With apologies to Leigh Hunt.
The Impatient Knitter (may her stash decrease!)
awoke one night from a deep dream of fleece,
And saw, next to the night light in her room,
Making it large, and like the Leaning Tower, loom,
a pile of yarn, tumbling to the floor of wood.
Contain the yarn though the Knitter should,
she lacked the space, not an inch under-bed.
"What thinkest thou?" she asked within her head,
And, with a sigh made of all things woolly,
Decided, "It is time to embrace it fully..."
.... and knit only from stash in 2008, and not buy any more freaking yarn in 2008. I have a fabulous stash, and no need to keep buying yarn when I could easily knit and crochet for years on what I have. I fell off the wagon spectacularly this year. Somehow, the resolution to not buy yarn except for the Knit and Crochet Show turned into not buying yarn until the Knit and Crochet Show, meaning that, after the show, I continued on blithely purchasing yarn.
And no more fiber. I don't spin enough to justify the mounds of fiber I have.
Resolved, I will:
1. thoroughly examine the stash and determine if anything is suitable for donating.
2. actually donate any yarn designated pursuant to item 1, rather than just take it to work so I can ship it during lunch, only to take it back home skein by skein when I decide I still want it.
3. review the status of all WIPs and UFOs and determine whether I will actually finish them or not, and frog those I don't plan to finish.
4. finish all other WIPs and UFOs, and only start new projects when an existing one is completed.
5. allow myself one final splurge in 2007 before the new regime kicks in (complete with pix for you, dear readers).
5. Air the stash and re-sort into bags by weight/project type.
Thursday, December 06, 2007
Which Historical Lunatic Are You?
From the fecund loins of Rum and Monkey.
"Born in England sometime in the second decade of the nineteenth century, you carved a notable business career, in South Africa and later San Francisco, until an entry into the rice market wiped out your fortune in 1854. After this, you became quite different. The first sign of this came on September 17, 1859, when you expressed your dissatisfaction with the political situation in America by declaring yourself Norton I, Emperor of the USA. You remained as such, unchallenged, for twenty-one years.
Within a month you had decreed the dissolution of Congress. When this was largely ignored, you summoned all interested parties to discuss the matter in a music hall, and then summoned the army to quell the rebellious leaders in Washington. This did not work. Magnanimously, you decreed (eventually) that Congress could remain for the time being. However, you disbanded both major political parties in 1869, as well as instituting a fine of $25 for using the abominable nickname "Frisco" for your home city.
Your days consisted of parading around your domain - the San Francisco streets - in a uniform of royal blue with gold epaulettes. This was set off by a beaver hat and umbrella. You dispensed philosophy and inspected the state of sidewalks and the police with equal aplomb. You were a great ally of the maligned Chinese of the city, and once dispersed a riot by standing between the Chinese and their would-be assailants and reciting the Lord's Prayer quietly, head bowed.
Once arrested, you were swiftly pardoned by the Police Chief with all apologies, after which all policemen were ordered to salute you on the street. Your renown grew. Proprietors of respectable establishments fixed brass plaques to their walls proclaiming your patronage; musical and theatrical performances invariably reserved seats for you and your two dogs. (As an aside, you were a good friend of Mark Twain, who wrote an epitaph for one of your faithful hounds, Bummer.) The Census of 1870 listed your occupation as "Emperor".
The Board of Supervisors of San Francisco, upon noticing the slightly delapidated state of your attire, replaced it at their own expense. You responded graciously by granting a patent of nobility to each member. Your death, collapsing on the street on January 8, 1880, made front page news under the headline "Le Roi est Mort".
Aside from what you had on your person, your possessions amounted to a single sovereign, a collection of walking sticks, an old sabre, your correspondence with Queen Victoria and 1,098,235 shares of stock in a worthless gold mine. Your funeral cortege was of 30,000 people and over two miles long.
The burial was marked by a total eclipse of the sun."
Only thing I would do differently is up the fine for utterers of the foul and blasphemous "Frisco."