Don't Forget To Knit Awesome!

Knitting our collective way out of a paper bag since 2011

Archive for the tag “Hemingway”

That last story entry again.

I am reposting the last entry in order to get everyone, including myself, caught up/ reminded of where we’re at.

 

This room, guys.  It had dozens of shelves, some as high as 20 feet tall.  The shelves were as eclectic as the books filling them.  As I walked around, utterly enthralled,  I saw titles in a hundred languages.  The titles I could read dealt with subjects from Anthropology, to theoretical economic implications of Zoltron.  I flipped through various books in languages I couldn’t read, and they had wonderful diagrams.  Diagrams that would look amazing on the wall of an sort of building.  As I reached for my phone to get a picture of a particularly fantastic one, I relaized I had left my phone behind.  Which, in turn, reminded me that I wasn’t chilling in an awesome room.  I remembered that I was, in fact, running for my life.

I rushed back to the door, and hey, there’s no knob.  The door didn’t open from the inside.  And that’s super frightening.  This wasn’t a bedroom, it was a prison.  A really comfy and pretty one, but a prison without windows or a bathroom.  So, naturally, I trapped myself inside it.   And yet, I was drawn back to the books.  I did a kind of emotional shrug, and went back to the shelves.  I browsed for a bit, to find the most interesting English book.  When I found it, I pulled it, sat on the bed, and read.

I read deeply.  I had always done that.  My entire life, I was able to fall deeply into anything with pages.  Before I learned to read, I flip through art and architecture books.  I’d wistfully admire the brushstrokes and brick facades.  Eventually, I learned to read.  Everything.  Pamphlets, catalogs, books, magazines, and comics.  Textbooks, I didn’t do homework, but I’d read the whole damn thing.

Then suddenly, I heard the screech of tires.  And I was 17 again.  And everyone around me was covered in blood.  Why was I at prom again?

Okay. More story.

This room, guys.  It had dozens of shelves, some as high as 20 feet tall.  The shelves were as eclectic as the books filling them.  As I walked around, utterly enthralled,  I saw titles in a hundred languages.  The titles I could read dealt with subjects from Anthropology, to theoretical economic implications of Zoltron.  I flipped through various books in languages I couldn’t read, and they had wonderful diagrams.  Diagrams that would look amazing on the wall of an sort of building.  As I reached for my phone to get a picture of a particularly fantastic one, I relaized I had left my phone behind.  Which, in turn, reminded me that I wasn’t chilling in an awesome room.  I remembered that I was, in fact, running for my life.

I rushed back to the door, and hey, there’s no knob.  The door didn’t open from the inside.  And that’s super frightening.  This wasn’t a bedroom, it was a prison.  A really comfy and pretty one, but a prison without windows or a bathroom.  So, naturally, I trapped myself inside it.   And yet, I was drawn back to the books.  I did a kind of emotional shrug, and went back to the shelves.  I browsed for a bit, to find the most interesting English book.  When I found it, I pulled it, sat on the bed, and read.

I read deeply.  I had always done that.  My entire life, I was able to fall deeply into anything with pages.  Before I learned to read, I flip through art and architecture books.  I’d wistfully admire the brushstrokes and brick facades.  Eventually, I learned to read.  Everything.  Pamphlets, catalogs, books, magazines, and comics.  Textbooks, I didn’t do homework, but I’d read the whole damn thing.

Then suddenly, I heard the screech of tires.  And I was 17 again.  And everyone around me was covered in blood.  Why was I at prom again?

Story Story Story.

Seriously, a gargoyle from the roof of a abandoned church was beckoning me from across a crowded rave held inside said abandoned church.  And I, now, am completely sure there wasn’t any drugs in my system that caused hallucinations.   At the time though, I assumed giants could juggle with the balls I was tripping.  Covered in the rubbed off paint and with my shirt wrapped around my head lie a balaclava, I made my way across the room.  Suddenly, I was oblivious to the danger I was just in, and very well could have been still in, and slid next to this green granite fellow.

I cleared my throat and had nothing to say.  Panicked, I ran over all my date moves in my mind.  Maybe I could yawn and put my arm around him.  Wait, no, not the goal here.  Actually, what was my goal?  I really had no concept of what to do, so I just turned and looked the gargoyle in the eye.  “Hemingway,” he intoned, “now, be still and silent.  Look wasted.  They’re searching inside for you.”

Nodding,  I bent my knees and swayed.  I clap my hands a beat and a half off whatever we were listening to, and bobbed my head.  As a goon in suit walked by, I spun around with a high pitched giggle, and fell over right behind him.  Laughing hysterically, and made a glitter angel as the goon scoffed at me.  I got up, and followed the giant stone beast apparently I acknowledged as existing through a small door.  Behind which, a hallway lit with candles led to the basement.  I was now going further into this building.  I make the best choices.  Really, I do.

Today, Our Hero Reveals His Plan.

Next installment in the story is VERY YES.

Alright, I told myself, you can do this.  You’ve outrun rivals and hid from authorities before you went legit.  And there’s the time you punched that dude in the bar for that thing that time.  Sure, he punched you back and you bled all over him until someone broke it up and took you to the hospital, but this is a locked room.  And locked rooms are deceptively short when they sit. Because they don’t sit.  And you have a letter opener.  Made of plastic.  You’re screwed.

I’ve never been one to talk myself up very well.  It’s why my art is primarily anonymous.  Even the gallery shows and my for sale pieces are done without me.    So, as a result, I had actually made myself more nervous about the situation. On  the flip side,  I pumped up my adrenaline.  Which was cool, because someone soon walked into the room and I rushed them.  Quickly and surprisingly forcefully.  As I collided with what I would alter find out was a terribly attractive woman, I through up a superman elbow and was able to run into dance floor.

As I pushed through the throng of dancers, I removed my shirt and quickly rubbed against any person or thing will glowing paint or glitter. I effectively vanished into the crowd, and was able to watch a number of frightening looking large people wander around and eventually assume I got away. Which, I guess, technically I did, but I decided to stay and snoop.

Because that from the roof gargoyle now looked me in the eye from across the room and beckoned me to stay. At this point, I knew my life was a while new kind of weird

Some Pictures!

As I tweeted yesterday, I have an order of five of my bags (the first two pics are the front and back of the one I made my wife) and I’m amazed.   I have that condition, called “perfectionism”, that makes me despise the things I make because I KNOW they have at east one tiny little imperfection.  Which is deplorable.  But, as my darling and amazing wife repeated points out, I’m actually pretty good at this whole knitting thing.  Which would explain why my fried Luis is so excited that I designed and knit that beanie for his brother, and will be releasing it as a free pattern for cancer patients.  I’m going to call it “The Beat Beanie.”  This one was knitted in Patton’s Bamboo Silk yarn, so it’s going to feel wondrous.  I’m using the leftovers to make another beanie, which I will then rock.

 

The other pictures are of Hemingway, obviously, and of Spaz in her vest I made her for Christmas.  Takes her a long time to model things for me, or to do anything productive, really.  Meh.   Well, I have to get back to being grown up and responsible.  Later!

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