Meandering Through the Writings of Others as a Practice of Lament, Knitting: A Novel

“Pink Hearts, Grey Stripes” by DS

Often, I feel myself smiling as I read the words of a novel. I recognize something of my life in the words. Sometimes I hide a personal comment in the offerings here.

Knitting: A Novel by Anne Bartlett. 2005

 989 Words

*** Jack’s funeral Sandra *** more hugging and caring *** first widow among them *** Martha was decidedly uninterested in churches; the last time she had been she was ten years old and had bitten an old man on the hand, for good reason. *** She wore her glasses now for knitting. *** In a moment of clarity, like a knot that untangles itself when tugged at both ends, the knitting problem resolved. *** They would have no children. *** Jack like Sandra, had begun academic life as a historian. *** She turned over and felt for Jack’s pajamas under the pillow. *** In the evenings Martha listened to Radio National . . . *** Knitting was the one thing Martha could do better than anyone else. *** nationally known designer *** All winter she had live in three pairs of pants . . . one night . . .  She waxed her legs and painted her nails bright red. *** So instead of buying a dress, Sandra knelt on the paving bricks and felt at the man’s throat for a pulse. *** There was something disarming about this other person who had stopped to help a stranger . . . *** Clifford *** epilepsy *** Sandra prided herself on being honest but felt she was slipping. *** Under the framed feathers, Sandra was sleeping. She could hear a cello. *** Nearly done with no mistakes *** Outside the Art Gallery was a banner advertising an international exhibition of fashion lace. *** Martha realized suddenly that this was a kind of lace, that there was a man wearing lace – a big black man at that. She raised her eyes. Both he and the garment were beautiful. *** Sandra envied Kate’s ease with people. *** Martha’s bags were by the wall where she could keep an eye on them. *** At one point they discussed knitting . . . Sandra’s work teaching textile history  and theory. *** Some life force in the creative act kept her sane. *** There’s no words, no rules. *** Each one [was] jeweled with balls of richly colored wool, rose, amethyst, amber, jade, sapphire, opal, emerald, jet. *** 1869 painting by Bouguereau, The Knitting Girl *** Something to demonstrate the intersection of language and women’s work . . . *** That’s just how he is. He reads, you know. He spends whole days in the library. *** She couldn’t seem to get past camellias and daffodils. *** Pink roses, red roses, yellow roses . . . *** Sandra, needing a new haircut before she went to the conference . . . *** ladder climber *** Grief was like a disease. Sandra was having a relapse . . . *** What should I call myself . . . Madmartha . . . *** It was a long way to Wollongong, on the east coast. *** Sandra was a word gobbler. *** Participants were emptying their bags of wool scraps . . . *** Spinning, weaving, knitting, all part of the long tradition of women’s work that had survived even the efficiency of the industrial revolution. *** Years ago she had written a paper . . . *** In the act of making things, just by living their daily lives, they also make history. *** In spite of their differences Sandra had grown fond of Martha . . . *** She took a strand from two adjacent greens . . . wound a new ball of double thread . . . a transition piece, a kind of editing, linking two paragraphs that didn’t quite fit. Their crafts were not so different after all. *** Martha sighs heavily . . . Manny rides his bike to work and on the way home . . . *** I’m making a weeping scarf, a mourning scarf. *** I must fix the mistake so I can knit and keep calm, so I don’t make more mistakes. *** Tony enjoyed Martha’s company . . . *** No, I got baptized. *** We’re going out to dinner. *** I know my limitations. *** The pattern instructions read like some kind of code. *** Martha needed a cup of tea. *** a collaborative book *** Look at those sea colors. *** She didn’t have Martha’s color sense. *** Sometimes she felt another presence . . . This work was different from the rest; this work gave more than it took, strengthened her somehow. Like dipping into a well. *** When she was doing work she enjoyed, at a subterranean level she was searching, questioning, trying to pin down her own motives. *** Mint – that was the color . . . The little green dress . . . Sandra in green. *** Martha had seen an adult tricycle before. *** Red. It was a beautiful color, that’s for sure. *** Martha looked around the room at the bags of wool . . . *** If she knitted eight hours a day, she could do it. *** Sandra sensed a flaw in the glass. *** Get off it, you lummox. *** Outside it was like a furnace. *** That’s a row. . . it’s handmade . . . *** a bold Fair Isle *** Salvation Army truck *** She was hoping to  extract an introduction to a university in Germany. *** Patterns, numbers, needles. *** Martha was sweating. *** The pain started then, vague at first . . . went on and on. *** I know you feel cold. *** If you have odd stitches, you make moss stitch. *** Why do you knit, Martha? *** The mind is like a cat in the wool making tangles. *** She told me in confidence. *** a reproduction of a medieval knitting Madonna *** Clean and neat and ordinary. *** Would you like to put those roses in water? *** With his kiss the whole room exploded into flames. *** The moonlit garden was thick with past conversations. ***

A knitting Madonna:

Detail of a polyptych by Tommaso da Modena (1325-?75).

Meandering Through the Writings of Others as a Lament Practice: Under Gemini

“Hot Pink Scarf” by DS

Here are today’s explorations:

Pilcher, Rosamunde. Under Gemini, 1976

989 words

The sun had bleached their bright roses to a faded pink.

There is never a convenient time to have a baby. Perhaps dying was like that too.

He wore beneath the tween jacket of his suit, a knitted pullover. . .  It was becoming unravelled at the neck. . .

Show not tell

It’s five years since she and her mother stayed at the Beach House. . . 

He said he’d bring her up to Scotland. . . 

The epitome, one would have thought, of a perfect matriarch. . . 

There was nothing like the old blue velvet dinner dress for making one feel rich and feminine.

She sat perched on a sloping face of granite, staring down into the jewel blue depths of the immense rock pool. . . 

The tide was coming in.

Research: tides

He wore a disreputable pair of shorts and an ancient shirt, much darned. . . 

You know that I have to go out into the world and start being independent again.

The brisk sea breeze play[ed] havoc with the brim of the bride’s hat.

The kitchen sink stood two rows deep in the earthenware pots of geranium and Busy Lizzies. . . 

The cigarette going, Marcia went on with her song.

I’ve never been mothered in my life and I can manage without it.

She looked out of the window. That was a tradition. . . 

The train thundered over a level crossing and a man waited at the closed gate with a red tractor. 

He had always had a hankering to live by the sea. . . 

He found a stone mason who repaired the garden walls. . . 

It was a vicious circle. She didn’t want to take a flat until she found a job . . .

There were bay trees in tubs out on the cobbled pavement, and a cheerful red-and-white striped awning.

Ciao signorina.

Italians were wonderful, Flora decided.

The walls were mirrored, the floor scattered with straw matting.

She took an icy mouthful of lager and looked around her. . .

The faded blue of her denim jacket and the orange of the seat behind her were the colors of Van Gogh.

She thought, I’ve been away from London too long. This casual image isn’t going to get me any sort of job. I ought to get my hair cut. I ought to buy. . .

Like an expert assessing a portrait, she said now, “you look just like me” . . .

But you must be sisters.

The city glittered in a brilliant autumn light.

The hills of Fife lay serene against a sky of palest blue.

London gardens were fragrant with lilac.

Rose was simply not a good correspondent.

As he heard himself making that impossible promise, he wondered how the hell he was going to keep it.

“I’m not Rose,” said Rose.

Flora was carelessly assigned a bedroom (pale blue curtains made of Thai silk. . . 

At first you think that every new man you meet is going to end up standing next to you at some altar. And then it stops being important.

List: books on shelves, perfumes and couture

“I’m not Rose,” said Flora.

The house is on the shore, with the sea all around and sand to walk on. . .  and lochs covered with water-lilies. . . 

She knew instantly that she could trust him.

A lie was a dangerous thing.

The dressing table was covered with silver-tipped jars. . .

The half-light swirled in mist; a foghorn sounded out at sea.

Anna had been. . .  insulated from children her own age by her shyness and her father’s considerable wealth.

She was planning for its knitting a tiny sweater. . . 

The streets of Edinburgh shone black with a thin, cold rain.

As they got out of the car the cold struck at them, rich with the smell of the sea, tarred ropes, and fish.

List on a shack door

But being ill she decided was a thorough bore.

She got out of bed, and went across to the window

Today was Sunday.

Just a fiddle and some drums.

List: guests for a party

Quite a humble man from the Isle of Lewis. . .

Why did it all go wrong?

He fell in love with the loch and the beautiful country. . .

She’s pregnant again. . .

Flora had been gathering up the balls of wool, putting them back into the paper bag.

Most of the women are working with the fish these days, packing herring, or in the smokehouses. 

There is a bed for him in the Loch Garry Hospital, but he won’t go.

But it has to be me who does the telling. Not you.

It took a few months to realize that she was suffering from loss of identity.

She had no idea where to find a letterbox.

Everything shone.

Everyone had known, it seemed, but no one had the heart to enlighten me.

The sea fields which sloped down to the water were transformed into caravan sites. . . 

She knew a sensation of panic.

List: of the things out of place

She saw herself waiting for buses, queuing in the rain. . . 

She longed for the reassurance of a loving spirit.

Her old mother who had taken to her bed. . . 

In two days she was up and about again, gleaning gossip and adding her own opinion to those of others. . . 

Being the doctor’s housekeeper gave her a certain importance, a standing in the town.

I’d have saved my breath to cool my porridge.

Where will they live? There isn’t a house.

She heard the faint beat of jigging music.

And what’s that Cheshire cat grin for?

She remembered a cliff top carpeted with wild anemones. . . 

A lie however well meant, can never be contained. . .  

Everything, all of it, is abnormally skewed.

…

Meandering Through the Writings of Others as a Lament Practice: A Light in the Window

“Geraniums on the Patio”

Phone Photo, DS

Karon, Jan. A Light in the Window. 1995.

222 word count

Packed with dialogue

Characterization

Plot

Tension building

Nodal points

Setting

Autobiographical elements

Leaf symbols between scenarios

Insights and values

Similes e.g. belonging, some feel contrived

Elements of surprise, suspense

A list

Five senses

Dialogue

Culture

Humour

Coyote next door

Google report

“You can’t know how the living freshness of roses and lavender has rejoiced my heart. The whole apartment is alive with the sweet familiarity of their company, and I am not so loath now to come home from the deli, or the newsstand or the café.”

“Suddenly we drove into a clearing. Before us lay a vast, volcanic lake that literally took my breath away.”

“Washing someone’s mouth out with soap was not a remedy he liked, but it had worked for him when he was a kid.”

“’Let God take care of the big stuff,’ a seminary friend once said. ‘It’s our job to fill in the cracks.’ Kind of like caulking.” 

Tension

Plot thickens, lost ring

“Isn’t plain love more valuable than fancy education?”

Antithesis of practical theology?

Trust, compassion

List

Device – he can find out what is happening by asking others

Tension deepens

Theological questions here and there throughout

“Beloved, never avenge yourselves, but leave room for the wrath of God.”

Pop culture anchors the story in reality

Overdone

Not!

Low culture and list

Indirect device for climax.

…

Meandering Through the Writings of Others as a Practice of Lament: A Light in the Window

“Beachwalker: Contemplating Sand and Sea”

by DS

Karon, Jan. A Light in the Window. 1995.

222 word count

Packed with dialogue

Characterization

Plot

Tension building

Nodal points

Setting

Autobiographical elements

Leaf symbols between scenarios

Insights and values

Similes e.g. belonging, some feel contrived

Elements of surprise, suspense

A list

Five senses

Dialogue

Culture

Humour

Coyote next door

Google report

“You can’t know how the living freshness of roses and lavender has rejoiced my heart. The whole apartment is alive with the sweet familiarity of their company, and I not so loath now to come home from the deli, or the newsstand or the café.”

“Suddenly we drove into a clearing. Before us lay a vast, volcanic lake that literally took my breath away.”

“Washing someone’s mouth out with soap was not a remedy he liked, but it had worked for him when he was a kid.”

“’Let God take care of the big stuff,’ a seminary friend once said. ‘It’s our job to fill in the cracks.’ Kind of like caulking.” 
Tension

Plot thickens, lost ring

“Isn’t plain love more valuable than fancy education?”

Antithesis of practical theology?

Trust, compassion

List

Device – he can find out what is happening by asking others

Tension deepens

Theological questions here and there throughout

“Beloved, never avenge yourselves, but leave room for the wrath of God.”

Pop culture anchors the story in reality

Overdone

Not!

Low culture and list

Indirect device for climax

…

Meandering Through the Writings of Others as Lament Practice: Glassy Sea

“The Bridge from the Gallery”

Phone Photo DS

Sometimes exceptions to the novel meandering are made with forays into memoir, biography, autobiography, journalism as well as Scripture. 

Here are the explorations:

Engel, Marian. Glassy Sea. 1978.

971 words

*** Since then I’ve been sitting in an exhausted reverie. *** I feel very strong, very calm, as if indeed grace had been conferred. *** Interesting mind he had. I didn’t expect that in a psychiatrist. *** Because I have robbed you of a certain amount of your past, I have given you a future. *** Why should I get my authority from men? *** You said it was perfect by the sea. *** There is a ceremony that confers authority, authority like a bird arrives. *** Oh, are we supposed to be avoiding pain now? *** I have set up a card table on the porch so as to be outdoors . . . *** It is shabby and comfortable, nothing to bother describing, just a farmhouse . . .  a summer place. *** Will my outstretched hand be bitten? *** I have been indulging in a great deal of sloth. *** There are a hundred grass colours . . . *** There are lupins and Queen Anne’s lace is opening. It’s a life’s work to keep an eye on the field. *** I go for walks . . . on the shore  there are gulls nests. *** Sometimes I just sit and stare at the sun . . . *** And so now I write and send you greetings, particularly from these roses. *** I came of a plain people not made of mysteries. *** She used to like to brush my hair in the sunlight. *** The priest would have let the mother die while the baby lived. *** Never marry a man because he is a good dancer. *** Anyway, my father wasn’t big enough to beat him up . . . *** We had food, we had clothing, we had heat. *** The wind came from the west, from across the American border (fools to blame their weather on us) . . . *** My father was permanently tired from that war. *** It was the hymns that made the theology, not the preaching . . . *** My mother had fur cuffs o her winter coat . . . *** I knew I was a girl, but that hardly seemed relevant. *** The boys, raised to believe they were certainly superior have had to deal with women they were unable to prove their superiority to . . . *** Lace was something that got torn in the wringer. *** Our social life was the family and the church, and in our own limited way, we were very happy. *** I had understood heresy but I had not yet understood charity. *** Once my knees learned to bend, my ears snag with the poetry of the service . . . *** I’m willing to be that from most anchorite caves there was a view. *** My Keeper informs me that my social standing here is based on one’s acreage in potatoes. *** I had no money for make-up and wouldn’t have asked for it. *** I always liked being looked after. *** Gym was the only thing I got a D in. *** And last child at home I watched my parents grow close, so close their voices became interchangeable. *** You don’t have a come hither eye, my mother said, and I accepted her judgement contentedly. *** It was a soft summer night and I loved the music and the wind when we went outside. But we were shy of each other. *** We were like French and English in Montreal, looming invisibly over each other’s shoulders. *** One knew very little, one walked alone. *** My parents fixed for me one year to work in the library in Pekin . . . *** He was in luck; he had found me. *** Boris, always a gentleman, came to see me in the library. *** Birds who wouldn’t leave the nest had to be shoved, she knew that. *** I looked up shyly and said I wanted to be a philosopher. *** But there must be appoint Philip, a point or a pattern. *** I worked at the Hydro office sorting out electric bills and liked the job. *** clothes for a scholar *** Nobody was going to rumple me. *** She was one of the rare creatures whose beauty is sustained by no artificial aids. *** All her underwear was made of lace. *** When she was bored, she went to the bookstore rather than the library; she liked her books new. *** She had seventeen term papers leftover to write and had none . . .  to my amazement, she shut herself up for a week . . .  and wrote them all. *** I began meeting other readers in the stacks, some of whom took me to coffee and to dances. *** I remember now the smell of roses, the smell of furniture polish . . . *** I am very busy, very busy wasting time. *** People are always sending me back to university Philip, I have one of the great unfinished minds. *** But I continued to teach, and in fact got a little better at it. *** The shell of innocence was broken. *** I suppose that’s what sex is for, isn’t it? It increases the will to live. *** We spun into each other’s arms. *** Somebody like me. The idea went through me like fizzy ginger ale. *** What’s the use of grieving? The birds fly high. *** We laughed and laughed at that and it did something good for me. *** Where do the discarded go? *** Leave me here, please, to dream my redemptive dreams. *** I remind myself that it is mortification to return here as Martha when I so much wanted to be Mary. *** What are my dreams . . . *** 

…