I wash my hands of those who imagine chattering to be knowledge, silence to be ignorance, and affection to be art.
Kahlil Gibran

I would complain, were it that I did not know (and acknowledge) that my life is quite easy and free from most forms of misery. The depression symptoms (and my psyche) are on the mend, the withdrawal is being handled by scaling down on my previous antidepressants, and The Move is going relatively well. (thank you, everyone, for your sympathy)

The only thing I could complain about is my recent foray into the land of Laryngitis. Yesterday, my voice was scratchy. I figured it was an allergic reaction to all the dust and mold we had been stirring up.

This morning I couldn’t talk above a whisper, and the more I tried the more my voice failed me. Mum diagnosed it as laryngitis without much fuss (I have neither a sore throat nor a fever, thank goodness) and I have been ordered to take it easy (other, less worrisome, viral symptoms have shown themselves) and NOT TALK.


Obeying that order would be ever so much easier if my father and brother would quit asking me questions. Or wandering off when I’m trying to catch their attention (I swear, I’m gonna start throwing things at them, since loud knocks aren’t working). The fact that they’re both slow readers and can’t read my handwriting also makes the situation seem more and more like a scene from a Marx Brothers skit.

If I could mutter obscenities…


Another issue with maintaining my vow order of silence was tonight’s Guild meeting. I had promised to teach a woman to knit. That was clearly impossible. Blessedly, St M stepped in for me. And when another knitter brought in a friend to learn, D took over with her. Bless their hearts. Whenever I could, I rasped a bit and then went back to watching. It was interesting. But that’s for another time and place. Quite a few people watched us interestedly and even asked if we’d be meeting again. This shows some promise.

I love converting people. Even if not directly.

Anyway. During Guild I managed to finish the insteps of the socks for A (woot!), and noticed something strange and weird and amusing and slightly aggravating. The double-swirl pattern the socks had been favouring, interrupted for the heel and 2″ worth of instep decreases, came back. And not just back, but right where it had left off (albeit 2″ down):

I’m still trying to decide whether or not I want to snarl or laugh. The jury and judge are still out on that one. I’m waiting to see if Tamara’s having the same issue with her Dancing (she’s also knitting socks for her sister!). Maybe this is why they discontinued the yarn?

Ohwell. Also, in reply to the questions – the horrid horrid pot o’ nastiness was originally spiced pumpkin.

Life is just bizarre sometimes.

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