Do you believe that 2009 is done?!? Me neither. Where did it go? When I look back at the year all I see is a blur. I am pleased to see the long list of Finished 2009 items over there on the left. I didn't finish all the projects that were OTN (on the needles) at the start of the year but enough of them got done that I feel a tiny glow of satisfaction somewhere deep inside. I'm hoping (see? not really definitely committing; always like to have an out) to stop buying yarn in 2010, no matter how good a deal it is, until I get a bunch of the stash knitted/crocheted into usable items. No more buying those 2 skeins of clearance yarn just in case I want to knit a hat out of it. No more getting hooked by pretty colors or soft fibers with no place to go with them. The sky won't fall if I let the JoAnn's and Michael's coupons that come in the Sunday paper expire unredeemed. Really. I have at least one of every size of needle--straight, double-points, and circular--and a whole row of crochet hooks; there's no need to buy any of those. I'm resourceful, I can make do.
I was sorting through a basket and ran across a Brangelina Hat that I started a month or so back. It was the perfect no-thought-needed project to work on while all the kids were home, so that's done, and yesterday I cast on (and knit the cuff twice) the coordinating gloves and almost have the first one done. I'm using one strand each of Patons Classic Wool in Mercury and Bernat Alpaca in Stone for them and I'm loving the color and feel. This is a great glove pattern. It's free (always good) and it uses bulky yarn and 10.5 needles for a warm and fast knit.
I also finished (I think) my 
extemporaneous hexagon scarf yesterday. I might put more fringe on it, in fact, I definitely will, but I like it. It's warm and soft and doesn't look like anyone else's scarf.
And I spent a couple hours knitting at Dusty's on Tuesday (I invited myself over because she said on Facebook that she had baked pumpkin bread) and turned the heel of Reef Sock 2. I'll be working down the gusset later tonight and then I'll be zoomin
g down the foot to the toe. Okay, maybe zooming is a bit optimistic given my usual knitting speed, but it won't take as long as the leg; I'm sure of that.
Happy New Year's Eve! Isn't it appropriate that the last post of 2009 should be #2000? I think so. I hope your year was a success, not totally, I'm not a complete Pollyanna, but I trust you can look back on the past 365 days with satisfaction, for the most part anyway.
December 31--Ilya Ivanovich Mashkov, Still Life of Fruit. I want to plunge into this painting with its lush late summer fruits. Look at the colors--purple, red, and pear green. Don't you love them? Don't you want to immerse yourself in their richness? Imagine how it smells when you lean over the table. The perfumes of earth and sky, the sweetness of rain rises to tease your nose. The promise of the sugar made by sun and heat and rain makes my mouth water. This is not what I want to write about. I want to weave a story about someone looking at this fruity bounty, write of the room where the table sits, tell about the hum of bees in the garden outside the window of the room. But instead I am caught with my own hand reaching out to pluck a grape or savor a plum with the rich golden juice of it on my chin.
Well. That was the perfect way to finish a year, I think. I'm trying to let go of my rigid ideas about the way things "should" be and let them flow, so a bit of writing going its own way is a good way to be. Right?
Here's to an interesting and satisfying 2010 for all of us.
--Barbara
It took me a while, but I made Fish Hats for my "kids." They're not really kids, they're not kids at all, but they are my children and their partners, and they deserve goofy hats. I had fun picking out the yarn and the colors for each one, and I enjoyed knitting them. I made my fishes live by using bright yellow buttons for the pupils. I just couldn't bring myself to embroider a big black X on the white felt 
circle to make them dead fish. Just couldn't do it. (I forgot to take a portrait of Fish Hat 4, so Anne if you read this, please 
lay it out, take its picture, and send it to me. Thanks.)
Durwood doesn't knit, he plays wi
th wood, so he built birdhouses for the kids for Christmas that he finished on Christmas morning. I painted them--after Christmas, but the kids liked them and the birdies will love them. I hope he makes more for me to hang in the back yard. *hint, hint*
Sunday 
morning it was foggy and cold, so the fog droplets froze onto the naked trees. For just a few 
minutes after the fog burned off or all froze to the trees, this is what it looked like. I'm very impressed that I managed to get pictures before it melted away.
I love it when it's bright and sunny in the winter but that also usually means that it's bitter cold, so it's a trade-off. What do I want--moderate temps or sunshine? I'll take sunshine every time.December 29--African, Kwele initiation mask from the Congo. Laht shivered even though the night was hot. The sound of the men murmuring as they stood just outside the ring of firelight reminded him of his part in the night's ritual. Laht stood alone in the dark trees on the outskirts of the village. He was naked except for the white painted mask tied onto his head with hide strings. He had been the best of his age-mates when Papa Heinrich had gathered them together in front of his hut to teach them the songs and dances, stories and legends they needed to learn in order to be men. Laht had always been a show-off, loud and boisterous, and he learned fast, so he had been the best at dancing the patterns in the dry yellow dust of Papa's courtyard. But now he didn't feel like dancing. He wanted to be back tucked behind his mother in the safety of the women's circle. He fingered his manhood as he stood there. It was important that it look big, look fierce when he danced into the light, and the longer he stood there in the dark the smaller it got. The beat of the singing sped up and the men's voices got deeper and louder, soon his moment would come. A cramp shot deep into his bowels and he nearly turned and ran but he caught the high sweet song of Nyra, the prettiest girl in the village, calling him and he straightened, his hands came up in the correct pose, and he ran into the light, knees pumping and his manhood proud as he played his part to become a man.
I like it. I can see it in my head; I hope you can too. Only 3 more days and 2009 will be over. Did you get some things accomplished in '09? Are you better, or just older? Make 2010 even better. I know you will.
--Barbara
This morning before the sun rose, both of our children and their partners drove/flew away back to their homes. The gifts are put in their proper places and the extra beds are put away. We have to figure out what to eat from the leftovers and climb laboriously back onto the healthy eating and exercising bandwagons. A week of eating salty and sweet snacks is plenty and I miss getting up in the early morning and dancing around the living room with my Wii Fit. Now it's time to reflect on the accomplishments of 2009 and contemplate the adventures coming in 2010. I don't believe in resolutions (probably because my innerHitler is such a nag), so I plan adventures and make short-term promises like working out daily for one month. Anyone can do something for a month; that's no time at all, right? What are you looking forward to in the new year?
December 28--Indian School, Swing Festival. Lush and green, the garden steamed in the midday heat, while the women played as if they were children. The Swing Festival took them back to their carefree days, letting them pretend for a moment that they were young and their whole lives were yet to come. The favored wives and the concubines sang and laughed together for this one day, their petty squabbles put aside. Overlooking the garden, their lord sat reclined on silken pillows, his arm holding that day's favorite close as he smiled down at his women. He thought they looked like flowers waving in the breeze and he decided that there should be a festival once a week so he could feast his eyes on their smooth bodies in the sun.
Eh. Not crazy about the art today, and no inspired by any part of it. Tomorrow will be better. I also need to go get next year's Art calendar so I'll have something to write about next year. I'm liking using a picture rather than a word or sentence.
--Barbara
I am lost in the swirl of expectation of the season and what gets left behind is my writing. I need to cling to the small moment of selfishness and silence to see that day's art and put a few words down on paper. December 21--Thomas Cowperthwait Eakins, Portrait of Clara J. Mather. Clara was the plain one, the one of the Mather girls that wasn't a celebrated beauty. She had done well in school and wrote stories and poems late into the night while her candle burned low. There had never been suitors lined up for a chance to put their names on her dance card or to walk with her through the garden and bask in her beauty. Cecelia and Miriam had been the ones, the popular ones who went to parties and for carriage rides. Clara stayed home with her parents as they aged, sickened, and died. She was quiet and meek until the day that their neighbor, Tom Eakins the artist, was stuck for a subject and asked her to pose. She wore her black mourning dress, Papa had only been gone for three months, and wore her hair in a severe twist. Tom sat her in the stark light from the north window of his studio, then his hands plucked the pins from her lustrous brown hair. He painted her no-nonsense gray eyes and pale lips just as they were, and she was transformed.I hope you're ready for the holiday and that all your loved ones are around.--Barbara
That's what I'm trying to be in my writing these days. I'm done being afraid that what I put on the page is wrong. Nothing is wrong in first drafts, nothing. Scribbling, misspelling, no punctuation, bad grammar, cross outs--all are allowed, expected even. First draft is when your mind should move faster than your fingers, your breath should come in excited pants, and your brain buzz with ideas. Fearless. Because no one cares, it's just a first draft.December 17--French School (15th Century), John the Fearless, Duke of Burgundy. John sat crouched in the corner of his closet, way back in the dark, with his pet ferret, Ralph, curled around his neck. He and Ralph had been asleep when the roaring started. It wasn't a voice roaring, not a big man shouting in anger or pain. John was familiar with that sort of roaring. He thought that angry-man roaring was the most dangerous sound, even more dangerous than a lion roaring. This roaring was the wind. He could feel it push against the house trying to break in, racing through the woods, snapping off branches to hurl at the windows. He could feel the walls of his closet flex with the gusts like they were breathing. He raised a shaking hand to stroke Ralph's soft fur and felt the tiny body tremble. "It'll be all right, Ralph," John said in his smallest voice. "It'll be all right."Well. That was a surprise, and all because the 15th century Duke in today's painting art prompt is wearing a narrow fur pelt around his neck. He's a weaselly looking guy too. I don't see the "fearless" thing about him at all. I'll bet he picked his own nickname to try and make himself sound all cool. So, is anyone out there? It's big and echo-y in here all by myself.--Barbara
I actually had some today. Customers, I mean. Seems like people are finally realizing that Christmas is coming and are out buying dive stuff. Whew. I managed to squeak out another prompt writing in between women trying on wetsuits, men looking at buying Rental gear, and a very addled mother looking at masks and snorkels for her three sons.December 15--Roman (1st Century), Mars and Venus. Love and War sit side by side, both beautiful in their own way. Julia felt the tiles shift under her feet as she crossed the loggia of her house in Pompeii. She hated the smell of sulfur that flowed from the raging mouth of Mount Vesuvius outside the city and the fine ash and grit kept her servants busy sweeping and dusting round the clock. And the earthquakes never stopped. Her favorite vase had fallen from it's niche in the gallery and had shattered into a thousand pieces. She looked at the mural that Trajan had commissioned as a marriage gift for her saying in his heavy-handed way that it was the perfect artwork for a soldier and his wife. She frowned at the gritty sound her sandals made as she crossed the room and then she saw that new cracks had appeared in the painting on the wall. Even more tiny chips of painted plaster had popped off and lay like colored rain on the marble tiles below. As she called for the maid to come and sweep once again the air was rent by an almighty roar and Julia's world disappeared in a heartbeat.Not bad. I kind of cheaped out there at the end but I kind of like it. Are you done with your Christmas shopping?--Barbara
Sorry, I haven't posted the last couple of days, I just haven't been in the mood. I know, I know, you're not supposed to wait until the mood strikes you to write but it's right before Christmas, and the kids will be home next week, and all the knitting needs to be finished, and I haven't even begun to bake, and my sciatic is driving me to distraction, so it hurts to sit a long time... I have a world of excuses, don't I? The truth is, I just haven't put myself into the chair. It's quiet at work today so I've done today's art prompt and I hope to do the past two day's prompts this afternoon.December 16--Louis John Rhead, Woman with Peacocks. Feeling like a bridesmaid, Ursula walked down the garden path behind a pair of peacocks. The birds' feathered trains swept up leaves from the path and dragged through the droppings, making her glad that her dress did not touch the ground. The peacocks ruled the garden, shrieking from the tops of the hedges in the mornings. It sounded as if murder were being done, bloody, wretched disemboweling and limb removal at its loudest. As a new bride, Ursula had awoken in a fright, clutched Edward's arm and trembled. He patted her hand like a fond father and mumbled, "S'only the damned peacocks, m'dear," as he drifted back to sleep. But she could never go back to sleep so she would rise, pull on a robe, and ring down to have Bates bring a pot of coffee to her salon where she wrote letter and read until a more reasonable arising time.Eh. It's okay for someone whose fingers are freezing. Time to go heat up my soup. Stay warm!--Barbara
I sat down after supper and knitted like the wind. I finished the second Prospectors purse and got the 3 of them felted. Now they're drying. They smell a lot like wet sheep.Here's the purse pre-felting.I'll post pictures of all three when they're dry and not so smelly.
Let me say first that I did not get the Christmas gift making and organizing done this weekend as I had hoped/planned. I'm not thrilled. But I did sign up for an online Revision course to get some guidance rewriting The Sea View. I am thrilled with how it turned out and I don't want to let it languish for years like I've done with my previous NaNoWriMo novels. I want to get this one rewritten and out there finding an agent. If I have to stay in the frozen north for the entire winter, I figured I might as well make use of the time.
December 12 & 13--Caravaggio, The Lute Player. His fingers were freezing. he'd been playing for hours, even since the last of the meal was served. He was so honored to be hire to play for the dinner where the Duc and his guests celebrated the success of their weekend's hunting. Luca had been called by his teacher, Signore Ribalto, and sent to the castello for the weekend. When he had arrived on Friday after the noon meal, the Duc's majordomo had sent him to the baths where a pretty young maidservant had scrubbed every inch of him. At first he had said he was clean enough but she shook her head. then he had said that he could wash himself but she was adamant saying, "If I leave, you will only splash a bit. His Grace insists that people around him be clean." With that she had him out of his shirt and pantaloons so quickly that his head spun. When he felt the breeze from the open door on his privates he hastened into the tub of water she had ready. He suffered her washing him from the top down but he stilled her hands when she reached to cup his manhood. "I can do that myself," he said, feeling a blush heat his face. She laughed at him. "You will like it more if I do it." For the first time he enjoyed getting clean.
I think my thoughts took an interesting turn.
--Barbara
Oh, mercy, it's cold today. I had to stand outside pumping gas into my car and into 2 gas cans so that I can run the snowblower next time it snows and I nearly froze my hoo-hoos off. Once I got back into the car I heard on the radio that it was -3 F. with a -16 degree wind chill. Yep, felt every negative degree of that one and maybe a couple of bonus degrees. Also stopped at the Pet Foo
d Center for a big bag of birdseed because all of the sparrows in the county come to our feeders at least once a day. I'd rather feed the prettier birds, but hey, the hawk has to eat something. The big Sharp-shinned Hawk spent a few minutes on the fence this morning and all the little birdies made themselves scarce in a big hurry. We love seeing the hawks. Here's a picture Durwood took last winter.
December 11--Utagawa Kunisada, Winter. It's just crazy being out in the snow in sandals, Emmaline thought, sitting on the Tube that morning. She herself was no where near old, not even approaching middle age, just barely past twenty but when she saw the girl's toes, pink and white, in flip flops she shivered. It was a cold, wet morning, a day for woolen mufflers and thick socks in sturdy shoes, or leather tennis shoes at least, trainers as the Brits call them, not a day to drag your jeans cuffs on the pavement and leave your poor toes out to freeze. At the museum she was enjoying a series of Japanese paintings when some detail caught her eye. There in the Winter pane of a Four Seasons series by Kunisada were five exposed toes in a high wooden sandal in the snow. She leaned over the velvet rope to be sure, and there they were peeking out at her. Emmaline shook her head. Kids, she thought from her lofty perch of twenty-six, they never change.
Brr.
--Barbara
I thought for a minute when I started writing this that I might be. It's just the sort of thing she would write so well, having all of us in the Women's Writing Retreat at The Clearing in stitches laughing at the antics of her little boys pushed around by circumstances, but I'm afraid it's just not funny enough. Maybe if I work on it some more it'll measure up...
December 10--Lorenzo Costa, The Nativity. Gerry sat squashed between his grandma and Mrs. Bishop in the church pew. He was too hot in his brown corduroy coat, woolen muffler, and snow boots, but Grandma had frowned and shook her head when he started to take off his coat. He had opened his mouth to ask why but she had frowned again, shook her head again, and this time she put her finger over her pursed lips in the universal shushing motion understood by grandsons all over the world. He tried to slump over but he didn't have enough room; both Grandma and Mrs. Bishop were broad in the beam and took up quite a bit of room in the pew, his room to be exact. It would have been the perfect spot to be in if the church's furnace had gone out, all pillow-y and warm, but with his coat on and the furnace blasting it was downright hot. Mass was going on forever too. He liked the singing, he thought it sounded like angels, but the incense smoke made him sneeze six times in a row which earned him frowns from both Mrs. Bishop and Grandma, and not one gesundheit. Would this torture never end? At the rate this was going, the Baby Jesus would be an old man by the time the priest let them go, and Santa would have skipped his house and be somewhere over Africa.
All that from a picture of the Virgin Mary painted by some long-dead Italian. I love it when stuff like that happens. I'm feeling a bit bah-humbug-ish these days, but I'm hoping the pretty, white, DEEP snow will help. I could do without the single digit temps, though.
--Barbara
It's an entirely different feeling to write by hand versus writing on a keyboard. You feel the words when you write by hand, you slow down and actually look at the page, not letting your fingers go on autopilot while your eyes scan what you wrote before, and your mind plans what comes next. I wrote most of my NaNoWriMo novel on the Alphasmart so getting back to writing by hand is a challenge.
December 9--Marie-Philippe Coupin de la Couperin, Napoleon holding a figure of Victory, plaque commemorating the Battle of Eylau. From where she sat at the table in Great-aunt Mame's dining room Tally stared at the round picture of a naked man holding a tiny angel with a feather quill and a wreath. Was he supposed to be some sort of grown-up Santa? That's what she thought of when wreaths were around, but the stuff the naked guy was sitting on didn't look like toys. There were a few balls and some drums but the rest of it was cannons and spears and armor. Oh. Those were probably cannonballs; that made more sense. But going out to fight naked didn't seem like a very good idea. That guy should probably put on the armor laying around on there, she thought, and he should definitely cover up his, well, his you-know-what. Boys always protected that part like it was most valuable. She couldn't really see his peter so she raised herself up a bit and craned her neck trying to get a better look. "What are you looking at, Tally?" Mom said, and Great-aunt Mame clucked like an old chicken. "Natalia is probably trying to get a look at old Bonaparte's member," she said. Then she leaned over toward Tally and whispered, "I hear it wasn't much to look at anyway, my dear." Tally sat puzzled in the swirl of breath smelling of old lady and afternoon sherry thinking "He had a membership, like to the Y? Why would I want to see it?" It was a very long lunch.
And the blizzard? We've got it; 12" of snow, 30 mile an hour gusts. I've got a snow day. Where's my sled?
--Barbara
I got the flamingo out around noon today, and she's out there now shining her pink lights over the newly fallen snow. There is no palm tree accompanying her as in the past because I just can't carry the darned thing by myself. I made it too well. We're supposed to get 12-14" of snow by the time the storm ends tomorrow night. I am not looking forward to driving in it and getting it off the driveway. Why can't it just snow on the grass?
December 8--Jules Cheret, Ice Palace, Champs-Elysees, Paris. Stripes of red and gold made her skirt look like it swirled even when she held still. The golden fur trim was supposed to keep her warm but it was so heavy that it upset her delicate balance and her feet slid out from under her and down she went. She was not happy. The fur (fox perhaps?) matched her short cape with its collar that she wore turned up so that the softness of it caressed her cheek and jaw, but the hairs kept getting stuck to her lipstick making her frown and spit. Not very ladylike at all. Her hat was a black confection of ruffles and feathers with an important bow made to match her red and gold striped skirt. She fastened it on with a hatpin that would have served as a handy weapon if she needed one. It only took one circuit of the rink, one graceful oval before she caught the eye of Lord Henri du Nord, the wealthiest of the boulevardiers, and she could let him unlace the cursed skates that made her ankles ache. Then they would spend a charming hour or two flirting over cups of hot cocoa laced with a touch of peppermint liqueur.
I like her clothes and I'm interested in how shallow she is, but I don't even know her name. I'll have to put a star beside this one to maybe play with another time when I don't have deadlines to meet.
--Barbara
extemporaneous hexagon scarf yesterday. I might put more fringe on it, in fact, I definitely will, but I like it. It's warm and soft and doesn't look like anyone else's scarf.
g down the foot to the toe. Okay, maybe zooming is a bit optimistic given my usual knitting speed, but it won't take as long as the leg; I'm sure of that.
