ravelry vs. telegram

Februāra vidū, maķenīt pēc drošības jautājumiem veltītās konferences Minhenē , murikāņu  vietnē uzraxtīju, ka brīdi ar viņiem nespēlēšos — kamēr šie nepieņemsies prātā. Un pievienoju saites ar Vānsa (murikāņu valsts sekretārs) runu konferencē & Hegseta (viņu aizsardzības ministrs) izteikumiem NATO sakarā pāris dienu pirms tam.

Kopš tā laika murikāņi, šķiet, izdzīvojuši beidzamās saprāta paliekas, tāpē  turpmāk būs telegram.

inside out

Beidzamais dējums pašam tā iet pie sirds, ka par to jāpiekladzina pilns pagalms. ;D Mijkrāsu jeb žakarda adīšanā visbiežāk labajā/redzamajā pusē labiski valdziņi, kreisajā/neredzamajā pusē - kreiliski, un tiem pa virsu - pārstaipi. Šai cepurei ir otrādi, un pārstaipi padara rakstu izplūdušu kā caur norasojušu rūti skatītu. Šī kāda trešā tāda manā mūžā, un vēl viena skatāma adītāju sociālajā tīklā ravelry.com.

Jebkurš raksts tādam izstrādājumam nederēs, jo pārstaipiem jābūt īsiem, citādi tie nokarāsies un būs liela iespēja, ka kāds var kaut kur aizķerties. Un vajadzīga dzija bez mezgliem, jo nav kur tos īsti paslēpt. Vairāk foto šeit.

African

I very seldom knit ethnographic (especially, my native Latvian) patterns because of their regularity and predictability: if there is a straight line of stitches on a cap, it has been straight miles before that and will continue the same way afterwards. For me, those patterns are lifeless, frozen, petrified.

Recently, I came across an African printed fabric pattern on shutterstock.com. Actually, it said Navajo, though I suppose it might be African as well. What appeals to me in the pattern is its spontaneity: although the pattern follows a general trend, small deviations that make the whole thing live are omnipresent. One can even see as if small pieces of debris stuck to the printing roll. I am immensely proud about the outcome.

Strictly black’n’white with red flowers  (leftovers of leftovers)  on the inner brim for the recipient's private use.

More photos on ravelry.com

how it (=knitting) began

Mana profila teksts adītāju sociālajā tīklā www.ravelry.com

I come from a country where every lady knits, otherwise they cannot fill up their dowry chests and become spinsters as a result. At least, it used to be that way until late 19th century. Now they wear trousers, smoke, use bad language and do not give a sh#t about being a spinster (or knitting).

So, as my mum was industrious (or lucky) enough to get married even twice, there was always a knitting around in our home, & I learnt to cast on between my first black eye and last pair of tights, e.i. around the age of six.

No advance happened within next six years. When I was around twelve, I tripped at school while running, flew farther than Bob Beamon did in Mexico’68, crash-landed into a wall, got a concussion & had to spend a fortnight in bed. Here the story-line splits: my most awesome friends claim the blow was so strong that it led to profound shifts in my personality while my own version is as follows: Can you imagine a hyperactive, 12-year-boy in bed for whole two weeks (fourteen days)? I cannot. It did not happen to my over-caring parents to tie me up; the only thing they did do was to take the fuse out of the telly. So, I had to apply a good deal of imagination in order to kill so much time. As usually, there was a knitting around, & by trial & error I learnt to knit, most probably at a rate of 3 spm (stitches per minute).

Another standstill for another ten years. Here I have to tell about my dear friends. Generally, they fall into two categories: men who run & ladies who fancy Wagner (I am not speaking about lays here!), although there are a few female runners one of whom even pretends to be fond of Wagner (by the way, have you seen WINDOWS by Peter Greenaway? A great way of categorising.).
I have been running for three quarters of my life. I am on the wrong side of fifty, so you can calculate the number of years on the run yourselves (if you get over a hundred, you are on a wrong way & are strongly advised to stick to knitting washing-up cloths exclusively. By no means can one spoil them. ;D). So, men came first & all of them were runners. I had knit a running cap for myself, some of them wanted one too, & so it began. If you have been running, you would know for certain - no pompons, fringes, flaps etc - anything that bumps, bounces or moves. This is where the simplistic shape of my caps comes from. Some of my friends have been around for so long & have got so many caps they must have launched moths farms to cope with them (the caps, I mean).

Regarding Wagner & opera in general - my dear mum’s greatest flaw was/is that she is a woman (allegedly, most mothers are), & consequently she would take me to feminine operas only. Somehow, they all were about sheer harlots or nearly ones. Their names have long faded from my memory (age!) but I do remember plots of some. In one, the poor thing had an argument with her ex-client (he probably had paid her too little) which ended in an explicit transaction using cash - it was beyond my understanding why they did not pay each other by bank transfer or at least by check. Eventually, she died from a terrible ailment (presumably, a sexually-transmitted one) in so much pain that she kept yelling for quite a long while before the curtain finally fell. In another, an Eastern girl had fallen for an American soldier (she must have been Vietnamese - the crisis broke out around that time) & had had an illegitimate child with him. I do not remember anything else about this one but a funny-named servant - either Mazda or Honda. (If you recognize the pieces, be so kind & let me know the names, please.) Naturally, I came to a belief that opera is a totally corrupt & promiscuous thing (viena m#*@īga būšana - Latvian) one should stay well clear of. As soon as I could, I dug my heels in & would not go there any more. Since then, not only do I avoid tarts but also tart-osers like Verdi & Puccini.

So, I would not go there until I was in my thirties. To my great surprise, I discovered there are operas and operas. The newly-discovered ones were all about noble & virtuous maids who strive to revenge their fathers’ treacherous deaths and restore they honour or lie for centuries on a blazing mountain-top awaiting for the right one to come rather than falling for the first passer-by. My surprise was even greater when I found ladies in the audience. I have made friends with quite a few, & they have got caps from my though they have had to put up with the shape. (I assume they would prefer something more resplendent - a beret, some lace or whatever.) But - you know - you cannot teach an old dog new tricks.

I have so many pastimes I hardly have the time for work, & knitting has to share the leftovers with the others. I would not be working at all had I not over years developed a nasty habit of having three meals a day . Actually, my most prolific knitting times are when my legs are injured & I cannot run. Otherwise that is about marathoning - have done thirty-one so far. At a time when it is grim for Austria, every cripple must be at his post.

sarkanas sniegpārslas

Darbs, trīs mēneši prom no mājām praksē, diplomdarbs pavasarī un divas augstskolas rudens pusē: šajā gadā esmu noadījis tikai astoņas cepures (salīdzinājumam - 2012. gadā bija 57). Adīšana bijusi daļa no manis kādus 30 gadus, un skaidrs, ka man tās beidzamajā laikā bija pietrūcis.

Kad biju izlēmis no šā tā atsacīties, adīšana tūliņ pat bija atpakaļ.

Cepure kā cepure, par meistardarbu nekādi nenosauksi: tikai divas krāsas, nekādu nokrāsu pāreju, tomēr kaifs no adīšanas bija neizsakāms.
Raksts: Heddwyn (Melanie Coogan), atrasts www.ravelry.com.
Laimīgu jauno gadu

frost in Latgale*

This is my very first blog ever, so do not judge me too harsh, please.

 
In early December, had a work assignment in the eastern part of my non-descript, where’s-the-hell-that, middle-of-nowhere country. November was a tenant at sufferance:  gloomy time, gloomy thoughts, gloomy moods, snow yet to come, decent people either indulging or hibernating. And then, out of the blue - a day as if from out of Purcell’s KING ARTHUR (listen to the the Frost Scene & you will for sure grasp what I mean): -8c, bright Sun in the sky & everything covered in thick frost.

Going on another work assignment to the Carpathians soon & needed a little something for a most adorable colleague of mine - Olesya. Why not a cap? It may or may not be the frosty scene, but from the very inception I new it was going to be grey and white. And now, having juxtaposed the images I noticed the striking similarity of the colour-way.

In my very early days of knitting (well back in the previous century ;D), my mentor told that in even older days Latvian knitters would include a pattern on the inner brim of mittens: for the addressee’s private use so to say. Have been doing that since. It is always there, just I keep forgetting to photograph that. With this cap I did not. ;)

More photos at www.ravelry.com

gustavs ;)

*Latgale - the eastern part of Latvia