Well, it is. It looks better in the photo than In Real Life; the reddish chair emphasizes the blues. I won’t knit with it – the Freecycler can have it – but I’ve learned a lot during the 2-3 hours made flesh, er, yarn sitting beside me. At this stage, new to wheel-spinning, I much prefer the drop spindle. Even at a slow speed, feeding fibre evenly and regularly (for some values of ‘even’ and ‘regular’) to the wheel occupies so much of my attention that I haven’t time to properly appreciate the fibre itself as it passes through my hands. The merino-silk on the spindle will not be moving to the wheel any time soon; I want to enjoy the nuances of colour and texture as I spin it. I’m sure that will change as experience improves my drafting. I notice that last night the experienced spinners, the 20-year-plus people, were not watching their fibre — their hands dealt with it efficiently while their attention went to conversations and appreciation of other people’s work. As opposed to the other side of the room surreptitously passing a copy of ‘Naughty Needles‘ from hand to hand. I do feel that knitted underwear is a waste of time and luxury yarn for anyone other than beanpole models; don’t the purl lumps leave unsightly blemishes on one’s tender bits? And I don’t need a giant owl-ish condom holder! (What would that say about the owner? the knitter?). Anyway, I have miles of blue and yellowish BFL roving left to teach my hands to feed the wheel. I will try Navajo plying to see whether eliminating the barber-pole effect makes much difference, while concentrating on thoughts of spinning something nicer when I deserve it. Speaking of which, he rang yesterday from the next stage of his voyage. Apparently he felt he needed some exercise in Salt Lake City, so walked to Black Sheep Wool (no website) despite (he said) knowing it was closed that day. He’s taken pictures of the shop window for me. *sigh* In the next city my sister-in-law, hearing that I was learning to spin, insisted he join them at the farmers’ market to visit the stall selling beautiful hand-dyed yarn and roving from local alpacas. He says he didn’t know whether I’d want any, so didn’t buy any. I’m hoping he’s just pulling my leg…
There’s knitting, too, but not enough to be worth documenting with photos just yet. I’m trying to reverse-engineer a garter lace design for a scarf made of my alpaca-silk singles. I knitted enough to realise that it’s a delightfully soft yarn, but is blooming as it is worked, if bloom is the right term for individual alpaca and silk fibres working free of the twist. The halo obscures the flowing stitch pattern I’d earmarked for that rusty-steel grey, and the yarn thickness is a little too uneven for it. So… find a more open lacy stitch for the singles and make a note that plying should reduce the halo. I can see that it’s possible to spend hours? days? working with a single batch of fibre, making it serve different purposes. Socks are proceeding. And I’m thinking about a summer top. It would be easier to make it fit if I could see it on me as an observer, walk around it and note details. Hence the cunning plan for tomorrow. There may be pictures.
Have another weird thing.
We’ve woken to extremely cold, extremely dense fog every morning so far this week. After scraping ice off the windscreen I drive to the gym through a dusky, cold, blue, very personal world, a travelling sphere of perception. I like this reminder that each of us lives in a world defined by our individual perception, by what we believe we see, feel, taste and hear. I enjoy considering the possibility that as I drive into the fog I encounter only what I expect to encounter, that my mind is pulling the road, the hedges and everything else into being to meet my expectations. I particularly like the conceit that if my will and mind were strong enough, I could drive into the fog and be… somewhere else. Would it be possible if I didn’t know it were impossible?