July's first post was all about a ghastly work meeting and the Harrods sale. It seems like they both took place a lifetime ago. I suppose that's what it is like when the most recent events in our lives are so unexpected they make those which were duly planned fade into a little cloud of nothingness. July was much more than I expected; it brought, not only William's £ 1800 hospital stunt, but also the promise of a proper agent.
It's a funny one this. Day-dreaming about getting the attention of an agent in the past usually brought fist-pumping visions of foreshadowed success to my absinthe-infused mind. I realised then, as I do now, that proceeding with caution is the best course of action on this (and many other) life development, so much so that, when I received an email indicating that, yes, I may well be with my toes through an agent's door, I was left wondering whether it was a joke and if it is a joke where is the punchline?
My potential agent wrote to me last week telling me not to rush to send her anything further, since she is off judging a literary prize and then on hols for two weeks. It worked out better this way; I just cannot imagine having been able to write anything other than mails about William during these past, emotionally over-the-top, five days. Now that the boy is recuperating, and another two rejection letters have fallen through the door, I think it is time to re-focus on what would be the greatest birthday present ever: not a stick-like figure after all, but a bona fide agent.
Thursday, July 31, 2008
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
Home
So he's home. His belly looks like a snapshot of Frankenstein's creature, all stitches keeping him together and all the bruising showing through the clipped coat. But at least he is here, getting comfy on his own bed and surrounded by those who love him, including Victoria whom, I must admit, I thought would need psychological rehab, had he stayed away a few more days. They showed me what they extracted and I was very nearly unable to comment. The radiator cap was so frigging big, I even wondered whether he had absorbed it through his skin somehow. There is no way I would be able to swallow that thing if I were paid to do it and my esophagus is far bigger than his. The immediate trauma is over; I should be able to re-gain my wits by the end of today.
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
Stashing
When the going gets tough, the tough go mellow. At least this is one of my experiences. Even though I've now heard slightly reassuring news regarding William and his operation, I still feel like I am sitting on pins. Not only am I sitting on them; I can feel them through my head, a bit like this. But it is important to think positive when negative events befall us and so today seemed like a good day to have a rummage through the stash, just to see where we are at. And this is where:
Those of you who are familiar with this daily drivel will recognise this from here. Yet, what you see above is not the same picture I posted in May. This stash has grown since then. It was originally only ten skeins of Debbie Bliss Cashmerino DK, while it is now thirty. Because I've been so busy with that flipping lace scarf I had to re-do what felt like a zillion thrillion times, the crochet blanket has lingered in the rattan trunk all wound up in colourful balls. In fact, it's rather nice to call it the crochet blanket since it's really nothing more than balls and balls of wool right now. I may as well call it the Kaffe Fassett Fair Isle cardigan or the Batman rainbow wooly cape and nobody would be any wiser.
However, I am not one of those people that just 'stashes'. My stash is all carefully sorted, with the above going towards a fabulous crochet ripple blanket, the green variegated Misti Alpaca towards a scarf, the variegated pink merino towards a crochet scarf and so on and so forth. Many say that stash is like shit, it just happens. I suppose that's true, except we cannot prevent shit from happening, but we can prevent stash. I am currently operating under the misguided pre-conception that my stash isn't really a stash at all but is all a giant trunk of balls-in-progress projects, even though they haven't made it to the needles or hooks yet. I know what you're thinking but I swear this is no intellectual masturbation of mine; because every single skein of everything is already allocated to its own designated project, I can go out into the open and buy more patterns and more balls because I only have six scarves, one blanket, one capelet and one shrug on the go. It makes perfect sense here.
Which brings me to my next point, Rowan Magazine 44. Because I am a girly girl, 44 speaks to everything that defines me as a person. It speaks to the side of me that is nostalgic about an era I really cannot be nostalgic about because I never experienced it; it speaks to the part of me that would like to be able to wear empire-line dresses and jumpers without looking six months pregnant; it speaks to the part of me that is longing to be able to try some of Kaffe's truly hair-raising Fair Isle-cum-intarsia-and-vice-versa knitted beauties. It also speaks to the repressed writer within me that loathes sloppy writing. As I cracked it open today, I almost had to reach for the oxygen mask. Who on earth has edited this stuff? I could make ten examples from page six alone, but I will limit myself to only one because it's so bad it becomes good (and in this respect, it reminds me of Dirty Dancing):
"Sasha Kagan, has now had six wonderful knitting books published".
People, honestly, I thought that 'writers' that stick a comma after a subject and before a verb were a plague of the distant past, when people had to set characters by hand, one-by-bloody-one before a book went into print. In the day of writers, agents, sub-editors, proof-readers and editors, nobody spotted that offensive comma right there? I am sorry but this sort of sloppiness is one I do not tolerate. The whole mag is full of such crap.
Still from the same page (sorry, I know I said I'll only show you one but...), I would like to show you an example that demonstrates that the road to writing hell is paved with adjectives and adverbs:
"Intriguingly many of Rowan's designers joined over 20 years ago and remain strikingly loyal".
If we close both eyes on the lack of suitable punctuation and just look at the two adverbs here, intriguingly and strikingly, anyone with good sense and good hearing can tell that, just because you can stick -gly to every adjective doesn't mean you should. Intriguingly? Does this 'writer' ever re-reads her own writing out loud, just to ensure it sounds as good in real life as it does in her head? Who writes this stuff? Who edits it? I'll tell you who: Elizabeth Fayling-Cork and Kate Buller. Buller says in her 'Editor's Letter':
"Here at Rowan all the team are feeling very nostalgic [...]"
Jeepers creepers woman! Get yourself a grammar book, they don't bite! The above should read:
"Here at Rowan, the team is feeling very nostalgic [...]"
This is because, no matter how much illiterate people try it, the verb that accompanies a neutral noun referring to multiple individuals is the third person singular, not the third person plural. This is the difference between the grammatical number and the natural one. I could go on but I just cannot be asked.
The mag redeems itself in what are, in my very humble and un-educated knitting opinion, lovely pieces which I would not hesitate knitting and wearing (well, ok, maybe not the empire-line things). As I clamp the lid shut on the current balls-in-progress stash, I feel a surge of inspiration in the shape of adorable little cardigans, pretty vintage berets, long lady gloves and fabulous Kaffe Fassett, tapestry-like creations. You have to love the man, I know I do. I am rolling down a hill of wooly fabulousness, crashing all the way down into the impossible-to-by-pass Stash Valley. I think it may be true after all that stash cannot be helped. It really is like shit, just ask William (or indeed Rowan).
Those of you who are familiar with this daily drivel will recognise this from here. Yet, what you see above is not the same picture I posted in May. This stash has grown since then. It was originally only ten skeins of Debbie Bliss Cashmerino DK, while it is now thirty. Because I've been so busy with that flipping lace scarf I had to re-do what felt like a zillion thrillion times, the crochet blanket has lingered in the rattan trunk all wound up in colourful balls. In fact, it's rather nice to call it the crochet blanket since it's really nothing more than balls and balls of wool right now. I may as well call it the Kaffe Fassett Fair Isle cardigan or the Batman rainbow wooly cape and nobody would be any wiser.
However, I am not one of those people that just 'stashes'. My stash is all carefully sorted, with the above going towards a fabulous crochet ripple blanket, the green variegated Misti Alpaca towards a scarf, the variegated pink merino towards a crochet scarf and so on and so forth. Many say that stash is like shit, it just happens. I suppose that's true, except we cannot prevent shit from happening, but we can prevent stash. I am currently operating under the misguided pre-conception that my stash isn't really a stash at all but is all a giant trunk of balls-in-progress projects, even though they haven't made it to the needles or hooks yet. I know what you're thinking but I swear this is no intellectual masturbation of mine; because every single skein of everything is already allocated to its own designated project, I can go out into the open and buy more patterns and more balls because I only have six scarves, one blanket, one capelet and one shrug on the go. It makes perfect sense here.
Which brings me to my next point, Rowan Magazine 44. Because I am a girly girl, 44 speaks to everything that defines me as a person. It speaks to the side of me that is nostalgic about an era I really cannot be nostalgic about because I never experienced it; it speaks to the part of me that would like to be able to wear empire-line dresses and jumpers without looking six months pregnant; it speaks to the part of me that is longing to be able to try some of Kaffe's truly hair-raising Fair Isle-cum-intarsia-and-vice-versa knitted beauties. It also speaks to the repressed writer within me that loathes sloppy writing. As I cracked it open today, I almost had to reach for the oxygen mask. Who on earth has edited this stuff? I could make ten examples from page six alone, but I will limit myself to only one because it's so bad it becomes good (and in this respect, it reminds me of Dirty Dancing):
"Sasha Kagan, has now had six wonderful knitting books published".
People, honestly, I thought that 'writers' that stick a comma after a subject and before a verb were a plague of the distant past, when people had to set characters by hand, one-by-bloody-one before a book went into print. In the day of writers, agents, sub-editors, proof-readers and editors, nobody spotted that offensive comma right there? I am sorry but this sort of sloppiness is one I do not tolerate. The whole mag is full of such crap.
Still from the same page (sorry, I know I said I'll only show you one but...), I would like to show you an example that demonstrates that the road to writing hell is paved with adjectives and adverbs:
"Intriguingly many of Rowan's designers joined over 20 years ago and remain strikingly loyal".
If we close both eyes on the lack of suitable punctuation and just look at the two adverbs here, intriguingly and strikingly, anyone with good sense and good hearing can tell that, just because you can stick -gly to every adjective doesn't mean you should. Intriguingly? Does this 'writer' ever re-reads her own writing out loud, just to ensure it sounds as good in real life as it does in her head? Who writes this stuff? Who edits it? I'll tell you who: Elizabeth Fayling-Cork and Kate Buller. Buller says in her 'Editor's Letter':
"Here at Rowan all the team are feeling very nostalgic [...]"
Jeepers creepers woman! Get yourself a grammar book, they don't bite! The above should read:
"Here at Rowan, the team is feeling very nostalgic [...]"
This is because, no matter how much illiterate people try it, the verb that accompanies a neutral noun referring to multiple individuals is the third person singular, not the third person plural. This is the difference between the grammatical number and the natural one. I could go on but I just cannot be asked.
The mag redeems itself in what are, in my very humble and un-educated knitting opinion, lovely pieces which I would not hesitate knitting and wearing (well, ok, maybe not the empire-line things). As I clamp the lid shut on the current balls-in-progress stash, I feel a surge of inspiration in the shape of adorable little cardigans, pretty vintage berets, long lady gloves and fabulous Kaffe Fassett, tapestry-like creations. You have to love the man, I know I do. I am rolling down a hill of wooly fabulousness, crashing all the way down into the impossible-to-by-pass Stash Valley. I think it may be true after all that stash cannot be helped. It really is like shit, just ask William (or indeed Rowan).
Monday, July 28, 2008
Ghastly Part II
After some truly fitful sleep, I made my way to the vet with William as soon as they found a spot for us at a local clinic. The poor boy didn't even need his seat-belt; he flopped on the seat next to mine and didn't move until I parked up, edged him out of the car and walked into the practice. Upon examination, the vet identified a rather large foreign object lodged in the upper belly. Because the rest of his organs felt normal, he was certain that this thing would be the one causing the upheaval. He told me to immediately drive him to hospital which he would call while we were on our way.
Once we got there, I opened the waterworks. I was so scared to lose him that I could not even talk straight, in fact, it's a bit of a miracle they even understood what I was saying. As I placed him on the examination table, he didn't even try to stand up. He just laid there, his eyes barely open and his sack-like skinny body unable to move. It's a miracle I managed to drive home without crashing into anything (I did take my precautions; I didn't change from second gear...).
X-rays identified the foreign object the vet had felt early in the morning. This looked like a peach stone or something like it. Its placement within the abdomen meant that liquid was filling up the stomach, which explains why William suddenly looked round in the middle while the rest of him was sticks and bones. They went ahead with the operation soon after the drip they attached him to had the opportunity to pump some liquids into him. The incision in the intestine allowed them to extract a walnut-like object they were unable to precisely identify, while one in the stomach removed a small radiator cap. Why do I write odes to the Dyson when I have a dog that can do its job? Why do I even have a vacuum cleaner of the electrical sort? Heck, the Dyson doesn't pick up walnuts or radiator caps.
Later in the afternoon, the surgeon called again to reassure me that he was waking up and that the drips would keep him stable and as pain-free as possible. Luckily, with his epilepsy being so stable since November 2005, when I recorded his last seizure, this was not a major concern. Now I just have to pray that he will survive this stunt and that he will be able to come home soon. Meanwhile, I am shattered. I presume a very early night is in order...
Once we got there, I opened the waterworks. I was so scared to lose him that I could not even talk straight, in fact, it's a bit of a miracle they even understood what I was saying. As I placed him on the examination table, he didn't even try to stand up. He just laid there, his eyes barely open and his sack-like skinny body unable to move. It's a miracle I managed to drive home without crashing into anything (I did take my precautions; I didn't change from second gear...).
X-rays identified the foreign object the vet had felt early in the morning. This looked like a peach stone or something like it. Its placement within the abdomen meant that liquid was filling up the stomach, which explains why William suddenly looked round in the middle while the rest of him was sticks and bones. They went ahead with the operation soon after the drip they attached him to had the opportunity to pump some liquids into him. The incision in the intestine allowed them to extract a walnut-like object they were unable to precisely identify, while one in the stomach removed a small radiator cap. Why do I write odes to the Dyson when I have a dog that can do its job? Why do I even have a vacuum cleaner of the electrical sort? Heck, the Dyson doesn't pick up walnuts or radiator caps.
Later in the afternoon, the surgeon called again to reassure me that he was waking up and that the drips would keep him stable and as pain-free as possible. Luckily, with his epilepsy being so stable since November 2005, when I recorded his last seizure, this was not a major concern. Now I just have to pray that he will survive this stunt and that he will be able to come home soon. Meanwhile, I am shattered. I presume a very early night is in order...
Sunday, July 27, 2008
Ghastly
I've had a truly ghastly Sunday. It tends to happen when the temperature rises high above my comfort zone, a mere 20C. Today my bedroom shattered the 28C ceiling and it is still boiling. More importantly, my dog William is poorly. I called the vet and agreed on watching him overnight and take him in tomorrow morning. It's not looking good.
Saturday, July 26, 2008
And Cherries
I've made this one up. Although I do have an anorexic cherry tree at the back, my cherries don't come up. Can you imagine having a garden that yields these beauties? Well, I can.
I can because, when I was a child, I used to spend insane amounts of time at my aunt's farm, where cherry trees were as ubiquitous to the gently rolling hills behind the house as dandelions are to my own back garden. After dinner, I would often sneak out to the trees for a fruity dessert, picking straight from the branches and often taking handful of leaves down with the cherries as I could not reach properly. I think this is when my love affair with cherries began, one that was devoid of hair-raising £ 5.99 price tags as if they were an exotic delicacy. I can, and often do, eat £ 5.99 worth of cherries in one sitting, indulging in them would cost me hundreds of pounds per month at the rate prices are soaring.
At the same time, I used to tag behind my dad as he was sorting out his allotment. My dad is a Virgo and I can tell you that his precision-making was reflected in his green pursuits as much as in his perfectly stored hardware. The tall plants of green beans like vegetable soldiers would cross leafy fingers with the tomato plants and then the zucchini with their gigantic orange flowers mum used to deep fry and the salads, the redheads and the greenheads. If dad and I were pottering around the allotment before dinner, it was a sure way for me not to oblige once sat at the table; that's because I used to pick tomatoes and peas straight from the plants and eat them there and then, my dad picking the discarded shells I left in my eating wake. When I think of those days, I always think that you do not become a vegetarian, you are born that way.
I can because, when I was a child, I used to spend insane amounts of time at my aunt's farm, where cherry trees were as ubiquitous to the gently rolling hills behind the house as dandelions are to my own back garden. After dinner, I would often sneak out to the trees for a fruity dessert, picking straight from the branches and often taking handful of leaves down with the cherries as I could not reach properly. I think this is when my love affair with cherries began, one that was devoid of hair-raising £ 5.99 price tags as if they were an exotic delicacy. I can, and often do, eat £ 5.99 worth of cherries in one sitting, indulging in them would cost me hundreds of pounds per month at the rate prices are soaring.
At the same time, I used to tag behind my dad as he was sorting out his allotment. My dad is a Virgo and I can tell you that his precision-making was reflected in his green pursuits as much as in his perfectly stored hardware. The tall plants of green beans like vegetable soldiers would cross leafy fingers with the tomato plants and then the zucchini with their gigantic orange flowers mum used to deep fry and the salads, the redheads and the greenheads. If dad and I were pottering around the allotment before dinner, it was a sure way for me not to oblige once sat at the table; that's because I used to pick tomatoes and peas straight from the plants and eat them there and then, my dad picking the discarded shells I left in my eating wake. When I think of those days, I always think that you do not become a vegetarian, you are born that way.
Friday, July 25, 2008
And Roses
I've got anemones coming up the rubble and rambling roses too. Despite not having pruned for six years, mainly because I don't know what to prune and what to leave in peace, I am always flabbergasted to find flowers in the weed maze. Every year they persist on bringing unexpected colour solace when I am certain they won't make it. I really ought to be grateful, no?
Thursday, July 24, 2008
Coming Up Anemones
Not long ago, a very kind reader of mine informed me that what I had been growing was an anemone. A pink and slightly flaked out anemone. It turns out that I have not just been growing one but many, somehow all planted near one another so to form a living bunch. Look at this:
I know that this image looks grossly doctored but I swear to you, it isn't. These little guys really are as fluorescent pinky purple as you see them above. It must have something to do with them having just this morning opened, or perhaps with what was a mix of grey and blue light as the sun had only just broken through. Or perhaps I just was too close. I cannot say that their presence alone is going to spur me to get rid of all of the weeds in my garden in order to create anemone trenches any time soon but... it's a start. And who knows where this may lead, perhaps to the give-away of some rare orchid bulb?
I know that this image looks grossly doctored but I swear to you, it isn't. These little guys really are as fluorescent pinky purple as you see them above. It must have something to do with them having just this morning opened, or perhaps with what was a mix of grey and blue light as the sun had only just broken through. Or perhaps I just was too close. I cannot say that their presence alone is going to spur me to get rid of all of the weeds in my garden in order to create anemone trenches any time soon but... it's a start. And who knows where this may lead, perhaps to the give-away of some rare orchid bulb?
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
This Dark Knight Is Oh So Serious
In Canto XII of Dante's The Divine Comedy: Inferno, the poet writes:
'[...] I thought the universe felt love, by which, as some believe, the world has many times been turned into chaos.'
Dante refers, perhaps with great philosophical irrelevance, to Empedocles' doctrine about the material world being in order due to the discord of the elements; when brought into harmony by love, the world loses its variety and the result is chaos. In other words, bring The Batman into the grand scheme of things and the result is anarchy.
There is method behind this apparent madness, for it is not by a super-human leap of the imagination that I can latch Christopher Nolan's vision of political apocalypse to Dante's still unparalleled system of hell. Batman the Minotaur (still Canto XII) bursting with rage as he gnaws himself is the turning axis of a brutal world where Everyman is a self-righteous, double-faced back-stabber who needs a smile on his face, where every fraudster is fending off for himself and where the notion of heroism, like perfection, remains a continuously ever-changing target whose gauge escapes categorisation as necessity commands.
Substitute Empedocles's love, as referred to above, with justice, or indeed with love for justice, and the result is an attempt at re-defining ethical standards which leaves us strung us up by our feet as we swing high above the chasm of a one-way journey into hell. Because it's all part of the plan, and because politics and the politics of power are smoldered in plans, Batman is more of a Foucault's pendulum than the vigilante he is often referred to as; he appears as the leading man of action while it is Gotham itself in all its guises (the mob and the criminals and the Joker and Two Face, but also the police force, Harvey Dent, Gordon, Rachel) that leads the celebratory dance of violence. All that remains is that, if there is something you can do well, you should not do it for free.
Gone are the days when comic book super-hero movies were pop-corn fuelled, lycra-clad extravaganzas consigned to the depths of cartoon-like memory so very fitting to the mood of the nineties. The Caped Crusader has become oh so serious this doom can only get worse but, of course, it's all for the better.
'[...] I thought the universe felt love, by which, as some believe, the world has many times been turned into chaos.'
Dante refers, perhaps with great philosophical irrelevance, to Empedocles' doctrine about the material world being in order due to the discord of the elements; when brought into harmony by love, the world loses its variety and the result is chaos. In other words, bring The Batman into the grand scheme of things and the result is anarchy.
There is method behind this apparent madness, for it is not by a super-human leap of the imagination that I can latch Christopher Nolan's vision of political apocalypse to Dante's still unparalleled system of hell. Batman the Minotaur (still Canto XII) bursting with rage as he gnaws himself is the turning axis of a brutal world where Everyman is a self-righteous, double-faced back-stabber who needs a smile on his face, where every fraudster is fending off for himself and where the notion of heroism, like perfection, remains a continuously ever-changing target whose gauge escapes categorisation as necessity commands.
Substitute Empedocles's love, as referred to above, with justice, or indeed with love for justice, and the result is an attempt at re-defining ethical standards which leaves us strung us up by our feet as we swing high above the chasm of a one-way journey into hell. Because it's all part of the plan, and because politics and the politics of power are smoldered in plans, Batman is more of a Foucault's pendulum than the vigilante he is often referred to as; he appears as the leading man of action while it is Gotham itself in all its guises (the mob and the criminals and the Joker and Two Face, but also the police force, Harvey Dent, Gordon, Rachel) that leads the celebratory dance of violence. All that remains is that, if there is something you can do well, you should not do it for free.
Gone are the days when comic book super-hero movies were pop-corn fuelled, lycra-clad extravaganzas consigned to the depths of cartoon-like memory so very fitting to the mood of the nineties. The Caped Crusader has become oh so serious this doom can only get worse but, of course, it's all for the better.
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
Knitting Give-Away
The day has come to officially celebrate my first, fully-fledged knitting success, the silk lace scarf. I have been so excited and so very happy about it that I thought the give-away should suitably reflect the good time I've had knitting it (or trying to when I got particularly angry) and the support that I received on- and offline. And so here is the give-away, a handful of gorgeousness in the shape of a set of Addi Lace Needles 100cm - 3.5 mm and five hand-made in South Africa cupcake buttons which are completely and utterly to die for (or to knit something for).
To enter: leave your name and location in the comments in this thread. If you post a link to this give-away from your own blog, add that to your comment. It means that I will add your name to the competition hat three times as opposed to one. I will publish the result on here on August 1st, so make sure to check back. The winner will need to email me the address so that the prize can be safely despatched. Closing date July 31st UK time and I am sorry gals, but if you know me in person, you cannot enter the give-away. Let's give some far flung friend a chance, shall we? Not to blow my own Generosity Trumpet but the value of this give-away is in the region of $ 30, so get entering!
*This draw is now closed, thanks for entering.*
To enter: leave your name and location in the comments in this thread. If you post a link to this give-away from your own blog, add that to your comment. It means that I will add your name to the competition hat three times as opposed to one. I will publish the result on here on August 1st, so make sure to check back. The winner will need to email me the address so that the prize can be safely despatched. Closing date July 31st UK time and I am sorry gals, but if you know me in person, you cannot enter the give-away. Let's give some far flung friend a chance, shall we? Not to blow my own Generosity Trumpet but the value of this give-away is in the region of $ 30, so get entering!
*This draw is now closed, thanks for entering.*
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