my baby sister had her kid. you can read the version of things she and her husband concocted here: becomingabunch.blogspot.com. or you can find out the sordid truth right where you are. read on. first, in a shameless bid for attention predictable in the youngest of a set of siblings, my sister conspired with her unborn child to create a frightening, dramatic arrival. this arrival involved sharp instruments, a briefly external uterus and a short stint in n.i.c.u. both are resting happily at home with a very giddy dad now, so don't fret. however, any information you read on their blog is a smokescreen to hide the true facts. the child is, well.... supernatural. there. i've said it.
it shouldn't come as a surprise. his older cousin is supernatural as well. when that child arrived he was unable to ingest human milk, formula or cow milk. he began to get very sick and was slightly terrifying. his parents finally consulted an oracle living in the crashed space ship in their backyard and began feeding the child a combination of crushed meteorites, stalactites and copper wrapped in cheese. he now gets stars and happy faces on all his papers at school.
back to the new one. if you've visited their blog, you'll see him in those goggles and will read their claim of a mildly lemony child. those of you who have been to sedona, area 51, spooklight or our fine new chud sanctuary will be fully aware that they've figured out he has a vision skill. now, supernatural babies are just like other babies in that they don't necessarily have control of their skills. if they did, they wouldn't need diapers. he was born with legs but will have to learn to control their movement so he can walk, run, swim and fly. likewise, whatever is behind those goggles isn't yet entirely under his control and his very responsible parents are goggling him to protect the world from potential accidental laser beams or levitation. personally, i am hoping his vision skill involves being able to move lumber from one place to another and assemble it in a pleasing manner because we need a new fence here and the wood floors are going to need to be replaced soon.
he called the other day and although i have not yet been able to decipher his supernatural language, i think he said, "i will be coming to visit in late may. get me a ticket to that levon helm show you're seeing." it might have been, "why didn't i get any angel pants? mine have a pointy tail!" the smaller dog who lives here thinks it was, "saddle up the dogs! i'll be out in september for a nice fall hike!"
and of course i told him, "come on out. bring the big cousin. we've got the bunk beds up and the dogs are saddled. there's plenty of cheese."
Saturday, March 15, 2008
Thursday, March 6, 2008
post office train station
first off, a kid in class today called me a fucking pussy. i kicked him out of class for something else and he was mad and muttered it as he walked past me. generally, i deal with evil language in the classroom. it is rare that kids say anything directly to me, but when they do it's usually "you're such a bitch". my response is generally "i'm well aware of that. do you have anything new to contribute to the class?"
after school i went to the post office to mail a package. i did not go to the post office in my neighborhood because i have considered whether i could get away with stabbing someone each time i've been inside the place. so i went to another one. three people in line. two people behind the bulletproof glass. evidently this is a stressful ratio for the postal folk. ten minutes later the little bell dings and the arrow lights up pointing left. i go left. the troll behind the glass snarls, "i''m closed!" i say, "but the bell and the arrow..." as i am saying this, the bell dings again and the light points left. i point at it. there is no other clerk on the left and she has to be pushing the button to signal the bell and light. she does not address this issue. "i'm closed!" she howls. i attempt, through three more bells and lights, to explain that her hideous self is sitting at a window that says "open" and the stupid bell and light keep saying she's open. the other clerk has been with the same person since i walked in. eventually, i walk out in disgust.
i turn a corner and see a woman teetering on ill-fitting high heeled boots. she's maybe 40 with a bag full of groceries and a horrible pleather coat. i walk behind her half a block before the faceplant. it sounds horrible. bananas, cucumbers, onions, papers everywhere. i help her up. she is physically fine but is nearly in tears. she thanks and thanks and thanks, says she fell a few weeks ago. once she's standing i help her get the food back in her bag. she only lives a block away. it isn't likely she'll make it home.
post office two. three clerks and fifteen people in line. the clerks are rowdy, yelling across the room to each other, cackling. one calls everyone baby. the old men like this more than anyone. this is my second favorite post office. although it is wild, i know i'll be out in ten minutes, even if the line is out the door. i am finally second from the windows when the woman in front of me sees a package on the table. she asks the woman at the window if it's hers. it isn't. we look. it is a small item in a padded envelope. small but fat. it has an address in very weak handwriting with no zip code. there is no return address. the envelope is poorly sealed. the woman in front of me is uncomfortable. i am a paranoid person so i am even more uncomfortable. i get tunnel vision. we come up with the same solution at the same time. we talk loudly about the unclaimed package sitting a foot from us at chest level. we wonder loudly what it could be and who might have left it. we live in a town where people are still slightly on edge. we don't think of ourselves as on edge, but this morning someone exploded a small bomb somewhere around times square and we felt uneasy coming to work on the trains. there is nothing really to be done about it, so we don't go all out. we don't panic. we just keep a reserve of unease and suspiciousness. finally, a clerk says, "some man stole a guy's wallet and now he's trying to mail it back to the guy. i ain't about to touch it". i mail my package and am out in ten minutes.
subway platform. it is about five pm on a southbound underground platform in brooklyn. there is a woman on my side of the platform who looks like a soccer mom with an unsuccessful bid to bring back the early eighties, at least in terms of fashion. she is heavy, but only through the hips. they are three times a wide as any other part of her. this does not help her look. she is muttering across the tracks angrily. her target is a man who makes me question miles davis' death. he doesn't look like the man. he is. right down to the suit. the hair. the shoes. her muttering intensifies and she screams "DON'T YOU KNOW ABOUT IMMIGRATION?"
i get on the train, tired because i've been up since five am, mostly standing and talking. nobody screams. nobody shakes. nobody slaps a child in the face. there are no terrifying lectures about jesus, the trains or impending doom. no homeless people near death. nobody is whispering about bombs,guns, knives. the train is not even crowded. only a few of us are standing. i lean against the pole, rest my head on it. a man get up and gives me his seat.
after school i went to the post office to mail a package. i did not go to the post office in my neighborhood because i have considered whether i could get away with stabbing someone each time i've been inside the place. so i went to another one. three people in line. two people behind the bulletproof glass. evidently this is a stressful ratio for the postal folk. ten minutes later the little bell dings and the arrow lights up pointing left. i go left. the troll behind the glass snarls, "i''m closed!" i say, "but the bell and the arrow..." as i am saying this, the bell dings again and the light points left. i point at it. there is no other clerk on the left and she has to be pushing the button to signal the bell and light. she does not address this issue. "i'm closed!" she howls. i attempt, through three more bells and lights, to explain that her hideous self is sitting at a window that says "open" and the stupid bell and light keep saying she's open. the other clerk has been with the same person since i walked in. eventually, i walk out in disgust.
i turn a corner and see a woman teetering on ill-fitting high heeled boots. she's maybe 40 with a bag full of groceries and a horrible pleather coat. i walk behind her half a block before the faceplant. it sounds horrible. bananas, cucumbers, onions, papers everywhere. i help her up. she is physically fine but is nearly in tears. she thanks and thanks and thanks, says she fell a few weeks ago. once she's standing i help her get the food back in her bag. she only lives a block away. it isn't likely she'll make it home.
post office two. three clerks and fifteen people in line. the clerks are rowdy, yelling across the room to each other, cackling. one calls everyone baby. the old men like this more than anyone. this is my second favorite post office. although it is wild, i know i'll be out in ten minutes, even if the line is out the door. i am finally second from the windows when the woman in front of me sees a package on the table. she asks the woman at the window if it's hers. it isn't. we look. it is a small item in a padded envelope. small but fat. it has an address in very weak handwriting with no zip code. there is no return address. the envelope is poorly sealed. the woman in front of me is uncomfortable. i am a paranoid person so i am even more uncomfortable. i get tunnel vision. we come up with the same solution at the same time. we talk loudly about the unclaimed package sitting a foot from us at chest level. we wonder loudly what it could be and who might have left it. we live in a town where people are still slightly on edge. we don't think of ourselves as on edge, but this morning someone exploded a small bomb somewhere around times square and we felt uneasy coming to work on the trains. there is nothing really to be done about it, so we don't go all out. we don't panic. we just keep a reserve of unease and suspiciousness. finally, a clerk says, "some man stole a guy's wallet and now he's trying to mail it back to the guy. i ain't about to touch it". i mail my package and am out in ten minutes.
subway platform. it is about five pm on a southbound underground platform in brooklyn. there is a woman on my side of the platform who looks like a soccer mom with an unsuccessful bid to bring back the early eighties, at least in terms of fashion. she is heavy, but only through the hips. they are three times a wide as any other part of her. this does not help her look. she is muttering across the tracks angrily. her target is a man who makes me question miles davis' death. he doesn't look like the man. he is. right down to the suit. the hair. the shoes. her muttering intensifies and she screams "DON'T YOU KNOW ABOUT IMMIGRATION?"
i get on the train, tired because i've been up since five am, mostly standing and talking. nobody screams. nobody shakes. nobody slaps a child in the face. there are no terrifying lectures about jesus, the trains or impending doom. no homeless people near death. nobody is whispering about bombs,guns, knives. the train is not even crowded. only a few of us are standing. i lean against the pole, rest my head on it. a man get up and gives me his seat.
Friday, February 29, 2008
kelly hollow
disclaimer: loads of photos, awkwardly placed due to graceless editing program.
kelly hollow is a cross country ski trail in winter and a very accessible hiking trail the rest of the year. it's one of those trails built on an old logging road for a good part of the way, but don't let this deter you. just because it's easy, don't think it will be dull. it's full of dense forest of all sorts (spruce, hemlock and white pine primarily). sometimes you see one forest on your left and across the trail is an entirely different world. you'll hike to the constant sound of water tearing around all over the place (there are plenty of falls, but no good photos yet).
it's a double loop trail and depending on how much of it you hike you will
you will find low stone fences along much of the trail, but take one of the loops and once past the pond you'll find a collection of foundations and a wall or two sitting on top of them. they're in a nice clearing and if you passed up a chance to have lunch at the lean-to, this is a nice place to stop.the trailhead is on mill brook road and the drive there is pretty spectacular itself. from 28 take dry brook road south about six miles through mapledale and seager (you will know you are in towns only because of the signs, not because there is a town there) to millbrook road. the intersection with millbrook is a Y and there is a dilapidated barn to let you know you're in the right place. a right onto millbrook gets you into some spectacular scenery (especially in winter) for the final nine miles of driving. the trail is on the left and there's always plenty of parking.
the best part was the drive back, though, because we came upon a pile of turkeys. wild ones are nicer to look at, shiny black-blue and sleek. turkeys are very large and although we've seen plenty around town, we'd never seen a pack of them. there are only five here, but there were at least ten in the middle of the road when we rounded a curve and saw them up the rise. i thought they were dogs.
Friday, February 22, 2008
redbird
more baby stuff. more yarn. this is a basic top-down sweater pattern (they're all over the internet and are easy to modify) with an umbilical cord hat (from stitch 'n bitch). the mittens don't have thumbs because if you've ever seen a baby up close, they don't keep their thumbs too far from the rest of themselves. i tried to convince my sister that baby thumbs don't grown in until they're older, but she's not paying attention to that sort of thing. the mittens are made like tiny hats and are on i-cord that runs through the sleeves for lower mitten-loss. they're also easy to remove from the coat.i love the giant old lady buttons and am, in general, a huge fan of giant buttons on baby things. and bold colors. if i think my grandma nellie might have liked the button/color combo, i'm happy. most of the buttons i use come from tins she kept in her house for, i guess, button emergencies.
because we had a giant blizzard here overnight (but not a snow day because there's no school), i thought i'd put the little redbird in its natural habitat- a snowy brooklyn backyard. these photos were taken just as the soft, fluffy snow was turning to stabbing ice pellets. as you can see to the left, even the train cut looks sassy in the snow.
Sunday, February 17, 2008
american flag
caution: there is a distinct possibility some folks will misinterpret this as unpatriotic. probably the same idiots who fly flags in the rain and at night or off their truck antennas and who have those stupid bumper stickers saying "these colors don't run" splashed over a flag coated with truck exhaust.
in the new york city public schools there are american flags in the classrooms and each day with the morning announcements someone recites the pledge, generally in an uncomprehending monotone. students in the classrooms stand up, put hands over hearts and mutter words they've never once thought about. there are the occasional students who don't. children whose religion forbids pledging loyalty to an object, children who are not citizens, children who are tired, the rare few whose parents have told them nobody can make them stand up and talk to a flag. it seems like an odd thing to set aside time daily for children to make a promise they don't have a clue how to keep. perhaps it would be helpful to explain to the children what they're saying, what they're pledging, if it's expected to be meaningful and really anything beyond the thirty second interruption to the instructional day it currently is.
in some classes the children who don't stand are pounced on by teachers and other staff who scream, "show some respect!" generally this screaming is done in the middle of and far louder than the pledge droning on behind it. effective.
there is no flag in my classroom. this is not deliberate. there is no filter or faceplate on the window unit air conditioner in there either. only one of the six windows opens. there is no shut off for the radiator. there are six ancient, broken computers. there is no lock or latch on the door so when the radiator is blasting in february and we have the single openable window open so we don't suffocate, the door swings open and bangs shut of its own accord. there is no flag.
i do not require my students to say the pledge. i do require them to sit quietly for the few seconds the intercom buzzes with the less than heartfelt daily promise. i have also discussed the pledge with my students. i have explained that if the words are meaningful, they should stand up and say them, but if not, it is best they sit quietly and allow others their bit of connection to whatever it is a 14 year old connects to at 8.45 while looking at a flag. most sit quietly. several stand and pledge allegiance to a corner of the room where a flag might be if we had one. which brings us to the next problem. there is no flag in my classroom. it seems the height of vulgarity to slap up one of those dollar flags made in china if we're supposed to take this seriously. how can anyone pledge anything to something so poorly made?
so i asked if the children would feel better about this whole pledge thing if i made a flag? i do not want to make a flag. i have managed four years in this room just fine without one. i'd be much happier without the announcements and the pledge interrupting the last few minutes i have to trick these kids into learning something. but i ask anyway.
yes.
fine. okay. good. i'll make a flag. a child raises a hand. yes?
do you mean you're going to knit one?
yes.
really?
yes. okay. quiet. pause. back to class. fifteen minutes later a hand goes up.
miss?
yes.
are you going to knit all fifty stars?
crap. hadn't thought of that. i must be talking about knitting too much in class if this boy knows knitting fifty stars is harder than the stripes. i'll figure something out, i tell him.
so i am now at the place where i need to add stars. i need to figure something out. i've been very careful so far and i'm surprised how much i like this almost-flag. it is very soft and the colors are quite striking together. already it is prettier than flags in other classrooms. that blue really does look like the night sky, ready for constellations. one of the many websites with flag history mentioned that for quite some time there was no specific way to display the parts of the flag. for a while there were fifteen stars and fifteen stripes. evidently each flagmaker put stars wherever until 1912. it wasn't until 1959 that the current arrangement was made official by executive order of president eisenhower. i am doing my best to abide by his order. nine rows of stars staggered horizontally and eleven rows of stars staggered vertically.
the first attempt at stars involved a tragic counting mishap. yes, there were fifty stars and yes, they were in the right rows, but they were all scooted staffward and had to be ripped out. the second application of stars worked better. some stars still need to be pulled straight, but they're on and where they're supposed to be.
it will never make sense to me to require the pledge in school. it's like trying to force people to tell you they love you. if you have to force them, it's not really love. but teenagers are adept at whispering lies about love. they don't seem to mind. and i guess if they have to look at it every day maybe once in a while they'll think about real love and real dedication and real promises. what else would drive someone to make something as absurd as a handknit wool flag?
Sunday, February 3, 2008
hatch
well, as i mentioned before, people keep having those babies and i'm knitting just fast enough to keep up. then a friend threw a wrench in the works by having twins. a month or two early! so i am busily knitting things for two girls who are very tiny (four pounds each, more or less when they came out).
because the first ultrasound i saw showed one baby vigorously kicking the head of the other baby, i set to work making devil pants for that one and angel pants for the other. the devil tail may be tough to see in the photo, but it's there. click to enlarge it. both are made with a cotton/silk blend yarn called attitude from classic elite yarns. the gold for the butt wings and belt of the angel pants is a much lighter weight yarn of the same blend.
when the babies came out it was apparent they were both girls so i started on tiny, super-girly cardigans using patons soy wool stripe in geranium for one and plum for the other. it's wool and soy in stripe form. plenty of fiber.
i made a couple of dresses but forgot to photograph them, so nevermind. but on saturday i went to the hospital to see the new girls and they were wrapped up like burritos and rested in little boxes. they were fascinating the way other baby animals are fascinating, mostly head with a body that seems unimportant for now. they don't quite seem real and don't use their eyes much yet. they are so small they're sort of frightening because of the smallness but the fact that they came out so early and so tiny and are insisting on being is impressive. they open giant soft eyes and small teardrop mouths and they curl and uncurl fingers. they want things and they know we exist. they just don't seem to know what to do with us yet.
because the first ultrasound i saw showed one baby vigorously kicking the head of the other baby, i set to work making devil pants for that one and angel pants for the other. the devil tail may be tough to see in the photo, but it's there. click to enlarge it. both are made with a cotton/silk blend yarn called attitude from classic elite yarns. the gold for the butt wings and belt of the angel pants is a much lighter weight yarn of the same blend.
when the babies came out it was apparent they were both girls so i started on tiny, super-girly cardigans using patons soy wool stripe in geranium for one and plum for the other. it's wool and soy in stripe form. plenty of fiber.
i made a couple of dresses but forgot to photograph them, so nevermind. but on saturday i went to the hospital to see the new girls and they were wrapped up like burritos and rested in little boxes. they were fascinating the way other baby animals are fascinating, mostly head with a body that seems unimportant for now. they don't quite seem real and don't use their eyes much yet. they are so small they're sort of frightening because of the smallness but the fact that they came out so early and so tiny and are insisting on being is impressive. they open giant soft eyes and small teardrop mouths and they curl and uncurl fingers. they want things and they know we exist. they just don't seem to know what to do with us yet.
p funk
l train, manhattan bound, rush hour on a thursday evening. two stops from the water in brooklyn a man rushes in as the doors close. he seems like everyone else. late thirties. khaki pants and a dark coat. his hat is green wool with earflaps. very nicely knit. expensive wool. he has a dark backpack fully on his back, his arms through both straps. this is the first hint, but the train is crowded and it escapes notice. he spins around and throws himself, backpack first, into the only empty seat on the train, much to the consternation of little old ladies, elderly men with canes and mothers with small, sleepy children. this is the second hint and some people glare at him, able-bodied and healthy, shoving his way into a seat while the weaker of the community struggle to stand.
and then it begins. there is a loud shout, "ladies and gentlemen, may i have your attention please!!!" the voice is two or three people away from backpack man and belongs to a creature from another planet. literally. he looks like someone put george clinton and all the p-funk all-stars in a blender and poured the results into a tiny, old man. but he is beaming. his glasses are made of pipe cleaner and glitter and plastic. he has antennae on his head. there are giant plastic jewels draped all over him and what has to be the most tragic saxophone in the world. backpack man's fingers go quickly to his ears. his hands, under the earflaps of his hat, tremble and shake. the saxophonist continues, explaining that his spaceship has crashed (the mothership?) and he's stuck here in need of assitance. a few people laugh or smile. it wouldn't be so bad if starchild actually found his way to the l train. starchild promises all the things you'd think a messiah could offer. his music will take us somewhere. somewhere that isn't a stuffy train getting ready to travel under the water into the city.
mr. backpack is by now rocking back and forth. his fingers are lodged well into his ears. his body, with its overstuffed backpack, grates against those on either side of him who have finally noticed him suffering. starchild begins to play. it is loud. it is out of tune, off key and anything else you might think of to say about music that doesn't work. it is terrible. he plays loud and fierce and with passion but without any skill at all. but quite a few people continue to watch him and smile. he plays under the river and back out again. it is like cats in a washing machine. mr. backpack continues rocking, growling, "i can't take this!" over and over again. up from under the river but not at the station yet, starchild finishes and a few folks clap. backpack growls quietly. starchild wants help repairing his spaceship. earth dollars will help. some people dig into their supply of earth dollars. starchild thanks us and promises us a gift when his spaceship is up and running. he will take george bush with him. what took you so long, starchild?
and then it begins. there is a loud shout, "ladies and gentlemen, may i have your attention please!!!" the voice is two or three people away from backpack man and belongs to a creature from another planet. literally. he looks like someone put george clinton and all the p-funk all-stars in a blender and poured the results into a tiny, old man. but he is beaming. his glasses are made of pipe cleaner and glitter and plastic. he has antennae on his head. there are giant plastic jewels draped all over him and what has to be the most tragic saxophone in the world. backpack man's fingers go quickly to his ears. his hands, under the earflaps of his hat, tremble and shake. the saxophonist continues, explaining that his spaceship has crashed (the mothership?) and he's stuck here in need of assitance. a few people laugh or smile. it wouldn't be so bad if starchild actually found his way to the l train. starchild promises all the things you'd think a messiah could offer. his music will take us somewhere. somewhere that isn't a stuffy train getting ready to travel under the water into the city.
mr. backpack is by now rocking back and forth. his fingers are lodged well into his ears. his body, with its overstuffed backpack, grates against those on either side of him who have finally noticed him suffering. starchild begins to play. it is loud. it is out of tune, off key and anything else you might think of to say about music that doesn't work. it is terrible. he plays loud and fierce and with passion but without any skill at all. but quite a few people continue to watch him and smile. he plays under the river and back out again. it is like cats in a washing machine. mr. backpack continues rocking, growling, "i can't take this!" over and over again. up from under the river but not at the station yet, starchild finishes and a few folks clap. backpack growls quietly. starchild wants help repairing his spaceship. earth dollars will help. some people dig into their supply of earth dollars. starchild thanks us and promises us a gift when his spaceship is up and running. he will take george bush with him. what took you so long, starchild?
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