January 31 2008, 11:13 PM Pulling Marble From Pentelicon

There are evenings when ships move in the night, sliding slowly on that line between the dark sky and the darker water, engines growling and inconsiderate of the winds so needed by elder relatives, long since lost to history or perhaps playful ports to bring those who can afford them to destinations of whim and vigor. We do not have wide waters here, but we have them, and in the summer months they teem with craft. In the winters such things are scarcer, but I can still sometimes spy them far below the curve of the hill, trudging through the pool with gentle diaphony.

(It is unclear to me now that diaphony is even a word, and the very big dictionary is a flight away while I am comfortable under a throw. Let is pass.)

There are things I used to do, skills and crafts that I one held but have since put down, for a reason or another (only sometimes known to me). I used to knit. I originally started with the idea of eventually making socks, but I only got so far as scarves and hats. It was a restful thing, good for the wrists, chasing away demons that would otherwise haunt them from spending so much time poised over lettered keys (I have many such tricks, no fear). It was restful, too, to pass time with topologies of yarn while paying half attention to the television or, better, the stereo.

I have again nearly entirely ejected the television from the sphere of living here. The one small specimen sits squat in a cold room, untouched for weeks at a time. Stereos, however, continue to blossom about the house, each room having something in it what with to make a merry noise. I am on track to tie all of this together into something of a playground of audio, streams of noises culled from selected sources speeding along wire or stepping lightly across the air. There will be, in time, crows. I am pleased that the world in here is turning audial.

This fits well with the notion of knitting. A friend of mine is ill, and in a place best for the ill to be. We are collecting things to send over, and it is my understanding that they could use a hat. Well, I used to make hats: I have now the materials of a hat on the coffee table. Five needles each of two gentle points, an artful twist of a skein, quiet blue.

I will need to relearn it, I think. Rather: I will need to learn to get out of the way and trust my fingers, for I expect they will remember better than I.

They usually do.