My relationship with the cardigan currently on the needles is getting hot and heavy, if only because I just attached the sleeves to the body and so have a giant lump of wool on my lap in the middle of summer. Said cardigan is decisively into the ugly stage, where it’s vaguely misshapen and the stitches are uneven and there are gaping holes in the armpits and loose ends everywhere and oh god why did I ever think I could knit? But a good blocking will straighten all that out.*
I’m also in the process of moving out of the dorm, which means that right now my room bears a striking resemblance to the cardigan, loose ends and all. There’s a whole lot of barely controlled chaos with a vague hint of underlying order spied among the piles of books and bed linens, and within the next couple of days I’ll pummel it into submission.
A good blocking will probably not do the trick on the room, however.
On a more introspective note, I have lots of thinky thoughts - the alchemy of knitting, noticing personal warning signs, being an introvert vs. being antisocial vs. being a hermit, interstitiality as a scientist-artist type person - but have been generally too low-energy and scatterbrained to sit down and write. Not necessarily in a negative space, just...listless and without any desire to make myself focus more than I need to knit. Possibly medical school applications on top of senior thesis on top of senior recital on top of finals left me more burned out than I thought. Which is slightly exasperating, since I don't remember ever really feeling like I was nearing my limits, but that's the best explanation I have for my current state of mostly-content immobility.
* Blocking is the magical, wonderful process whereby you gently – or in my case, overenthusiastically – encourage the fabric to take on the dimensions you want. I will never stop being delighted by the difference blocking can make for a garment. It's like watching a hat come out of a rabbit. Admittedly, I started knitting with lace, where the finished object doesn’t look like anything but a snarl of yarn until you block it, so I may be treating the process with a bit too much reverence.
The Hanging Gardens
home to boggles and beasties and all things that go bump in the night
- (no subject)