Knitting for the Homeless

For those of you who haven't had a chance to hear about Knitting for the Homeless (http://www.knittingforhomeless.blogspot.com/), it is an online blog as well as a world-wide incentive to knit items for those who are less-fortunate and street-bound and place these items anonymously beside individuals as they sleep in the street. In New York, this is not accomplished without difficulty. In other cities I have visited and lived in: Bangkok, Tokyo, Yokosuka, Buenos Aires, it is also possible to make such donations.

I am giving a little blog shout-out for those who are possibly just getting started on their knitting for the homeless donations. Here in New York I have a small core group of women (and men too!) who are interested in making afghans (individuals making squares and then sewing the squares together), hats, gloves and other items. I have also suggested (by way of discovery) that individuals donate old sweaters or knit items that I can felt and turn into afghans, hats, sweaters (embellish old sweaters...which is something I have done recently with a great deal of success!).

I know that when I worked as a drama therapist many of my clients had been homeless at one or many points of their lives. Many of their dramatic works would focus on this fear of either becoming homeless again or their experiences with homelessness. I enclose the following photos as inspiration for our mission in Knitting for the Homeless. May our season of giving, sharing and knitting be long and fruitful.

Felting Firsts-Before Pictures

MUTTIE'S BAG-PRE FELTING!

I am surrounded by kitties (catch Nina, my newest addition), getting over pneumonia (yuck!), and have officially finished my first felted bag (it hasn't been felted yet). My kitties love it. Shiva, the elder kitty, prefers to be inside for snuggles.
To give some perspective, you can see the bag on me (pre-felting)!
* I decided to get creative and use two yarns at the same time (inspired by Muttie, of course), in our favourite yarn shop in Colorado Springs. I was a good girl and took notes: The yarn is Cascade Yarns -Ecological Wool (100% Peruvian Highland Wool) Shade 8017. Then, I blended with NORO Kochoran #47. The result....voila, beautiful and also voila BIG! We were told by the vendors that one ball of Cascade's Eco Wool would do the trick...we failed to count in the two yarn-at-a-time gauge (on larger size US 11 needles). So, in fact it took 1 1/2 balls of Eco wool and 2 1/2 balls of Kochoran. Hopefully Muttie likes the result. The pattern: Bucket Bag by Anne Swanson and Katie Ngorney: Knagorney@aol.com. A wonderful pattern (easy to follow...even for pattern ignoramouses like me)!

And, of course, little Nina is happy with the final results, and who can argue with a cute little grey furball?

Knitting Flourishes!

My latest functional knitting piece. I used Ace Hardwares cotton string (it is more like rope than string). My mum asked me to create a holder for her pot, in order to hang this spider plant. Using two double-pointed needles, carefully placed yarn-overs and a little measuring here and there, I was able to create this plant knitting two strands at a time (for stability). Next time, I would measure gauge a little better for a tighter fit. I attached the excess yarn together, made some strategically placed knots and voila! In one evening, I had a simple potted plant basket (Shiva is looking at the screen and approving of my craftsmanship). She enjoys yarns of all varieties, but only attempts to chew on wool. Clever cat. Luckily, I don't leave any out for her to attempt to digest. (Yarn can be deadly to cats when ingested).

Resciat en Pace Radha

Pictured are Radha (top) and Shiva (bottom). Radha passed away three weeks ago of feline panleukepemia virus
(otherwise known as distemper). I had adopted the sisters under the guise of being fully vaccinated and was awaiting the vet records. Within two weeks of having them, Radha passed away very quickly. She was a sweet lovely girl and her sister is a little lonely without her.
We miss you Radha!

Nourish your spirit

My friend, Vik, here in Buenos Aires says that you should "never let anyone break your spirit". I add that you should always nourish your spirit. I have learned so much from my two friends here in Argentina: Vik and Iz. I am, of course, using different names to preserve privacy.

What does it mean to make your spirit grow? This is a question society is asking in a number of ways: how can I make myself smaller, larger, curvier, straighter, prettier, less plain, more like Madonna, more like Brad Pitt and the list goes on. At the heart of all of the requests for the change are the necessity to have love for our spirits (our inner essence/being, if you will) and to love and accept who we are. We understand that we as human beings are not complete if we do not love who we are creating: ourselves.

It seems that we are always changing or accepting the ways in which life and society wishes to change us. This inner/outer vehicle of combustion and evolution is ourselves and it seems that we wish to create trappings to harness our vehicles of operation. I ask myself: why do I sell myself short? And, I ask myself this over and over and over. It seems that infinity is littered with what I could have done better, maneuvered better, said in a different manner. Yet, in the end, my vehicle has evolved; I am improved. And, I am improved because I have made a decision to continue, to search, seek out --and essentially--to fight.

What am I fighting for? I would say justice in a variety of levels. Justice for the spirit, liberation of the heart, and a better way of living through artistic expression. I am disillusioned when I feel that my fight has taken too long, that my spirit has been diminished and that it seems all my work has been for naught. Nevertheless, Divine Mercy (which must be capitalized for obvious reasons and respect--regardless of grammatical conventions) intervenes and thrusts me back onto the path or a new path where I can continue to work and perceive the route which will bring the greatest joy for the most people possible.

Buenos Aires has allowed me to see a multitude of walks of life, stories, beauty, sadness, disillusionment and despair. I can feel the many stories that lay within the beautiful edifices which surround this grand city. As I walk back from Plaza de Mayo, I stare up at El Obelisco and see its white point reminding me that there is always a way in which to rise above the circumstances which surround you, even if you don't believe such a way exists. There may be writing on your walls, graffiti at the base of your foundation. These defacements mark all of our existence-- either internally or externally--nevertheless, ones grandeur cannot be removed by petty scribbles and scratches. Such subtle markings only contrast with the greater height and glory which man can achieve despite the invasive actions of others.

As I walked with Vik through the Reserva Ecologica with the sun shining and the sky appearing as a great dome above us, dotted with cirrus cloud formations, I knew that a new chapter had begun. Realization came with the knowledge that I could reach beyond all the graffiti on my walls and continue my inner-renovations with new dreams. The Rio Plata stretched out in front of us and there was a recognition that many more amazing moments will occur because I have begun a new dream and reached for a new vision which no one can take away.

Disillusionment, the other "D" word, will always exist and threaten to extinguish all passions for justice, equality and mercy. However, through the process of building ones spirit, no damage is permanent. No graffiti mark is so great to bring down El Congresso. So, I too, shall stand: proudly, permanently, with the blazing torch of my dreams reminding me I have much more to discover in my life's marathon.

No llore

NO LLORE

La pared
de mi vida
eres tú

mi amor

lo es largo
chato
e infinito
como la muerte

Cuando yo busco
otra persona
otra amor

tu vuelves
tu vuelves

y yo vengo
sin razón

sin intelegencia

Yo estoy en una
guerra
entre
mis emociones
y
mi mente
entre
donde tú

estas

y
yo estoy

No veo nada

No puedo nada

CUANDO

tú imágen

tús palabras
tú amor puro
existe


en mi sangre.

---Britta Jensen

Knit Picks!

For those of you who are truly in need of information on where to get the good stuff (and I mean, the good stuff for knitting) I have some great websites to offer to you to save pennies (or maybe spend more pennies!)

Here we go:

• www.fabulousyarn.com

(they are probably the best shippers by far that I have experienced in my internet shopping for yarns. They have the best deals for bulks of yarn that are prohibitively expensive to buy in bulk in New York or other locations).

• www.joann.com (I have bought a lot of acrylic and funky yarn from them...always during sale times, because you can buy some really cool funky yarn for very decent prices)--but, I always check between them and Herschnerrs for prices on certain brands.
  

• Herschnerrs www.herrschners.com and I check out their sale yarn (especially on Moda Dea). Great about shipping--never had a single problem!

• www.angelyarns.com --I ordered Kid Mohair sublime from their company. They were very good about keeping in touch with me and I ended up saving a good deal of money ($20-30, which is nothing to snooze about!) and the savings included the shipping cost from England. I am making a large project which requires several balls and although it did take around 3 weeks, they kept me up to date on where the yarn was in the queue. Also, they ship patterns very quickly (you can get individual sublime patterns, versus having to buy the book from yarn shops).

New discoveries (not yet ordered from, but have good information and seem to have good prices):

• www.elann.com (they carry some sale items on Gedifra, which is very very difficult to find period, not to mention at their prices).
• http://www.knitpicks.com/
• http://kyarns.com

Now, I have to find a good distributor of knitting needles for my Argentine friends!

Communing with the Land

I have tangoed only two nights...so many more to go! Tango can make you rather pensive, wondering and cement ideas in your head. It is more than a dance, but a story that you create in these whirling circles. You relive the past, the present, and


create your future. As you are guided, sometimes cheek to cheek, by your partner, you feel that there is this symbiotic rhythm of the dance that can only be created when two people give up their usual preoccupation with self to tell a story together.

It is difficult to tell a story simultaneously. Believe me, I've tried, many times: in Movement for Actors. I think it takes a true Butoh master to be able to create simultaneous speech in chorus.

On the dance floor, all voices become one as different stories unfold. I have felt that dance is a form of worship and that through dancing I am expressing perhaps the most important aspects of who I am, without saying a word.

A week in BsAs!

Where else can one enter shopping malls with angels outside, tango dancers ready to show off their skills? Where else in the world are there shopping malls with fountains, ceiling murals in estila Italiano? I don't know, please tell me! I am awed and amazed by everything I find in Bs As (as Buenos Aires is affectionately referred to). I have far more pictures, but won't belabour you with too much chachki in picture form. I leave below a few precious mementos of a week of exciting diversions with a new friend (and native Argentinian) who I shall refer to as "Izm". Thanks to precious moments with Izm, a great guide to the lost tourist whose tongue is tied!








My Buenos Aires Habitat.................... in Recoleta!

Ah Buenos Aires! Above is me in my apartment and the views from my apartment here.


What are these workers doing? I didn't know, but they sure looked very funny from here.










This is una capilla on Avenida Callao (I think).
I was on bus 110 coming from my first big
yarn purchase on Av. R.Scalabrini Ortiz y
Cordoba. If you know anything about what
a yarn addict I am, you'll know that my coming
back with only three small bags was a sign
of incredible self-control!








La Catedral on Avenida Santa Fe. The mosaic at the left is completely breathtaking.
Below: the mall on Av. Flordi






Puerto Madero above with the Bridge for Los Mujeres (dedicated to women who made a difference in the Argentine political/social strata....not bad! Do we have such a thing in America?)
Below: Recoleta Cementary (not a one-time visitor type of adventure...it is truly a collection of mini-castles dedicated to the dignitaries and past greats of Argentina alike. It is a place that defies description and is completely amazing to behold. Both Izm and I agreed that it is a place that one wishes to visit again and again as the labyrinthine streets unfold graves, monuments and mini-capillas dedicated to the long-lost. (And, many an interesting story of those who lie beneath...or whose bodies lie beneath...depending on your beliefs). Don't miss the last picture on the bottom left (Eva Peron...aka Evita).

Desire vs. Love

One of my students: C.F. wrote this amazing essay about desire versus love. It is hilarious, honest, truthful, and brilliant. One of my coworkers said that it was all said to pander to me and my tastes, ideologies, etc... But, who says children cannot possess a certain veracity that adults refuse to acknowledge.

I've been home all day and felt a certain retrospection come upon me. One of my friends, C, said that if I want to be an accomplished playwright, super-hero, then I am. Just because others have acknowledged this fact, does not make it true. Then, after imparting other positive-thinking modules of thought she abruptly stated she had to go. I felt like I had been lured into some semi-multi-marketing scheme and then the switch was pulled on me. I mulled over what was said, looked at the book she gave me, which I find quite hilarious. And, I talked to someone else. I think I was officially put in my place regarding my disrespect for some very sound advice.

So, I sit on my floor in the living room, zabuton underneath my crouched computer typing position thinking about how I'm a superhero. I've watched the day pass from my living room and bedroom. I'm hungry for Thai food. My friends are sick (physically) and my retrospection continues.

I just glanced at this photo of this writer who has finished a fictional piece about the post cyber boom. He was handsome. However, handsome is always past tense unless there is some reality (i.e. an actual conversation face-to-face) to back up your visual feast. I don't believe in beauty. I really think it is a curse. I'm not beautiful, but I have been told I am and I believe that beauty only hurts people. It is truly a tool of deception. If I was blind, I think I would have made completely different choices? Ah, but perhaps it is not what we see, but what attracts us that is deceptive.

Perhaps all the lonely people out there accept beauty as a substitute for love, respect, and a truthful existence. Perhaps it is harder to achieve a true relationship, so we settle for whatever wafts in front of us. I feel like riding a bicycle, and pondering all of this next to the ocean or some large body of water. Instead, I'm surrounded by walls, the sound of melting snow, and slushy streets.

It's time for Thai food.

SENTIMENTS FOR ONE WHO DOES NOT CARE

The sunlight doesn't last long
as it flicker filters through
your dust flecked window.

It seems darkness overshadowed
my sighs and mental black-outs
into nothingness and despair
as I untearfully unfolded
the many unsaid
---explanations--
that laid in the palm of my hand,
on the tip of my tongue

The pink petal sleeves of my shirt
were more easily unravelled than
my tales of woe that
only seemed like mere specks on your window

They had left me grey and barren
there was no life to these fossilized remnants

yet, the conjuring brought me short
in loose-fitting pin-stripe pyjama pants
incense wafting in and out
knees curled up to chest

as I contemplated how the day did not last long enough
the night stole my words,
and thrust them into the open blackness:

the space between me and you:
my fingertips softly tracing your forehead

You said you didn't care
about
anybody

as I held my words in the palm of my hand.

What the world holds dear

I wonder if I think too much and don't speak enough. Consequently existing are my cryptic posts, quasi-over simplified poetry, and a wall that could defeat the wall of China. There is something waiting to burst on the screen.

However, I am eager to NOT mirror the bloodletting sessions of so many myspacers who let all their personal business hang-out to dry for the internet savvy and salacious. I understand this is a new fad that the New York magazine has coined as the most mis-understood social movement since rock& roll. Since, I can't really blab what is on my mind without taking this diversion into social commentary, let me rant for at least three sentences or more.

For every person that says spreading your business on the internet is simply a way of expressing yourself, I counter: are there not millions of other ways of expressing yourself without having half the world aware of what you look like in the nude or other compromising positions?

For others who state they are not shamed, will never be shamed, or otherwise disgusted with their nude pictures, online flaming (or dissing), and exposing of personal business, I beg the question: how can you know how you will feel in the future?

Finally, for all of you fully convinced that no one can do anything with pictures of you from the internet and truly see this whole wave of "internet exposeeing" as a wonderful attempt at social overthrow, think again.

No one sees you the way you do. Regardless of the angle, everyone has their own take on your personal story. I have fully clothed pictures of myself online because I prefer to leave the interpretations of my proportions up to the man upstairs who made them. Leaving deity out of the picture altogether, there is a fine line between self-respect and disclosure.

Why is it necessary for our lives to be open books? I have never understood that. Because I don't disclose personal information does not mean that I am ashamed. I simply enjoy having certain things that only I know about myself kept to myself. I do not wish to attempt to become the next Anna Nicole Smith. It is completely incomprehensible why others wish to mirror her ploys and exhibitionist tactics for public attention, scrutiny and ridicule.

All attention is not necessarily good.
I'd prefer to have my life belong to me and not to myspace, bebo, xanga or anyone else. Photoshop is alive and kicking--use it with caution kids!

From there to here

I think I took a slight respite from blogging for the sake of some serious internal reflection. I don't know how helpful that was, in all honesty, but I am back and ready to try my hand at some serious writing. Ah! Serious writing! (You may ask for further exposition.) But, I can't really give you a complete answer. So, my attempt at serious writing with the noble title of: "From there to here" is replete with all the poetic justice this day of revelation deserves.

In the beginning there was there (and a poem to follow):

HOLD ME

Since you cannot hold me
I try to hold myself

But,
on days I slip
and guide my diva sunglasses
down the bridge of my nose
So Antonio's Pizzeria won't see
my buckling knees
bull-red eyes
and watery bursts as he yells, "Bella, bella"

The sad/happy streets of West 110th
were once so welcoming

Since you cannot hold me
I must hold myself

I swear,
I won't make it another block
The men in the park stare
at my bobbing ponytail
earphones jammed in
shutting out what I cannot hear:

traffic saying:
Mr. Johnson saying:
Mr. cabbie saying:
What I will not acknowledge to be true

Since you cannot hold me,
I am slipping

And,
it seems that the angels had to guide me today
from tripping over myself
As I crossed Columbus Avenue.

You cannot see
where I fell

You cannot predict
How I will rise

Without you holding me.

---Britta Jensen

And, suddenly, I am here in all the multifaceted layers:

BOMBING OUT

The vast array

of hues

that describes

my armament

doesn’t fully do me justice

sea glass green orbs: for eyes

honey wheat firecrackers: for hair

AND THE LIST GOES ON

Glamour and Vogue can’t catalogue

the fierceness,

the wild

that encompasses everything that shuts on and off

on my pressure cooker valve

the valve that

when you look my way

wants to either burn or caress

or cook you whole

Where my metamorphosis

went wrong

could be described by all the tagger’s prose…

littering my environs…

ZODIAC and SKRIKER

haven’t got anything

on

the

beast

within.

---Anjali Sen
(My alter-ego)