My plans for today fell through so, instead, I am doing just a butt-ton of laundry and fiber crap. I took the dog for a long, long walk and now he’s happily asleep.
I readded in the stuff about the Atlanta Child Murders, in the conclusion, as suggested.
And now I’m going to try to have a day where I do nothing important and think nothing important. We’ll see how it goes.
This is that motherfucking afghan I’m still working on. That I set aside and did easier afghans, but am now back to because I’m so embarrassed by the prospect of it still sitting here waiting to be done.
The diamond shapes are so hard. For me, anyway. I can, if I’m lucky, get two done a night. And the thing that pisses me off is that they just don’t look that hard. No one’s going to look at this blanket and think “Oh, I bet this part took you the better part of an hour a piece.”
Plus, I haven’t been able to memorize the pattern for the diamonds. After this many! Which also kills my ability to speed through it. I keep trying to tell myself that the diamonds are the vast majority of the blanket, so, once they’re done, the blanket’s mostly done, but it’s a struggle.
I put a whole big long section in the book about the Atlanta Child Murders and then, last night, I took it out. It’s not that I don’t think there might be meat on that bone, so to speak. It’s that I can’t bear to look.
There is a conspiracy at the heart of my book. But then there is conspiratorial thinking, where there’s a boogeyman in the basement of a pizza joint, which we know because someone ordered broccoli on their slice.
I’m trying very hard to make sure that the story of my conspiracy stays as grounded in as much solid evidence as I can find. I’ve now spent years on these Nashville bombings. I learned about the Sanders family and their potential ties to the Atlanta Child Murders last week.
But if I put them in my book, I’m granting them as much weight as the stuff I’ve been mulling over for years, and that’s just not true. I haven’t vetted that information carefully. I read an article and spent some time on Reddit.
So, I think, if I include it without doing a buttload of research, I risk undermining the information I have that is backed up by research. I also risk giving it the weight of researched speculation, when really, it’s not. And, if I’m wrong about the likelihood of Klan involvement (which could come out as they’re relooking into these murders), then I risk undermining the rest of the claims in my book.
And, frankly, I don’t want to do the research. It’s too heartbreaking and fucked up.
But it is also really fucked up that there are so many families and family networks all connected by their involvement in the National States Rights Party and their friendships with Stoner who keep popping up whenever bad shit happens to black people.
They’re relooking into the Atlanta Child Murders. I spent some time on Reddit yesterday trying to understand how people felt about the possible Klan ties. (Long story short: many people believe that the guy convicted of two of the murders was not responsible for all of them and that the task force that was developing leads on the Sanders family was on to something.)
The main arguments against it seem to be that the Klan didn’t kill children, that they wouldn’t either have the guts to go into black neighborhoods in broad daylight or, if they had, of course they would have been spotted, that the killings stopped after dude was convicted, and that the idea that the Atlanta police would have taken the idea of a race war seriously enough to take action to keep such a plot from coming to light is ridiculous.
But Klans with ties to Stoner did kill children–four of them in a church. I think we can give a million examples of the Klan going into black neighborhoods whenever. I don’t know enough to say if the killings stopped or if child murders just stopped being attributed to the one guy. But members of the Sanders family did start dying off in 1985, so it’s not like we’d be looking at a pattern that extended another twenty years or something. We’d just be looking at a few years of potentially related but unattributed murders. Unless, of course, the pattern simply moved. Either they moved on to women, like they said they wanted to do or they stopped hunting in Atlanta
I don’t want to get bogged down in this for the book, obviously, but I don’t think–based on the patterns I’m looking at–that it’s really so unreasonable to put some weight on the KKK theory.
I’m back to working on this afghan because I’m so pissed it’s still in my house. It’s also super hard for me. And I need to just admit that to myself and make my peace with it. I swear, if I weren’t this far into it, I’d switch the pattern to something else.
I also need to be deciding on what pictures are going in my book. But I haven’t really gotten around to it.
But I think the dog’s anti-inflammatory is working. Yesterday he was running everywhere. Not the zoomies, but genuinely like “Woo this is fun and fast.”
I realized yesterday, as I was blathering at C and M that I’m like Sonnyboy. I like people so much that I’m just like “Here I am in your lap! Barking. Showing you all my tricks.” when, if I would just calm the fuck down, people would have a chance to enjoy me.
I also turned over two of my afghans to their intended recipients yesterday and, whew, holy shit is that satisfying. Like, yeah, I put that smile on their faces.
When you’re little, you think that “it’s better to give than to receive” is some bullshit moral platitude that’s supposed to make you less greedy. But now I realize it’s true. Giving a gift that is genuinely appreciated is one of the best feelings in the world.
Somehow I’m supposed to just live my life with this booger clear in Arizona.
I finished the blanket for my pending niece! Let me count the ways I love it. I love how beautiful the dahlias are and how much they remind me of waterlilies. I love that the green isn’t overwhelming, even though there’s a lot of it. Somehow I got the border to balance it out. I love the tulips so much. I was nervous about using the orange, but it was absolutely the right call. And the daisies on the outer edge make me so happy. And there’s just going to be so much for the baby to touch and yank on. I’m really proud of this one.
I’m also learning how to use acid dyes and here are my fuck-ups from last night. I was trying to replicate in acid dye a thing I do pretty well in food coloring–three primary colors to get a rainbow of awesomeness. From left to right, we have “grabbed the black instead of the red,” “too much red!,” and “fuck it, orange.”
But let me tell you something. I love each of these. I think they’re so beautiful. I can’t get over it. I’m wishing they were dry right now so I could spin them. How awesome is it to have such beautiful fuck-ups?
I need beauty like this in my eyes, because my heart is a mess. Stuart Wexler sent me looking for how my bad guys might tie into the Atlanta Child Murders. I found this Spin article.
I have to figure out how to write about this, because I need to put it in my book, but it’s hard. It’s not just that JB Stoner was a person in the world. It’s that so many people decided over and over again to just let him keep on keeping on.
The ironic thing about the decision to downplay the involvement of the Klan/NSRP in some of those murders in order to prevent a race war is that there is a race war in this country, ongoing. With casualties piling up. And we’re busy gaslighting the families of the dead rather than admit it.
Okay, so, on the one hand, I love my drum carder, because it blends everything together so nicely. On the other hand, it blends everything together so nicely. What if I want really dramatic color changes in my yarn?
And then I found the above video. And I tried it on my drum carder. And holy shit!
Obviously, I don’t yet know how I’ll like it plied up, but this! This is what I’ve been wanting. Blended colors, but not to the point of heathering.
And it’s so much fun. You get a burrito of fiber and stretch it and stretch it and stretch it. And I feel like, once I really get the hang of spinning it, it’s going to be more consistent, too.
I spun the fiber I failed to completely dye black. The two on the left are the “black” merino mixed first with colors to make it like a darker storm cloud and then in the middle a certain kind of brown I had in my head. It may have turned out a little redder than I expected, but that almost may just be the light.
But, and then, there’s that “black” like a bruise at the right. Holy shit.
The first black I tried to dye it broke into blue and purple. Which means, if you look closely, you can see blue and purple under the black there.
It’s so beautiful.
Look at these adorable daisies, which, yes, are not done and are not lying flat yet, but still, I love them so much! And they make me laugh, just because every name they’ve thrown out for the baby is here: Dahlia, Tulip, and Daisy.
Also, I’m just going to admit that the afghan I’m making for Busy Mom is fucking hard and that’s why it’s languishing. And it makes me mad that it’s so hard for me because that, up there, looks complicated and I’m rocking it. Why is this other one such a fucking nightmare?
I think my relationship to writing is changing pretty dramatically. I haven’t written fiction in ages. My nonfiction output has slowed to a trickle. It’s even hard for me to decide if it’s worth anyone’s time for me to write here some days.
I catch myself thinking “Once you’ve written this book, you can be done writing.”
Which, ha ha ha. But also, is that what I want? I don’t think so. But I think you have to listen to the things your brain spits up, at least consider them.
I keep having this nightmare where I go home to visit my parents and suddenly they’ve gotten me a job, which I go to, even though I know I have this other life–usually in North Carolina, where I went to grad school. And I keep trying to get back to the other life, but I live with them now and I have this job. And I just feel robbed.
And I always wake up disoriented, because I’m neither in Illinois or North Carolina. But here, in this life.
And yet it feels so real that I’m starting to worry that some version of me out in the multi-verse is so unhappy and near enough to me that her sadness leaks into my world.
I feel very lucky and it still feels very fragile, even though it’s been my whole adult life.
Look at how cute those tulips are on the border! I’m super happy with this. I’m going to put daisies as the outside edge and then it’s done.
I spent an hour or so yesterday talking to a woman who’s master’s thesis is on hot chicken and appropriation. It was such a good conversation and I’m still thinking about what my own personal definition of appropriation is and whether it can be completely avoided.
To me, I think, it comes down to the difference between borrowing and stealing. When you borrow something, the person you’re borrowing from knows they are participating in the exchange. When someone asks you where you got your coat, you say, “Oh, I needed something cool, so I borrowed it from Jane” or “Jane lent it to me.”
But when you steal something, you don’t say where it came from. Maybe you try to pass it off as something you made yourself. Or you misrepresent the exchange–and probably this is where it gets tricky. You insist you borrowed it. The person whose coat it was says you stole it. But you have the cultural capital to make your version the truth, even if it’s factually not.
But sometimes someone lends you something that wasn’t only theirs. Like, if one sibling in a family lends you the family silver and you deliberately only asked that sibling because you knew the others would say no, you have permission, but don’t the other family members have a legitimate gripe?
I think so.
Anyway. Tulips. I like them.
Hobbes (2000-2019)
The orange cat is no more. Nineteen years. It’s hard to be sad about that, but I still am. And I think I just decided that the reason that it’s weird is that it’s pure sadness. I don’t long for him to have lived longer. I don’t feel like he was cheated out of anything. He had a big, long life, full of glorious adventures and then, on the Ides of March, he came to the end of it.
He was grouchy and ridiculous. He was brilliant and judgemental.
I’m going to miss him. Assuming he doesn’t pompously believe he’s entitled to defy the laws of physics to show back up here.
It feels more and more like rebellion and resistance to just be happy in the face of all this shittiness.
The copper row is attached! I’m not in love with the green border. I feel like it stands out too much, but I’m also not going to fret over it until the whole thing is done–and by then it will be too late!
It does remind me a little bit of seaweed, though. I’m going to be really curious to see how this fucker blocks up, because everything is a slightly different size. But I also love how it has a “just cuddle with me, you know you want to” vibe.
My next row is a peacock row. I’m super excited about it!
A thing I resent, beside Daylight Saving Time, which I am resenting the hell out of today, is that you never know what things are costing you until after you’ve paid it.
I took the dog to a dogwashing place on Saturday and the people there were so genuinely nice and lovely and good to the dog in a way that made me really happy. And I’m sure that part of it is that they’re working in a place where they get to hang out with dogs all the time.
I really like my job. I get to work with really smart people who have been working really hard on a thing and I get to see them at the moment their thing becomes real in the world. That’s awesome.
But I made a lot of compromises I didn’t really understand I was making until I’m now in a position to not make those compromises anymore. And now I can’t help but wonder how those compromises have shaped me.
I’m throwing a 50th anniversary party for my parents. So far, I’ve reserved a place and sent out a bunch of save the date cards. And I’ve heard back from some of their friends and it’s been so nice and so lovely. People really love my parents.
I mean, I really love my parents.
And I sincerely feel like it’s a great gift from the universe to hear all the ways people love my parents.
And yet, I still feel all my feelings about them.
I don’t feel like I’m selling myself out enjoying this part. And I don’t have any desire to “Well, let me tell you a thing or two about them” to people who love them.
I’m just trying to sit comfortably with all my feelings, to give them all room to be valid.
Because, to bring this post full circle, the damn thing is that I’m not going to understand what this shit means until I’m at an age and with a perspective where it’s too damn late anyway.
Ha ha ha. Sigh.
Yesterday my sister-in-law mentioned to me that my nephew had never been down a slide before. Well, oh boy, did that mean we were going down the slide at Hugh-Baby’s 100 times. First, he held onto my hands and I guided him down the slide, picked him up, and flung him back to the top while he squealed something that sounded almost like “again!”
Then he was so brave and went down on his own
And he got a hair cut! At a place where he got to sit in a fire truck while they cut his hair.
We were having lunch with the Butcher’s best friend’s family and they have a daughter who’s a little younger than my nephew. Like girls tend to do, she’s been a little ahead of where he was at her age, walking, getting a shit ton of teeth, but the developmental difference that must happen here where he’s 19 months and she’s, I think, 15 months is huge. She’s still a baby and he’s clearly a toddler.
They have always been pretty close to the same size, but now he seems like he’s twice her size. And she still does the baby stagger walk, where as he’s got massive walking skills.
So, we’re moving offices and I am, for the first time in 20 years, going to have a window. Every time I think about it, I get a little choked up. I got to look out my potential window this week and there were daffodils.
I’ve been cleaning out my office, both of old files we don’t need anymore and of my personal stuff, most of which I’m bringing home. I don’t need so many things to look at when I have a window.
Lots of change these days. It’s funny. I don’t feel like I’m having a mid-life crisis, but that my whole life is having a midlife crisis around me.
My grandma turned 98 yesterday. I think she has mixed feelings about it.
And I admit that there are times, myself, when I’m like, so, well, this is it.
I just wish we were kinder to each other, you know?
The thing that makes me happiest about this is that I end up just staring at it, looking at the ways the colors play and how the yarns do their things. There’s no part of looking at this that isn’t satisfying to me. Which makes me feel like I am going to enjoy looking at it for a long time when it’s done.
I was a little worried that the rainbow yarn would look hokey, but it’s pretty badass. Which I’m glad about because I have such a fun time dying and spinning up rainbow gradients.
And the fact that the twist stays in the yarn just kills me. How fucking magic.
Some hilarious shit is going down at work. Or, really, went down, but we’re just now finding out about it as we’re cleaning up to move offices.
And I can’t talk about it, obviously, but let’s just put it this way, if you have a folder called something along the lines of “Here are my lies,” you probably shouldn’t have been lying, because you are not good at it.
Here’s the row with its border. It kind of has a vibe I can’t quite put my finger on in person. It’s like the lumberjack of afghans. There’s something just a little bit unrefined about it, but sturdy.
A book I acquired back in my acquisitions editor days is being inducted into the Blues Hall of Fame this May. I’m so thrilled, I can’t even tell you. And work is sending me to the induction!
It makes me teary eyed to think too much about it.
As a reward for making it through last weekend, making it through last week, and taking proper care of myself this weekend, I started the afghan for myself made from my own handspun yarn.
It’s hard for me to find the words for how much I love this. The two yellows make me smile. The blue/green yarn is just exactly my favorite thing where each square looks different but fits together because it’s the same fucking yarn. Just, whew, holy shit. I want to look at this for a million years.
My plan, such as it is, is to do a continuous join around each row with a third yarn. Each row is going to be eight squares across. I’ll have to see how wide eight squares ends up being with that last row on there, but I imagine it’ll be ten deep.
It just blows my mind. That yarn exists because I made it. The brighter yellow exists because I dyed it. And yet, even with as much control as I have over the process, I didn’t know how the fuck it would turn out until I started crocheting.
In related news, I finally gave Julie her afghan and, as much as I’ve enjoyed looking at it draped over my chair, I felt such pleasure at watching her looking at all the different colors and admiring the variegation and, again, just the supreme pleasure in knowing that those things exist because I did it. And she totally got my “take one color from the previous square and move it into the next square” thing!
But the thing I love about it is that it’s like you have all these variables that you control and it seems, logistically, like that should somehow make the whole process less surprising. But instead it feels more like magic.
Because, like, I know my talent level and I know what I know and yet, and yet, there’s this.
Y’all, I have just had the nicest weekend. Meeting up with friends, talking with interesting people, getting shit done. Sleeping like it’s all I have to do in the world.
Tiny Cat Pants 