When I was in Boston a couple of weeks ago, I got an idea for a book series about Nashville. Did I tell you all I’m doing a little acquisitions work again? I can’t remember. I’m doing a little acquisitions work again.
Anyway, today I get to find out if I can edit such a series.
I’m so stoked and nervous and delighted. Like, I literally had the idea two weekends ago and today I might get to start working on it.
When in the history of my job has that ever been the case?
Anyway, my idea is to do 25 books, one in honor of each decade of Nashville’s existence, contemplating some aspect of the city’s existence during a particular time and to bring them out for the next decade, leading up to the 250th anniversary of Nashville’s founding.
A thing, too, about handspun yarn is that it felts super easily, which means, when you’re tucking ends that you don’t have to weave them in three or four directions. You just make sure that the ends are in contact with enough of the other yarn that washing and friction can firmly stick them together.
God, Boston was so great. I feel so energized and excited. I’m doing a little acquisitions work now, which is a tiny bit nerve-wracking, but I’m also super excited about it.
I went to a session on New England vampires and it blew my mind. Basically, this dude is able to show that Hessian doctors are to blame. Oh, and also that no one thought it was vampirism until the end of the phenomenon.
And we got to see a picture of a “vampire!” In the grave! With his bones all messed up.
I cannot wait to bore C. and M. to death with all the vampire, er, excuse me “vampire” information I learned. But, basically, it all boils down to “Vampires are a Slavic superstition. How could a specter from the grave even drink your blood? They don’t have bodies. It would just fall right through them. No, this is science. Your undead loved ones suck your lifeforce from the grave.”
But also I had a long discussion with the most interesting of the vampire scholars and he was telling me how German soldiers eventually had encounters with Slavic vampires that utterly convinced them that the vampire phenomena, with the rising corpses and everything, was real, because they went and fought the vampires.
I can’t even tell you. It’s so delightful. He was telling me all about how these German soldiers would go out with the locals to fight vampires and they’d write back these long reports about how they opened the graves and attacked the vampires and the vampires let out these horrible moans and, as they were trying to stake the vampires, they would spew blood or burning liquid at them to get them to back off. And they came away from these encounters deeply shaken and sure vampires were real.
But, really, they’d just caused a decomposing corpse to explode at them.
I’m frustrated that I don’t know what effective thing to do with my anger, but this country, man. The lack of shame. The willingness to pretend as if this is all normal and needs no extraordinary response.
And they’re going to get away with it.
We always move past this shit without dealing with it “for the good of the country.” We found ways to bring Confederates back into the fold without them having to face any real consequences. We let the terrorism of the 50s and 60s go largely unpunished.
And so we have to deal with these flair-ups of an old fire we refuse to put out because some of us don’t mind the warmth of it as it burns others alive.
I’m going to Boston for work, which I’m looking forward to. I’m also having a lot of anxiety about it for reasons that my subconscious is not sharing with the rest of me.
And, like all fun mental health stuff, I can kind of see how I’m pulling back and not properly engaging with the world, but it feels slightly better than having all this anxiety and interacting like a human being with people I care about, so… yeah… it’s not helpful and it’s only making matters worse, but here I am, in my pit of weirdness, just trying to keep my eye on the fact that the pit is shallower than I would have made in the past.
My brother, my sister-in-law, Baby Dahlia looking like a giant, and tiny Baby Liam in the hat. I love that Dahlia has the tiniest double chin.
This is the start of my next afghan. No, I don’t have the ends tucked on the Professor’s afghan. Yes, I do suck goat butts. But I wanted to see how this was going to come together and it’s going to come together real, real hard. But I already am in love.
And I made a yarn with beads! And now that I know what I’m doing, I’m going to make more yarn with beads. It’s fairly simple and, if you use wooden beads, fairly light-weight. I’m fascinated and confused about how it will crochet up, but we shall see.
Also, I wrote some and my bank card got skimmed and it was a whole terrible thing that I’m sure isn’t over, but I just can’t think about it too much.
I’m writing an article. It’s not an important article, but the money’s nice. Anyway, the editor was all “Ooo, you should include something about Draper James and Imogen + Willie!” and I was like, “Okay, fine. Those just aren’t places I know anything about. They’re not places I’d ever go.”
I mean, there’s literally nothing I could buy there, so why would I go there?
Which my editor totally got, but it has me thinking about how different my internal landscape of Nashville looks because I just know there are places that are off-limits to me. Or not off-limits. I’m not banned from them or anything. But we have nothing to do with each other. Those places aren’t for me and I can’t find anything for me in those places.
I don’t really mind that, though. Not in this day and age when the internet makes so many things available.
What I do mind is that there’s no real acknowledgement of their decision to exclude me and whether that’s moral.
Anyway, I guess I’ll learn some about these places.
My brother called me this morning to say that his grandson had been born and so now I am a great aunt. So far it feels awesome, except that the baby blanket I intended for them is still sitting in my dryer.
Y’all, I recorded a podcast episode, wrote an article, organized my photos for the book, cleaned my house, made some yarn, grocery shopped, got caught up on The Magnus Archives and almost finished this afghan.
I love this afghan so much. It’s kind of a mess, I guess, but all the yarn is so beautiful and I love how there’s so much to look at. I really hope the Professor likes it.
Yesterday I had such a good Thinking about America day, full of discussions about the American project and whether it can be salvaged.
I’m also listening to a podcast hosted by a wizard. I haven’t listened to it long enough to decide if I would recommend you listen to the podcast or not, but it’s interesting. His being a wizard is part actual magical belief and part performance art.
But a thing I do like about it is his goal is to move us all into a slightly better reality. He claims he’s not powerful enough to do much more than that, but that, if we all act with intention and verbalize that this is what we want and then make choices we hope will lead there, then, tada, there we’ll be.
Which is one of those things that is simultaneously so stupid and true.
But also maybe feels like what I can do about America that will actually have any effect.
The Professor’s afghan has veered off in a different direction from the other Bauhaus blanket I made. We’re going to get back to the bottom pattern in a little bit, but first, I want some squares.
There’s something happening to me with this afghan that’s hard to explain, but I want to try anyway. Usually, when I make an afghan, I am following a pattern or I want the afghan to look a certain way.
But with this afghan, in part because I trust the Professor to at least appreciate the effort, I want the Professor to look at it certain ways. Look how this yarn I made looks when it’s this wide, next to this other yarn I made. Look at it running in this direction. Now look at it running in this other direction. Feel how the llama yarn is so soft. Feel all the bumps in the weird yarns.
And there is a feeling I have inside me that I can’t really name, but that I want The Professor and whoever else sees her afghan to also feel when they look at it.
I saw Jim Ridley yesterday, on Wedgewood, stumbling into the light from… I don’t know where. He was wearing a black suit and sun-glasses. He looked ovewhelmed. Maybe distressed.
I felt sick, like literally nauseous. I kept looking at him and I kept waiting for his features to resolve into something unfamiliar, the way they do when you’ve mistaken a stranger for a friend. Maybe it was because of the sunglasses, because I couldn’t see his eyes, but he never didn’t look like Jim anymore.
In order to keep from having a panic attack while I was driving, I had to go through all the reasons it couldn’t be Jim: I’ve never in my life seen Jim in a suit, let alone a black suit on a hot July day. But what if he were buried in one? Oh, right, he wasn’t buried. He was cremated.
And that let me go on. But it still unsettled the fuck out of me.
I know–I know–that was a real person. Someone who just weirdly resembled Jim and just happened to be knocking around a neighborhood he spent a lot of time in.
But man, I can’t shake the feeling that I’ve seen something you can’t go back from seeing.