Top-Down Sock!

Just dropping a quick note to say that I just bound off (via Kitchnener Stitch which I effed up hardcore and will fix on Wednesday) my very first top-down sock. I put it on. It fits perfectly! My short rows are exquisite! Yay!

I wish socks didn't come in pairs. I really am eager to start my next project!

Pictures...later.

Punk Knitter Makes a Friend!

The third in a series of journals for my Women's Studies class. To this edition, I stapled a scrap of the gorgeous yarn I'm knitting up a pair of socks with. Yep. Sock club. I joined so i could learn to knit socks top down and then promptly taught myself whilst diner bumming, fueled not on will power but on cigarettes and black coffee. I'll post sock pictures as they come (I'm about 2/3 down with the first. It's all heel down from here on out. Nice and easy) as well as the photos mentioned in this post when I get my scanner or digital camera to leap into my hands and take the pictures itself. One of these days, I will not be a lazy ass.

No one's reading here yet, anyway. I'm waiting to pimp this out (yo) until I have pictures.

So, my teacher loved my last journal entry, which has encouraged me to assume The Punk Knitter for these journals. I'm not punk. I'm a sissy indie kid (with better beating skills). My music isn't loud and screamy (unless it's ironic) and I don't own a studded belt. But, as far as knitters go, punk works for me. If it doesn't work for you, "Go to hell. We're outa soup" as my favorite co-worker would say. You wouldn't get off so well with me. I'd tell you to "Fuck off and die."


Punk Knitter Makes a Friend

Excited with the prospect of learning to knit socks from the top down (novel concept, really), I set off on an adventure last Tuesday being generally free from classes and other obligations. I spent Monday night pouring over WCKG’s list of yarn shops, putting them all into Google Earth, reading reviews and searching out pricing and selection. Several tempting yarn shops popped up in what I dare say is the no-mans-land of Chicago, if still Chicago at all. I’d say nuclear suburbs. Certainly not reachable by any form of public transit, which is a must for me. A yarn shop that had actual hours was also preferable. So, after hours and hours of fighting with my options, I decided I’d skip on over to Loopy Yarns, which proved to be ridiculously convenient for me, as it’s just off the Red Line. Awesome.

I scampered into the shop and liked that it clearly didn’t take itself too seriously. Good yarn but no antique armoires guarding the yarnish treasures. Nothing snooty. Within moments, I was greeted by the owner, whose name I didn’t catch and wasn’t able to find out online. And she introduced me to Lorna’s Lace. We ping-ponged back and forth between the sock and DK weights and she told me all about these gorgeous yarns. I was sold. I found the perfect color and chatted with this wonderful lady as she rang me up (add in a pair of Brittany #3 dpns. How did I live without Brittany needles?). I signed up for the mailing list (they give out some form of birthday gift. Hooray!) and directly after she told me her total, she laughed and reminded herself that I was a student and gave me a discount.

As she balled my yarn (yarn balling devices fascinate me to no end), I casually asked her if she might be hiring in the near future. Affirmative. She has my name and number. She’ll call me. I will never walk out of there with any money, should I start employment there. She’ll take me with her when she goes to see the Lorna’s Lace dyeing studio. ♥! I told her a bit about the class, and she seem positively pickled with delight and asked me a bit about what we were up to. She then asked me what brought me into the store and seemed to love my answer. “Your shop was the easiest to get to and seemed like the least snooty!” She laughed and we talked about snooty knitters for a bit. Having grown up in Wheaton (putting my in close proximity to Naperville and Geneva), I’ve certainly been into my share of snooty knitting shops where the shopkeeper automatically assumed that I wouldn’t appreciate her wares. Granted, I couldn’t often afford the high-end yarns, but at least I was giving my business to a yarn shop and not a big chain craft store (I’m wont to do this too. Punk Knitter has to eat, drink and be merry in addition to knitting, after all) where 100% wool comes in three colors: cream, “reindeer” and “olive.” Please. It’s not the 30s or 40s!

And so, I made a friend. I’m going to take my socks down there when I hop down there for more yarn and show them off. While they are not shaping up to be the most exemplary of socks, I still taught myself to turn a heel, and that is impressive, if I do say so myself (I just did). My next personal project will be a winter hat that is an adapted children’s pattern . The hat looks like a Russian fur-lined cap with the flaps turned up all around, felted, with a big ol’ button in the front and I-cord trim in white all around. It is absurdly adorable and that is exactly the point. I’m thinking a nice dreamsicle orange or a poppy red. Hooray!

And so, the night after my adventure, while waiting for a boy to go and see a flick, I camped out in Starbucks and had a bad cup of coffee. Anyway, I pulled out my knitting and fell madly in love with Lorna and Brittany. I had, quite possibly, the best knitting experience ever, bad coffee aside. And I started thinking about that foolish, foolish cap I can’t wait to get on the needles.

So, what of knitting and fashion? Reading about accounts of fashion in McDonald got me thinking about fashionable knitting I might pursue. Certainly not an argyle sweater. I will admit that I found page 261’s knit suit to be beyond darling, though I’d raise the hem a bit since I do have the freedom to do so, maybe flare the hem out a bit more near the knees. Of course, a knit suit is probably the least practical thing in the entire world, I realize this, ditto a knit dress (which I’d have to have the figure of a twelve-year-old boy to pull off well, but I’ll not get started on that). I will, however, bring to attention the fact that I certainly wouldn’t mind a knitting (and rather cute, actually) Columbia undergrad to go steady with. And, I want to frame that picture of Katherine Hepburn and put it on my wall.

I would like to get around to designing my own patterns one of these days. I have a few ideas I’m kicking around, but I don’t have the brass to plan out something dramatic, hash it out, get everything cleanly oiled and perfect, nor the time. Maybe winter break shall be devoted to knitting when I’m not working (hooray new job as a barista/general cool lady in a Mediterranean café!). I’ll have the money to support my habit, that habit being yarn, not coke.

I’ve got a nice list of things I want to knit right now: that foolish cap, ribbed arm warmers that go up past my elbows (why not!), a cozy for my laptop, a pair of crazy long socks (like 40 inches, so as to slouch them like mad!), a stripey vertical-knit scarf and gloves for a friend. If I’m either very smart or very crazy, the cap, scarf and arm-warmers will match. That would make them all more wearable, but I might get sick of dreamsicle orange/poppy red and white. Ah well! Knit on!

"Pft, you academic snob, you."

My best friend just called me. He wants to drop out of college. I want to drop out of college. Or be an art major. I am a bit let down in the academic run around. I don't want to be a Poli Sci major and go on and be a lobbyist. I want to freaking blow glass and make textiles.

My other best friend (an art major, herself) has told me that I've always been the academic one, and her the artistic one. I think we very nearly did the same number of art classes in high school. We both took a seminar. We were both very academic students too, though. Oh, how many AP classes we shared.

I think that the separation comes within the realm of arts. I am more of a craftsperson, maybe. A jeweler. A sculpter. I am not a painter--yet. Maybe I could be. She's had more formal training in the arts. I just feel like I'm getting tired of academia. Everyone automatically slots me into the role of the academic. I could talk your wee ears off for hours about literature, about politics, about philosophy. I'm a Modern Languages whiz. I am so sick and tired of it all. I can not be a Pol Sci major. Maybe an English major. My creativity is being stifled. I'm losing sight of any dreams I've had. I miss doing things with my hands. And yes, I can do things like that on the side.

But right now I have the ability to learn all these arts for credits. Get certified instructors to show me how to not fuck my own shit up on the pottery wheel, not choke and die on darkroom chemicals. My goodness I miss the darkroom. I want to learn how to blow glass and spin wool and create epic sculptures.

I would like to tear every single insufferable page from my Pol Sci book and use mod podge to sculpt it into a naked lady with censor bars over her bits, her eyes and her mouth and put her on a pedestal. Do you want to know why? Because Americans exalt the president, and yet the public is so unfamiliar with anything more than sound bites and spectacle. I don't want to write an essay about how some boring stiff evaluates the presidency.

I could maybe be an English major. Pair it with an art major, maybe. Who knows. I'm just getting sick of waking up dreading class because I'm doing something I hate.

The Place of the "Punk" Knitter

I'm currently in a Women’s Studies classes centered around gender craft and knitting. We've been reading a text called No Idle Hands by Anne Macdonald. The text traces knitting through colonial America to the present (I believe. I'm mucking around somewhere in the Victorian era currently). Despite a tad bit of redundancy (stockings, avoiding idleness, I GET IT ALREADY!), the text is pretty interesting and covers the topic like granny panties cover girly parts and bottoms. Excessively, but well!

Anyway, we also write journals twice a month about our readings, our knitting experiences, etc. Many of my classmates are beginners, and I can no doubt imagine writing about their struggles and lauding the industrious abilities of the Knitsters of Olde. Yeah, great. I wrote about some stupid bitch on the train.

I composed this essays while stabbing away at a cabled afghan square I'm doing as part of our service project (each student knits two, we put the whole shebang together and then donate it), thinking vehement thoughts about the lady sitting next to me. She acted like she had a #50, big, honking needle up her bony hiney, but I digress, here's the essay:

The Place of the "Punk" Knitter

This weekend, when schlepping myself and my things home for a completely un-relaxing, no, make that stressful, visit with my family, I found myself in an interesting situation. I turned into somewhat of a young, jaded knitting sociologist. I took the Metra home during the rush hour commute, grabbed a seat early due to splendid planning, and pinned my ticket between the metal tabs in front of me. I started rifling around in my very utilitarian backpack for my needles and yarn, so as to work on my afghan square, but before I could retrieve them, a lady, mid-forties, dressed elegantly in a femme fatale suit sat down beside me and from her Coach bag withdrew two Susan Bates needles (pink, of course) and a ball of what looked to be terribly expensive novelty yarn so she could work on what she would later refer to as “oh, you know, that old thing I threw together on my daily commute.”

I made the mistake of trying to talk to her. “Oh, what are you knitting?” I asked. A sweater for her daughter that the girl in question would no doubt never wear of her own volition. At the family Christmas party, Mom would coax her into donning the garment so when asked what designer boutique she has purchased such a sweater at for her darling, exemplary daughter, she could reply that she had made it with her own hands.

Now, do not think for a moment that I am being too hard on this woman! When I pulled my worsted-weight dark green yarn and worn bamboo needles from my bag, I could nearly hear her facial muscles tugging into a frown. Right-o, I thought, and then explained to her that I was taking a Women’s Studies class and that this was our service project. I thought that she, being a woman of success and strength, would delight in my study of feminism and the fact that I was doing something charitable in nature. Not so! The contempt in her voice was thinly veiled and her lack of interest was shockingly clear. I sighed and popped on my headphones. Another noticeable frown, even though she couldn’t hear music leaking from my headphones and even if she had been able to, it wouldn’t have been “that offensive trash the kids are listening to these days.”

As I knitted away, cabling every so often in my comforting wool, I caught her stealing glances at my work and I thought to myself, “Oh, you think that because I’m young, I’m brash and stupid and don’t “get” knitting. I see.” It was as if I was knitting a bag for all those venereal diseases I must have acquired from all the rampant, unprotected sex I must be having as a college student. Or a sex toy cozy or a penis cozy or goodness only knows what else. Hardly. Had I not been working on my afghan square, I might have started the case I’m knitting up for my laptop or my vertical-knit scarf—something practical to keep the winter and elements away from body and possessions.

And so, as the train surged toward home, I thought and thought and thought. What type of knitter would this lady have been two hundred odd years ago? Clearly, she would have been one of those well-to-do types that had knit as recreation, pretty lace things from fine silk yarn. She had no reason to knit the stockings for her family. Servants, today’s textile mills, did that sort of work. But where did that leave me? As a young woman, so many years ago, I would have been knitting my own stockings, garters and shawls and maybe a few projects on the side to earn a few measly dollars to put toward a few drops of education. But nowadays, I don’t have to knit my own clothing, yet I wouldn’t place myself in the category of upper class knitters since I don’t believe I take myself nearly that seriously. Sure, knitting is an enjoyable pastime, but I certainly don’t think it’s any indication of my good breeding. And so, finding no suitable definition for today’s young knitter, I went beyond No Idle Hands and came up with my own.

Today we have the “punk knitter,” a term that can be used to cover all matter of sins. We are the knitters of what we want to knit. We knit as therapy. We knit to rebel against mass production and the slow fade of crafting. We are asserting that hand craft shouldn’t die now that it’s no longer required. We knit because it’s essential. We rebel like the ladies that would sit in the bees and knit our own goods so as not to rely on England’s woolen stockings. We slot in our knitting in our brief moments of free time, between classes, on our dinner breaks at work, while waiting for friends or while riding the bus south for a night on the town. We love handspun and hand-dyed yarns because someone like us took simple, bleached fiber and made them with their own hands and spindles. So, in ways we are like the knitters of early America. Certainly we share tastes and qualities, and yet, that colonial knitter is an artifact of an older time. Unlike the ladies that would knit by candlelight, we don’t have to knit. And yet we do. And that there is what separates us from past knitters. We knit, not out of necessity, but because of that inexplicable pull of the feeling of twin needles clicking together and yarn slipping over fingers.

Oh, and unlike that lady on the train, we don’t knit because it’s trendy and camp and something else we can throw our scads of excess money at.