Knitting Ferocious Spiders

Knitting Ferocious Spiders has wound a nice ball. It's been a diary of confusion and mistakes, assertions and affirmations, but now, it's time to tie it up, and leave it as it is. There's a certain symmetry to a year. This was never the intention: I was set to fire it off under this format for quite some time, but it's been a little more than 12 months of massive change: a lot of learning, and tangles tugged out as best I could muster. I have a better idea now of what I want, and of how I see my life progressing, in the near future. Even more, I've learned about the world of blog, and what kind of a form I would like to pursue in its arena. This direction has become a little too undirected. The Spider, however, will keep spinning. Check back for the new link. My next attempt at a quotidian project should be a little more so than this one, I should think.

For the past several weeks at the present restaurant job in Auckland (present only because I hope that in the near future it will be the stuff of anecdotes and legend) I have been making a grievous error. I have been making Lemon-Lime and Bitters the wrong way . Apparently, in New Zealand, as well as in other British and colonial locals, Lemonade is more what I might call "Sprite", or (if under duress) "7-Up"; so the "Lemon" in "Lemon-Lime and Bitters" stands for aforesaid fizzy drink, not lemon cordial, as I have been using, and soda water is evidently not an acceptable surrogate bubble-maker. I learned this after the woman who pointed out my error almost twisted the ears off my head for the inaccuracy. God I've missed waiting on tables.

Nothing has really topped Morrissey's How Soon Is Now as the epic anthem of solitude in a crowd; and my iPod conspiratorially conjured it as I lie here in the early afternoon, the Sunday following, just as I'm in the midst of that song's sentiment. A little melancholyncholy, perhaps feeling the first strains of homesickness. I'm not willing to accept those heart strings being played. Let's blame the booze. Booze, darling? My first boyfriend, Adam, the first man, the first naked stretch of learning (not on a curve, but flat out), came to visit me during the summer I was on the farm. I was out of the city because I couldn't afford to stay while school wasn't in session, and he had gone back to his family in Montreal. Out of the blue, he announced over the phone that he was coming. His visit was disastrous. Over those few days I think we both started to realize that we had bitten off more than we could chew, respectively; but I was elated when he drove up th...

Contrary to even my own observations, I have been writing blog entries, or at least parts of entries. I just haven't been posting them. I don't know why, exactly. As much as I absolutely adore my laptop, I'm still getting the wonderful machine in order, and only recently installed Microsoft Office, which allows me to explore text in the sublime environment of Word, the frankly intuitive word processor, rather than the mucilaginous purgatory of AppleWorks, what I have been wrestling with up until now. God, I hated that program; and because of that, I had been writing all of my entries directly into the blogger platform, sometimes with dire consequences. Let's have a moment of silence for all of those sentences lost before they could be read. Getting my house in order here has been piecemeal, but we're getting to it eventually, my motivations and me. Out of good faith towards the spirit of my intentions, and some sort of temporal integrity, I was going to post the ba...

At the supermarket, coming home from work (you can buy wine at the grocery. I love the civilized world.) after a ten hour shift, the girl stopped me. “I need to see ID.” I looked at her. “I can’t sell it to you otherwise.” “I’m 28. Born 1977.” The glare I got back was not encouraging. “You look younger than 25.” “I’ll be 29 next month.” Nothing. Luckily, I did, in fact, have my wallet on me. “I have a photo Health Card.” “I can’t accept this.” “An old driver’s licence?” Scrutinized. “This one time,” she finally announced. After a moment, my chicken and sauvignon blanc going into krinkly plastic bags, it came to me: the retort. “I’m you’re senior .” The man behind me laughed.

Seems like every blogger I read or know has stalled. Including myself. I'm pulling it together. Promise.