday, a little something from Amazon (I can't help myself - it's a sickness) arrived and Mojo promptly adopted the box. She seems to think that possession is nice tenths of the law and as long as she spends a large part of the day sitting in it (while doing her utmost to up the cute factor), I’ll let her keep it. We’ll see.

I could claim that today’s rambling miscellany is inspired by Mamacate’s Random Wednesdays and that’d be partly true. On the other hand, it’s also true that although my brain’s percolating on some more thoughtful things, nothing has simmered long enough yet that it's worthy of you (in case you missed it, that's blatant sucking up). And then there was the writing something for people who pay me that, I’m sorry to say, got done first. (can I just take a moment to marvel/hyperventilate over the people who pay me to write bit? It still freaks me out…) So with no further ado, I'll commence blathering. I’m a late convert to Grey’s Anatomy , but a fanatic one. That’s some excellent entertainment! Season 1 is out on DVD and I’ve spent the past week immersed in Seattle Grace Hospital. McDreamy is… well, dreamy – how does he do that thing with his eyes? I love Bailey to death, think Izzie is wonderful (how great is it to see a woman who’s sex on legs and not anorexi

The Market Gallery , at the St. Lawrence Market. Currently the home of a wonderful exhibit of photographic, textile and watercolour exploration of Toronto architecture by my friend Linda Goldman.

Some people say that Valentine’s Day is for lovers, just for celebrating romance. I don’t. A long time ago, I adapted it as a day to celebrate love in a much broader sense – family and friends get cards and chocolate, too. Not only is this helpful during single times (or when dating the occasional clueless man), but really… why should there be limits to expressing warm ‘n fuzzies? This year, I’m madly in love. Just in time for Valentine’s Day, I got to meet my lovies for the first time. This weekend, the kidlings and their parents came to Toronto and I’m smitten. I was besotted before, but now it’s quite overwhelming. It was nice to see Janne and John, as well, but let’s face it – for this first meeting, they were really just the Tink Delivery Team (TDT). This is what I learned about the Tinks this weekend: Morgan likes to be centre stage and becomes quite incensed when people have fun without her (and have already perfected the “Talk To The Hand” gesture). Liam is mor

The Knitting Olympics , of course... I love casting on. For me, it’s the most immediately magical part of knitting, the complicated moves of needle and yarn creating the start of potential. Which naturally meant I fully intended to cast on myself, instead of getting someone else to do it. Until 18 hours before Knitting Olympic start, that is. When I injured my right shoulder and elbow instinctively ramming my hand into my desk trying to slow down my chair, which had gotten the bit between its teeth. FYI? An electric wheelchair has more power than I do. Not surprisingly, no actual knitting has occurred yet, although yesterday, I roped my mother into casting on and knitting the first row for me. 16 stitches left to go, 13 days until the flame goes out. I haven’t given up yet .

The antibiotics seemed to have started working around Tuesday – after a week, mind you – which is when I got up enough energy to do some paperwork I’d been avoiding with rather spectacular dilligence. Amazing how many things accumulate if you turn your back for a second. Okay, so it was more are like a week or two, but I swear, it procreates in the dark. And then there was all the other cra… er, things I’d neglected, leading to (so far) three days of being highly productive at top speeds (which naturally has caused me to by evening being capable of nothing but sitting and drooling. So attractive). I'm still not thinking too much – although inroads have been made, the cement and my brain are currently cohabitating in my skull - so consider today's post as slowly ramping up to full speed. I've been thinking - pardon me, attempting to think – that, as the past couple of weeks have been spent most decidedly in Cranky Land, a perfect way of celebrating a return to ps

There is a block of cement in my head. Throbbing cement. Any minute now, my eyes are going to pop out of their sockets with enough force to smash into the livingroom wall and explode on impact. Too graphic? So sorry. I’m battling a sinus infection and so far, the blasted thing is hard to dislodge. I'm feeling kind of sorry for myself. Oh, hell. There's no 'kind of' about it. I've reached that pathetic whiny place you get to when you've been sick for what feels like years, so long that you've forgotten what 'healthy' feels like, lost your sense of humour and just want to curl up on the couch wrapped in a cozy blanket with lots of hot liquids, a good book and perhaps later, a decent movie that doesn't demand too much of you. Blogging will resume once the cement has vacated and there’s room for my brain again. I'm hoping for Wednesday. In the meantime, I'll be mainlining vitamin C.

Via Grace’s Poppies (through Stephanie ), this lovely idea calls for posting a favourite poem to mark February 2, a day of many celebrations. One of my favourites is Imbolc ( Creating Textiles found this link to a fantastic explanation of the festival). The first time I heard a part of this poem was in the Movie “Truly, Madly, Deeply” . Its sadness and determination spoke more deeply to me than any other poem I’d ever heard or read. I looked for it for ages and finally found it in this book , where I also discovered that the poet – Pablo Neruda from Chile – wrote heartbreaking, soul shattering poetry of such transcendent beauty and truth that they penetrated deep into my heart. I am (slowly) learning Spanish for one reason only: so I can read Neruda in the original. The excerpt I first heard, and am posting, is snipped from two places in the poem The Dead Woman (La Muerta). Years later, when I read the full text , it spoke to me even more. The Dead Woman If suddenly yo

The best bit of television these days is Dancing with the Stars . B (and C and D) list celebrities are paired with professional ballroom dancers and the results are astoundingly entertaining. It’s cheesy, it’s funny – both almost-intentionally and not – it’s got great dancing and horrible dancing and it is the perfect cure for a bad day. If you haven’t watched yet, tune in to ABC on Thursday at 8pm, bring popcorn, chocolate and a feather boa and prepare to go on a vacation from it all. The hosts are incomparable. Tom Bergeron’s naughty jokes are oddly funny and if you had a drinking game around the times he says “very nice!” to the couple coming off the dance floor, you’d be slurring halfway into the show. Samantha Harris is a mesmerizing trainwreck with her flapping arms, oddly booming voice and agonizing, absolutely cringe-inducing interviews. The judges? Well, the judges add to the perfection. Len Goodman’s British fussiness, Bruno Tonioli’s excitement (I swe