The Reign of Terror

It must be significant that the more I've been knitting, the more I've been thinking about Dickens. Despite having read his entire ouevre for my doctoral exams -- yes, even Bleak House and Little Dorrit -- I never knew that Madame Defarge was what was considered a "tricoteuse."

According to our time's ultimate source of knowledge, Wikipedia, "tricoteuse literally translates from the French as a (female) knitter. The term is used to refer to the old women who used to sit around the guillotine knitting during the Reign of Terror in France in the 18th century. Decisions on executions had to be made in public so these women were paid to be in attendance and give their opinion. During the Reign of Terror the opinions were rarely anything but 'off with his head.' In Charles Dickens' novel A Tale of Two Cities, the character Madame Defarge is a relentless and bloodthirsty tricoteuse ..." Feel free to click on any of those links and end up on Wikipedia, even though doing so may mean you never return to my blog. Perhaps I can figure out a way to get my blog on Wikipedia? Things did not end well for Madame Defarge. The hubris she had to judge and condemn others, even if it was a kinda popular thing to do, participating in the Revolution and quashing the power of the ruling class and all, came back and bit her on her derriere. She was completely unforgiving, and with a vengeance went after the descendants of the Evremonde family, who had, a generation before, wronged her family. She's a tricky one, that Defarge. She knits into her work the names of those she wants to ... and eventually does ... see die. Dickens modeled her on the Fates, who used to measure the lifespan of a human being in a string of yarn. When they wanted to end that life, they would sever the fibers. So very many kinds of friction have frayed the yarn that is my life -- most of which I had a large part in causing. Of course, friction comes in fits and starts, and lately, it's in a fit phase, the kind of time in which the amount of good you do, the quantity of truth or joy you spread, or the volume of love you share, is irrelevant. The Fates will do as they see best. It is the best of times, the worst of times. The best of times in which I have found so many ways to be kind. The worst of times in the ways I am repaid. The best of times, in which there is always another skein. The worst of times, in which I knit feverishly, to reach the next skein, because its fibers have not yet been compromised. Today, a small but memorable moment of my childhood came into mind -- a moment that I've since tried to convince myself made me as nobly intended as Robin Hood. But in fact, that was not the case at all. In fact, it was born of selfishness, and dissatisfaction with my basketful of yarn. You see, I was one of the several children in my second grade who didn't have a new box of crayons. In those days, we had to bring our crayons from home, and because my parents impressed upon my sisters the importance of keeping their things nice, I inherited a box of half-used crayons that had a most disappointing broken magenta, my favorite color. I didn't have any money of my own to buy a new box, and back then, we couldn't -- and didn't -- expect anyone else to provide them for us. I couldn't ask my mother for a new box, because that would be adlmitting that I was ashamed by the perfectly fine box I had. Anyway, there I was one day strolling a few paces behind my mother, who was searching through our local Five And Ten for notepaper. Cleverly, I let the space between us lengthen until I found it safe to lift what I saw as a beautiful, perfect, untouched-by-human-hands box of crayons and put it in my pocket. Immediately, the guilt descended. I was Catholic then, after all. Once home, I carefully stashed the box in my red plaid book satchel, and before we pulled out our brown bag lunches the following day, I retrieved the box and gave it to the little girl at the desk next to me who also didn't have a new box. In fact, she had no box at all. Her toothy grin was like a pardon. It may have been the first time in my life that I felt relief. But not enough to erase what I'd done. Prepare now for a mangled blend of metaphor: Only now do I realize that every step I've ever taken outside my box of perfectly fine crayons has frayed my yarn. Look around. There are so many kids without any crayons at all. We who had even an imperfect box were born lucky. But that imperfect box is enough to make us suspect now, to nudge our necks ever more closely to the guillotine's blade. Our names are written in society's fabric as those who have, as the descendants of those who oppressed the rest. I don't know what the answer is. Capitalism is as imperfect as any other system, and intrinsically demands that a poorer class exist. But since that early lesson, I strove to get, the honest, capitalist way, a nice new magenta crayon -- not only for me, but also for the little kids without one. And now I'm angry that I'm judged for that. A do-gooder who sees the have-nots as the lesser-thans. So, to find peace, and patience, and acceptance, I pick up my size 5 1/2 plastic needles and my black Paton Shetland Chunky acrylic/wool, and seed stitch another couple of rows on the winter scarf meant for my son. I know this entry sounds pious and self-serving. That's the problem with humility. As soon as you find some, you're proud of having done so. Repeat.

Space Suits

I once knit a pair of socks, one of which would have fit Frankenstein, and the other Bilbo Baggins. I'm thinking the product was affected by my state of mind, especially as everything I knit while pregnant came out properly shaped, with tricky cables or delicate contrasting zigzags. Funny how we glow when we're pregnant, but never attribute that radiance to the fact that we're not smoking and boozing. Of course this theory doesn't explain why our hair falls out post-partum, but I'm working on it.

In December alone, I created four gifts for family and friends through this new industriousness, and miraculously finished a project for my second child that I'd started for my firstborn. No matter how you look at it, this hobby is better than most of the others I have acquired over the years. I have yet to figure out how to play a Brahms Rhapsodie while twisting a cable, but my children assure me that's a good thing.

So whom should I honor with this daily blog, to whom I would happily dedicate 2010, a year I once thought would find us flying around in pods wearing jumpsuits made of Kevlar and shiny astronaut fashion? Shall research it tonight. Hell, maybe I'll design a signature hand-knit space suit. As I see it, I've found contented and chaos-free row-by-row living. Let's see what the recipients of my fine creations have to say to all that. And let's see what knit one, purl one living brings in practice.

I swear, like a new mother breastfeeding in a public place, I am not embarking on this madness just to needle you.

Winter to spring

Days pass
like unwrapped gifts
or delicate negligees
kept in the drawer

The year turns with songs
we do not understand
and candles never lit

What of sitting silently
inhaling the fragrance
of a dark pine

Feeling the pungent
needle carpet
softened by time

Seeing through narrowed eyes
the filtered glow
through the branches and
tasting the whisper
of each other's breath

The Law of Unintended Consequences

A patchwork of forgotten hours, gray squares next to deep rich red. He’s barely stitched together, now, but the squares will merge to make one glorious pattern woven of the many ways he first killed more than his choices, and then rediscovered the colors of his life. In one corner of the fabric is woven a dreadful error – it’s handmade, like a Persian rug, and the inconsistencies prove it. It’s a cluster of stars and garish lights against the dark, a constellation of confusion, the black border between before and after. Now asking every morning for forgiveness, he pulls the quilt up high beneath his chin, knowing we’re all guiltier than we’d like to think, and that staying under cover doesn’t help. And so he rises to greet the unknown of the day. Note: Dedicated to a humble young man who teaches others how important it is to own our own stuff.

Lost in Translation

We’re running out of metaphors. For night, black, darkness— caliginosity is a synonym, but oh, so nonpoetic. God forbid you try a flower or a storm, even if you get specific. Oh, it’s all been done. Try translating from another language, when the right phrase can't be said. Personal pain is trite, and insignificant compared to that of others. C’mon, there was a Holocaust, and genocide’s not dead. American kids go hungry. All we can search for is a better word for hope. There are only eight notes in a scale, and they’ve all been played. Is there a term for slowing our rhythm to one minute at a time? By Lisa E. Paige © 2009 When writing this poem I thought of teenage angst, my Philosophy of the Mind course in college, and The Anxiety of Influence, by Harold Bloom. I recently read a poem in The Atlantic that directly refered to four great American poets -- no subtle allusions, even. Everyone writes one like that, and I did, once, too. A poet has to let go of feeling unoriginal, or will never write one word.

In Poland

I have been seeking the answers to the same questions for about 35 years, or since I was finishing up at Harvard, and being told by my self-important professor that my idea for my thesis wasn't good enough ... seeking the answer to why some did, and why some didn't, why some fell in step, and why some resisted, why some surrendered, and why others fought ... just didn't interest the guy. I guess I was in the wrong department, probably belonged in philosophy. And of course no answer exists, but it's still interesting to pursue what's there in the history of it all, no? Oh, well. Anyway these questions have haunted me since. I had to go there to find out I was asking the wrong questions. And I still feel unqualified either to ask the questions or comment on any of it, frankly, at all. But hey, 35 years ... I am determined to share the words, as humble as they may be. Here goes. In Poland In Oswiecim The air is thick With why it’s not my story. Yet I’ve come so far To find out how, And why. So long I’ve sought Those answers. How some could, How others couldn’t. Why some surrendered, Others fought. Some swallowed hate, Others poison, And still others silence. All of them, They hover here And like the dust Cling to my clogs. Ashes echo across The flaming August sky Like the ghostly trail behind a jet; But I'm deaf as mud. Hunger rises, But no answers. Then I see. Cornflowers would do well here If not for soil That’s steeped in sorrow. Lisa E. Paige, © 2009

Seasons

In the forest He made a garden And there she grew. The house he built there Was the second one With walls for warmth And windows through which She could safely watch The wilderness. The first house traveled with him. In his arms She dreamed of rainbows. The harshest wind was just a lullaby. But slowly She added lyrics And now her song Is the melody he hears. On the new bare walls He sees her hues: The bold strokes of autumn Like leaves gone golden, The yellow tint to honey that is Just like sticky summer heat, Dazzling vermilion Like her heart. She wants serenity In moss-like green But ahead lies the waking Glow of sunrise – Roses and oranges bursting Open like her future. So much nears completion. Now through his fingers Pass the rushing blues Of soft cascading waterfalls. She wouldn’t want it, but If he could, would he reverse The current that Carries all downstream? Lisa E. Paige © September 2009