Rachael

With permission requested and received, I present you the photo that my friend B sent me.

Yep, that’s B in the middle (her name’s actually Brooke, I’ll give that to you). Yep, here she is, with her pals Amy Ray and Emily Saliers of the Indigo Girls. Yep, this is a real “hanging out” shot, not a panting can-I-get-a-pitcher-wit-ya-please shot. Yep, she’s down south with them as they lay mixes. Not sure what that means exactly, but it sounds impressive and vastly musical.

I am star-struck and can admit it freely – they’ve been my favorite musicians for the last, say, thirteen or fourteen years. In fact, I remember where I was when I first heard them. I had graduated high school, and I was getting in shape for college. Still thinking I was straight, I was working out at my gym, trying to look cute for all the college boys I planned to meet (interesting, though, that I chose a women-only gym….) I was on the Stair-Master, hating my cardiovascular life, and I heard “Galileo” for the first time. I got off the machine and stood under the permanently-set-on-VH-1 TV (this was the early nineties, remember). I watched the end of the song and memorized the name. I showered, dressed, and drove to the music store. That was the beginning. And actually, I don’t remember even going back to that gym. Who cared? I had the Indigo Girls – I didn’t need a gym! They brought me to me.

And years later, I don’t rely on them anymore, not in the same way, but I don’t miss a concert when they’re in town, and I know all the words. I’m first in line when an album comes out. I still get goosebumps when they start “Galileo.” Memories are traced onto and around the lyrics. My favorite parts of their concerts are when they just stop singing and the entire audience picks it up and fills in, every word, in harmony. It’s GOT to be a fantastic feeling to have aided so many women (and men) in finding and believing in themselves.

And Brooke and Amy are pals. Lordy. I just think that’s super neat.

I’ve got the most annoying cold today – I caught it from Christy. I can sit in the TB ward, also known as my workplace, all week, stuck for fifty hours with people who are hacking and sneezing and blowing their noses all over communal keyboards, and I won’t catch a single teeny germ. I can hug snotty, feverish kids and kiss their heads and not get a thing. I come within a hundred yards of either of my sisters when they’ve got a little sniffle, and I catch it instantly. I’m immune to everything but them.

It’s not a bad cold. Just an irritating one. Bleah. I got up early today – couldn’t sleep – and I’m going to do my writing and then cuddle on the couch with my Wave-Along until I have to go to work tonight (only three more midnight shifts!)

And thanks for your comments yesterday! They helped so much. I’m writing. And I’m gonna keep writing ‘til I’m done. Then I’ll start something else. It’s a good life, huh?

Bethany’s too cool.

I’ve had an extremely low-key weekend, which I needed. I spent hours and hours in front of the television working on my Wave-Along shawl (for some reason, this is the shorthand way I think of it – not the awkward long name it goes by to the right). And ohmigod, I love that thing. I’ve already told my friend Marama, who kick-started this whole thing by asking me sweetly for YEARS when I would have time to make her a little shawl, that she might not get it after all.

Check it:

And a detail of the Indulgent softness:

I even took the shawl outside to get these pictures (it’s REALLY hard to get pictures of dark grey fiber, especially when it’s lacey). Today is the first day I’ve felt Fall approaching – there’s a warm wind, and leaves are clattering on the sidewalk. I took Wave-Along outside, put it on an old white nightie for contrast, snapped a couple of shots, AND THE WIND CAME UP AND PUT LITTLE PIECES OF TWIGS AND DIRT ALL OVER IT. I haven’t shouted at the wind in years. But I did today, godamnit. Then I hustled inside; the neighbors were peeping out windows. “My god, I think she’s taking pictures of dirt. And is that, no, a nightgown? This is Oakland, not San Francisco! She cain’t do that here!”

I re-read Stephen King’s On Writing this week. I’m not a fan of his – he’s just too frightening for scaredy-cat me – but I think his book is one of the best out there on writing. It’s one of the three I re-read (the others are Lamott’s Bird by Bird and Ueland’s If You Want to Write). He’s a good one for motivating. He’s not for the faint of heart, though. He doesn’t say you’ll be great if you work hard. He says you’re either born great (like Faulkner and Eliot) or you can practice a whole hell of a lot and maybe get pretty okay at writing. Maybe even good. But if you’re not great today, you won’t be great tomorrow. Instead of pissing me off, this is kind of reassuring to me. Well, okay then. I’ll just plod along (typo: plot along) and get this book finished. Then I’ll start the next one.

I’m also reassured by his belief in letting the story take you where you need to go. It’s when I start to think about Plotting The Novel that I get frustrated. It’s like pushing mud. I can’t make the pages behave, I can only get the words onto the paper. He, too, is advocating the shaping of the work coming after it’s totally written. THEN you make it into something. Thank god. ‘Cause it ain’t much now.

I figure, with work, I can finish this bad boy up in about a month or so. Two at the outside. And then, says Stephen King, I need to take at least six weeks away from it before starting to revise. That’ll be enough time to order me up some more Indulgence as a reward, dont’cha think? I need a carrot on a string. I’m a simple girl.

Oh! Here’s Joan-in-Reno’s Wave-Along, made in a mohair/acrylic Lion’s Brand yarn, and a shot of pretty Emma checking it out, too.

Happy Monday! I typed Happy Homeday on accident, but I like it. I don’t work ‘til tomorrow, so happy homeday it is. That’s kind of what yesterday was, too. I had lunch with a friend and then I stayed home for the rest of the day. It was gorgeous. Luxurious. Hey! I told you that I finished these:

In Fortissima Colori, can’t remember the colorway since I throw everything away. It’s an annoying habit, this twitch I have to recycle every little bit of paper lying around my house. If I don’t, then Adah eats it, which is even more annoying.

So yesterday, I got to start this:

It’s the Wave-Along Shawl! Crappy pic, I know. But it’s in Cascade Indulgence, and as I have discussed with Marcia, it is nothing BUT indulgence. It brings to mind old Catholic rites – I HAVE bought this indulgence as remission of punishment for old sins. How could I have EVER thought I could work the pattern in Wool-Ease? In fact, Marcia’s poem goes like this:

A little wave.
A little shell.
With perverse Indulgence,
I’m going to hell.

I sat and knitted and made wild plans about selling my body on East 14th, just so I could buy enough of the stuff for a sweater. Come on. You would have thought the same thing.

So my night was this:
1. Sitting on the couch with a cat or two, knitting.
2. Watching Carnivale and K Street and movies I’d be too embarrassed to admit to watching (okay, one was The First Wives Club).
3. Eating dinner: A Luna Bar, some Pirates’ Booty (thought it was appropriate), a V8 for my vegetable and a banana for dessert. (And this is what I do when I HAVE food in the fridge. I’m a snacker by nature.)

Okay, I’m writing about everything except the one thing I want to write about, which is how hard it’s been lately to get off my ass and do my real writing. This is why I started this blog. I started it as a check-in with myself, as a writing prompt, as a way to talk myself into getting to the page. Lately it’s turned into a great way to get me to the knitting needles, not the novel that needs to be finished.

So new goal: One thousand words a day, six days a week. With the new shift at work starting next week, this means I’ll have to get up at six in the morning (after being used to getting up at six in the afternoon). I’ve made this goal before, and I swear it’s the only way I got so far into the novel in the first place. I slacked, though, and knitted my wooly way downhill, and I have to now slog back up to where I was. I can do it, though. I know I can.

See? Back to cheerleading for myself. Go me! Rah! Give me an Are! Oh! I know what I need.

Thanks, Em.

Oh, and I succumbed to the goodness that is Knitty’s new tee-shirt – Yarn Ho!

(and that’s my new didn’t-need-it-but-had-to-have-it used black Yugoslavian leather jacket, justify, justify, justify, it gets COLD here in Cal-I-Forn-I-A)

And Bethany’s in North Dakota!

Let it be said:

I think I might be a little in love with Kris Delmhorst. But can you blame me? The Freight and Salvage was packed, standing room only, and we (all) watched rapturously as she stood unselfconsciously on stage in her black outfit (an homage to Johnny Cash) and cute little black hoodie and sang, letting her voice do what it would. And what it does it perfection. It makes me ashamed that I thought I could sing, once, back in an old life of mine. She closes her eyes…. and it just happens. Click here to download a song that breaks my heart every time. (after you’ve read the rest – this’ll navigate you away – and hey, press the green triangle after it loads – I always have to figure that out the hard way….)

And then today was Christy’s official birthday party! Whoo hoo! Thanks for the messages yesterday! Want some cake?

She likes her Booga J bag. It’s also useful as a hat when one is stuck on Telegraph in Berkeley with nothing else to wear on one’s head. God forbid.

Me, Christy, and her boyfriend Kent at the show. I LOVE taking pictures of myself while holding the camera out. I mean it. I’m stooopid that way.

Luau cake. I mean, really. What are you going to do?

Arrr, matey.

Dunno if you can see this, but it’s a Wonder Woman postcard.

I believe “Suffering Sappho!” is going to be my new war cry!

She got hold of my camera. And some beer, apparently.

Gratuitous coconut shot:

Me’n’the birthday gal. Her friend crocheted the hat for her. Didja know I love love love love my sisters? Go thirty!

Now go back up and load the Kris Delmhorst song. Listen to the words. Sigh…..

It’s my sister Christy’s birthday! She’s thirty! Today! Wheeeee!

We’re going to meet up for Ethiopian food in a couple of hours and then go see the concert tonight. Last night’s concert was great, except Slaid Cleave’s fiddler just bugged the crap out of me. And that’s hard to get over when you’re in such a small venue. I just tried to concentrate on his guitar-playing and the words and his great jeans, but I kept watching her – a little twenty-year old blonde with long dreads, who only fiddled marginally, sang atrociously and mouthed all his words when she wasn’t singing.

I get to give Christy her Booga J bag tonight! Whoo hoo! I told her a few days ago that she couldn’t look at my site, and I don’t think she has. This is when we grow up, isn’t it? When we can keep ourselves from peeking, from looking in the closets, from shaking the packages under the tree. We figure it out – it’s only disappointing to guess it ahead of time.

At least that’s what I got from thirty. I totally dug turning thirty. I felt like I was finally official, not in my silly twenties anymore, but still young enough to still occasionally (and sparingly) wear glitter lipstick. Thirty-one is awesome, too. It helps that I’ve always had older friends and lovers – I know what I’m headed for and I’m happy with it. They make older look good. I figger I’ll be okay until just about thirty-nine, when I’ll have a stern talking-to with myself, and I’ll have to make friends with forty.

Off to fight briefly with Safeway about Bethany’s film which they didn’t have for me last night. I’m going to kick some ass if it ain’t there today. Yeah. Right. I would ass-kick with all the methodology and expertise of Charlie Brown. But I can SAY it as if I mean it.

Arrrr. Blimey. Forgot to talk like a pirate. Okey-doke then. I’ll swab the decks with the scurvy Safeway manager. And then buy some half-n-half, because I’m fresh out. Ahoy!

Not much sleep today, nor will I have much tomorrow, but it’s my own blessed fault, and it’s all for a good cause. The cause, of course, being me hearing live music. Uh-huh. Das right. Bring it.

There’s a place in Berkeley, you might know it, called the Freight and Salvage Coffee House. It’s a music venue, a big ole wooden hall that remind you of a huge boxcar, and it serves coffee and muffins in the back. That’s right. Coffee. The first time I went I was horrified to realize they MEANT it. Coffee. Equals no alcohol. I’m sure plenty o’flasks get shipped in under coats, but its dryness will come in handy tonight and tomorrow night when the concerts are followed by a work shift. Nothing worse than going out with friends to dinner and a show, watching them guzzle, then saying goodbye and driving to work.

Tonight, we’re hearing Slaid Cleaves. When I first heard this name last year, I assumed it was an Irish girl singing Celtic songs. Nope. He’s kind of alt-country (y’allternative) with some great songwriting and a kick-ass band. And he’s sexy as hell, can’t get around it.

Tomorrow night is Kris Delmhorst, another singer-songwriter who actually writes songs that mean something. Both links to The Freight’s page have sample songs at the bottom. Enjoy.

Bethany’s post today kicks ass. I worry about her. Not much, but just a little. But then I get this kind of post and realize that no matter how odd or creepy the surroundings, she’ll take care of herself. I just got a phone message from her that said, “I’m driving. I just ate a piece of cheese that was over a year old. And I washed it down with two-year old water. Miss you!”

And while I was talking to her yesterday on the phone she said, “Hang on, I think I just missed my turn. I’m going to turn around. Going through these big open gates. Okay, here’s a good place to turn around. Holy SHIT! I’m on a runway!” Luckily no planes happened to be landing.

I’ve got Adah sitting beside me, and I have to post a couple of pictures of the pretty thing. She IS gorgeous, but I can’t tell you how annoying she is. I have to do cat yoga in the morning with her before I go to bed. She drags me, one paw wrapped around my ankle, into the living room where I do seated positions, bending forward to the floor, my hands rubbing her head. That’s all she wants in life – her head to be rubbed. It’s neurotic and vaguely disturbing how much she desires this, but we both get happy, me stretching on the carpet, she rolling blissfully around my outstretched hands. She’s not as dumb as she purports to be.

Here she is working on the sock I finished last night.

One sock down, one to go. I swear I’ve never been so sock-obsessed. I just want to get them finished so I can (re)start the wave-along shawl….. And then two more Booga J bags, and some Koigu socks, and that GORGEOUS sweater Steph’s starting from a Paton’s pattern….. Not to mention Christmas. Blimey.