“If this is a blessing, it is certainly very well disguised.”
Winston Churchill (1874-1965)

Last night, after admitting defeat to my mighty foe Insomnia, I decided to get some work done. Specifically on that Channukah fundraiser thingy my father volunteered me for. You might recall that I cast on the night before last, all the while ignoring Clapotis’ siren song. I stood firm, again, last night because I was determined to get at least an inch done on the project before I gave into Clapotis.

After setting up the rice-steamer/ crockpot dyer I use (I was dyeing yarn for one of my Wacky Ducky contest entrants), I poured myself some water, put on a movie and sat down with my teeny-tiny needles and my teeny-tiny string and purled one row. I then picked up the pattern to check the lace pattern for the next row. My eyes strayed, caught by the colour at the bottom of the page.

My heart stopped.

I read through the colourwork graph again, ignoring the lace completely.

Again, I read it.

No, I had been right the first time. There WAS a mistake in the graph. A big mistake. Orthodox Jews would have been weeping, had they seen this. An entire word was wrong.

Now, I admit that I’m not even remotely fluent in Hebrew (my parents are converts, I didn’t get the benefit of “at home” Hebrew like my classmates), but I do know my Shabbos Bruchot backwards, forwards, and upside down. This pattern was wrong.

I put the fundraiser thingy back down (no, I am not telling you what it is, P’s agents are everywhere *looks around suspiciously*) and I picked up my knitting notebook. It took me an entire episode of The X-Files, but I got the section with the wrong word regraphed and hopefully correctly. This morning, at Shul, I had the Rabbi check it for me (asking my parents had turned out to be pointless). He pointed out that I had mistaken a He for a Chet, but otherwise it was fine. I was right, there was not an Alef in the word concerned.

To be honest, I had been wondering if I should just duplicate stitch the words instead of working them in. Last night cemented my decision for me. Instead of putting the project down I got an inch done, opting to just embroider the Bruchah (blessing) onto the project instead. Too late to start the colourwork now, anyway.

Or so I tell myself.

I also started the little purple mittens for my physician’s son last night. Because I don’t have enough yarn in the right colour, I’m winging it in Fair Isle fashion. So far I have the wrist of one mitten done. I need to, uh, figure out what I’m doing on the back of the hand before I can continue. But, that’s at least started.

And, now the real update that everyone wants to hear (leave me my delusions) on Clapotis. It’s been awhile, but I’ve finally gotten that project rush a really great knit (or spin, or weave) can give you. I’m sure my family is sick of me showing them my progress, every hour on the hour, but that’s too bad for them. I’m the one who cooks and bakes, they know they’ll starve if they don’t at least feign interest (and poorly, at that).

Through 2 and a quarter movies, I managed to nearly finish off my first ball of yarn:

In fact, the first ball of yarn is starting to fall apart a bit. Oy. Hopefully it will hold itself together until the end. A tangle would… nevermind.

I have a movie review tonight. One that I’ve been meaning to mention for some time now. It’s not a fun or entertaining movie by any standard other than sociapathic, but it should be seen by everyone who’s never experienced famine, or war, or crushing poverty.

As part of our satellite subscription, we get the Documentary Channel (I bet you never thought there was one). Recently, they played “War Photographer,” a film by Christian Frei on the photojournalist James Nachtway. The movie isn’t pretty, and it is deeply unsettling; but it’s well worth watching.

This is definitely NOT a movie for children. I cannot stress that enough. I can’t even tell you how empty and dark I felt after watching the film. But it is extraordinarly filmed and the interviews are well done. The entire work is thought provoking, and difficult; not macabre or grotesque as you might think. I was impressed with the respect and care the crew and journalists treated their subjects with.

The fact that Nachtwey genuinely mourned when refugee Hutus fled Rwanda (the very same people he had photographed participating in genocide and the civil war), only to die of Cholera in refugee camps across the Rwandan border, struck me. I have to admit that a darker part of me had rejoiced (and still does) in their demise. The things they had done to other Rwandans (Hutus and Tutsis alike) were so horrible, a part of me couldn’t forgive them.

But he was right. Most of me agrees on this. I admit that I am vehemently opposed to capital punishment. And, quite honestly, no one deserved the fate the refugee Hutus came to. Simply put: if we start losing that respect for human life that is so essential in preserving civilization, we become like the people we despise.

As I said, it was a deeply provocative movie.

That’s all I can say about it. I think I need to go watch something light and knit some more on that fundraiser project.

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