Once upon a time, there was this knitter, and she mostly went about the business of living and working and knitting and being a smartass without much trouble or interference.
But then this knitter got sick and things got pretty shaky, and between the effects of the illness and the cure, her brain shut down. Couldn't read charts or instructions or her live stitches. Couldn't count past three. Couldn't look at math she'd done in the past for pattern alterations and understand her instructions to herself.
She cast on a very easy lace scarf, knit a few rows, fucked it up spectacularly, and ripped it all out. Six. Times.
She tried to understand her snicket socks, already in progress, but no amount of staring could help her find where she was in the charts.
She even tried casting on a simple, plain, dull-as-dust sock. Made it through less than half an inch of cuff before giving up because, no shit, she was too weak to hold up the yarn and needles.
(Yes, this is a scary story. Terrifying. We're talking about a knitter with a couple decades of experience here. Ponder, if you will, what it must be like to suddenly be unable to remember which way to wrap the yarn for a yarnover. Have you ever felt too weak to hold sock yarn? Eek!)So she put her knitting aside, slept 20 out of 24 hours, and occasionally thought about how much she missed things like breathing and her voice. Went to the doctor a couple more times. Work piled up all around her and her knitting collected dust.
Four different drugs later, she could no longer remember which project was in which knitting bag.
But she felt a lot better, and she was working like a demon to get caught up after all the time away, and this meant no knitting time. Still. Employees went on vacation, employees resigned, cars broke down and were fixed. iPods developed mystery playlists, DSL spasmed, light fixtures failed, and a string of repairmen concluded that, yes, there is something mighty wrong with the house's foundation. Somebody better get a bobcat out here right quick.
Three, four, five days at a stretch, she would go without touching her knitting. When she did risk a half hour for knitting here or there, it was always a row on St. Brigid. Others around her finished their St. Brigids. But she couldn't even complete the back.
Weeping hot tears and raging at the heavens, our knitter concluded that her knit-fu had abandoned her.
But then....
It came back.
The mojo cometh, and the mojo goeth away. It is a fickle bitch. But it's back. And I'm gonna duct tape it to my stash boxes so it doesn't ever get away again.
(Pictured above is the plain sock, actually not dull as dust but quite gorgeous in person. Malabrigo sock weight, color Persia -- imagine jade smoked over with charcoal, and you'll get a feeling for the depth and complexity in this deceptively simple yarn. The camera can't capture the hints of green and teal accurately.)
