I think a poet is anybody who wouldn't call himself a poet. --Bob Dylan
It's National Poetry Month. So in keeping with the spirit of things, I'll be printing some of my favorites.
My first writing efforts as a child were poems. I wish I still had them. However, these years, I find poetry in music lyrics that speak to me. Here's one of my favorites, And She Was, by David Byrne of Talking Heads.
My Talking Heads
Well, that was quite the onslaught of comments. I have no comment, other than to say that some of you are almost, if not more, vitriolic than I am.
One thing I don't do these days is badmouth other bloggers in public. (Well, there's one I have jabbed in the past but that blogger is so boring, it's gotten to the point where I don't bother, since she's now a parody of herself.) That's not to say that I don't have my opinions but you may presume that if I don't mention them, I don't read them.
There is one thing for which I will be forever grateful. The comments that I get are not from asskissing idiots who have nothing better to say than
"I luuuurvvve your blog!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Spare me. What may interest you is that a few of the "popular" bloggers have less of the milk of human kindness running through their veins than they'd like you to believe. But since they write their blogs for the great unwashed, that's what they get in return. I'm pleased that my Comments are a forum rather than a mass paean to my wonderfulness.
I started off opinionated from the get-go. You know what you're getting with me. If you don't, you'd better leave in a hot New York minute.
That said, I will entertain Patsi Purl's suggestion about bloggers you don't like. But I'd like other suggestions from the rest of you. It can be controversial. Or not.
Personally, I'd like to see opinions about the excrutiating difficulty endured by lefthanded knitters, whether knitting needles would have been considered weapons of mass destruction on a JetBlue plane resting on a runway for eight hours, or whether combined knitting is a bigger pain in the ass than it's worth.
That's how I'm feeling about them lately. It would seem that this week, all the knitting I've been able to manage has been on these ubiquitous sogs.
My endless fascination with socks has to do with several potential personality flaws.
- I love symmetry. It must be the German in me.
- I can be anal-retentive when it comes to matching the dye repeats perfectly
- Sometimes I have a short attention span when it comes to knitting and I need to get something finished
Today brightened considerably when a package from Black Bunny Fibers arrived, posthaste.
Yeah, more sock yarn. Nobody dyes like Carol does. Rainbow Bright on the left, Lively on the right. There's nothing I like better than bright colors for socks that I wear.
I was once described by a certain doctor as an effervescent breath of fresh air. Well, maybe sometimes. I think you can tell by the socks I'm wearing if that's the case on the particular day. With my 57th birthday looming, I'm rather seeing through a glass, darkly. However, it will pass and I'll be back to my teenage mentality shortly.
Bright socks help. A lot. So does sex.
Not this week. Too much work and the eyes are too tired after 5. I'm going to try to get my towel warp on the loom tomorrow. Sunday is Easter, so die ganze Familie is coming over for ham, raisin sauce, red potatoes, fresh asparagus and green beans. I enjoy having an excuse to cook.
I'm sure Mammy and I will sit and knit. I have to re-educate her as to Lavold's particular increase methods. She can't figure it out. Jenn and Rin will run their mouths, Norm and brother Rich will chat about movies, Liz will make a 5-minute cameo for dinner and then go back to her room to talk to her friends. The self-named Scrap Curmudgeon will show up with my nephews, I hope, if her in-laws leave at a reasonable hour.
In other words, a typical family get-together. Rare? No. Handy? Absolutely. Because they're the best and I love them to pieces.