...What am I to do? I can't help it."
A few months ago my brilliant friend, Heidi, described reading a good book as being held captive in a story-house. Where your only vistas are of the narrative's settings, your only interactions are with the characters, your only sustenance is doled out page by page, your only concern is to reach the end, to hear the story-door unlock and discover whether or not your relationships, your job and your person are still intact after your release from thralldom. Upon said release, however, you generally find yourself clawing at siding and windows to be let back in.
Yesterday I discovered that this clever analogy applies to more than just books. I currently find myself trapped inside the knitting-house. Thanks, as usual, to Shirley Bear I now know the most rudimentary elements of knitting. My edges are atrocious and my rhythm is stilted at best, but I'm determined to crank out a few sampler potholders and then dive right in to something like this. Don't bother trying to talk me out of it, as I've already mentioned, I'm crazy and a little masochistic. Plus I have this beautiful basket of yarns that have been doing nothing more than adorning my bedside table since I grew bored (again) with crocheting a few years ago.
I'm a fickle mistress, I admit, and this may not bode well for a life-long knitting hobby, but as long as I'm locked away in its house, I expect to see some dynamic results. And I do mean dynamic, I'm making no claims as to the quality of this work, just to the frenetic motion with which I'll accomplish it.
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