Domestic

My knitting looks like a little piece of pink crap on two sticks. I saw signs for the new arts and crafts store on the way back from a pool party today and remembered this one summer in Maine. I must have been only 10 or 11. We stayed in a place near the beach and woods. My father got L.L. Bean boots. Vinnie, who was probably six at the time, and I met two brothers and played tennis. We went on nature walks. There are pictures. My hair was constantly messy.

The point is that I knitted on this trip. My mother taught me and for some reason I was good at it - or decent, at least, for a ten year old. I remember having a very mature sense of relaxation that came from the tedious task. I had minty green yarn and since nothing but a scarf was within my skill range, that is what I was making. It occupied some of my time between climbing on the rocks or swimming in the ice-cold pool. I never forgot how relaxing it was, or, considering how un-crafty I have always considered myself, that I could even do it. When friends tell me about their knitting projects I reply, "I knitted once. I loved it." The minty green tiny scarf the only proof of that claim. And proof only in memory. No clue where that thing went.

But today passing by the crafts store, I went wild and turned into the parking lot. Once inside it was easy to find the knitting section. Women of all ages were milling about. Yarn, in all its various colors and textures and weights is an appealing product, I must admit. While other times I would have passed by, or even made fun of these women so excited about their potential knitting prospects, today I jumped right in. I found a book first. "I Can't Believe I'm Knitting," it is called. That's right. I can't believe I am in the knitting section of a crafts store with all these crafty ladies. After reading page one of "I Can't..." and discovering I'd need two knitting needles and some yarn I got to work. I found needles that fit the qualifications and "worsted weight" yarn in adorable pink. This color, I thought wisely, will cheer me up when I am having my initial difficulties in my new favorite hobby.

I couldn't wait.

The situtation provided several challenges, however, all of which had considered at the outset of my spontaneous purchase. I hate reading and following directions. I'm more of a do-it-my-own-way type. This isn't something to be proud of. Furthermore, my patience is not fantastic. My attention span can wane. I get distracted easily. But I kept thinking back to that summer in Maine, just knowing my fingers would remember the knitting process and I'd return to that serene state of mind. I'd have a scarf finished by nightfall.

Instead, it took me roughly an hour to realize how to "cast on." It took a painful gathering of concentration (turn off the radio, computer and TV - do not look anywhere but the pink string) to get a slip knot together. And learning through diagrams of fingers and yarn is enough to invoke a minor to high shift in blood pressure. At first I was laughing. Mina was sitting in my lap and Cecilia had her head on my knee. And I laughed "oh haha I knew I wasn't crafty," but the laughter turned sour after several tries and no link to my ten year old self. "WHAT THE HELL," I demanded of the book. I took a break. I made banana bread, cooking another hobby I am just breaking into.

Once I returned to the needles, calmed down, and again steadied my concentration, I got it - sort of. My little stitches are sometimes tight, sometimes loose and sometimes very horrendous looking. The greatest part was that I did remember. The feeling felt, if not natural, familiar. And it's nice to be productive. I've been watching the Olympics constantly lately. It's nice to have a project of my own, rather than gasp at the tremendous athletic talent of others.

Not that my knitting is tremendous, athletic, or a talent. But it is something I learned to do by myself - well, for the second time. I'm proud of my little pink rows. They are very crooked. Someone is going to get a lovely scarf this winter.

a comment to others like sarah e. and r. dow

Upon writing my "Ode" to Manpreet and Tom, a few emailed or commented that they, too, check my blog regularly. My ode was not an effort to leave this people out, but honest evidence of the fact I really didn't think anyone was reading this. The fact that others are makes me incredibly, incredibly happy...

an ode to my friends Manpreet and Tom

Manpreet and Tom rock my world. First, I realize that they are the only two people reading this thing regularly. Second, they just rule, no questions asked.
Here are some reasons why:
- The Level that Tom and I have invented and used to our advantage, that also can be used to make fun of J endlessly. Because he think's he gets it. He doesn't.
-At the recent OBB some of my favorite conversations were had with Manpreet at the end of the night when she'd put on a baseball hat backwards and we were attempting to be "serious" after having roughly 6,000 beers. We often have conversations like this, like about the awesome culture of India, or true love, while plastered.
-I am tremendously happy when Tom will be at an event with me - specifically one where something ridiculous might happen and I might need to laugh my ass off. Tom gets me.
-Manpreet came to our New Year's party even though she couldn't stay the whole time. Not only that, but she brought me a present.
-Both seem to care that not only J, but I, too, show up at planned events. This makes me feel special and amazing.
-Both live near my hometown. This means I get to see them a lot.

These are just a few of the incredible things about Manpreet and Tom. Mostly, I'm just happy they have been J's friends and that they are now mine. We are going to have lots of good times in the future. And probably all three of us will be famous.

goodbye summer 2004

I was jolted this morning even before I'd gotten any coffee into my system when the girl behind the counter where I like to get my morning cup asked me if I'd "had a good summer." Had? I've been talking end-of-summer-blues with the best of them, but this question brought the fact down hard, like a blaring alarm clock at the crack of dawn when you've only put in three hours of sleep.

It's the end of August. The autumnal equinox technically doesn't arrive until September 22, but we all know the telltale signs indicating that our carefree North Carolina summer is receding into memory. The students are back on Franklin Street. My sense of duty is dancing front and center in my line of vision. No more carefree whims! No more bouts of lying out in the sun as though that was a legitimate activity! Summer parties, rejoicing in the final days of this great season, become poignant almost before they are over.

Just this past weekend I traveled north to DC to attend such a party, as well as get together with a bunch of high school, college and other friends who happened to be in town. I threw my light summer clothes into a backpack hastily. A pair of jeans, flip flops, a bathing suit - hair is tangly at times, can be thrown back after swimming and drying slowly in the sun or late night heat under a bright moon. The possibility of weather changing suddenly is not a worry. It's summer and it's hot.

The weekend was a monument to summer qualities. Planned meet-ups felt serendipitous in the way they were played out. Old friends connected for another night of skinny-dipping at my parent's house, wine-bottles littering the poolside, towels and clothes damp and unnecessary. Even now in our mid-twenties, the joy of letting go still as exciting as when we were teenagers jumping in for the first time.

I woke in a daze the next day, ready to meet others in Georgetown for a celebration prior to the party that night. The dense day released a downpour upon us as we walked, laughing, and after getting soaked enough - not caring anymore. The party was a mix of small-time adventures and heartfelt talks, had out on the curb or on the way to falling asleep. Guitars played well-known tunes. Friends sat at fold-up tables and stood in the grass barefoot. The summer heat did give way, after the rain, to a cooler evening, a foreshadowing and symbolic end to the season, a real end to the classic summer party when the last of us drifted off.

The weekend ended and I am starting a new week with the complete realization that the summer of 2004 is soon ending. When in school, the end of the summer signifies the end of vacation. In the working world, I found after graduating, you have no such luck. Vacations are made, not given just because it is sunny out. But the feel of the season is penetrating even when riding to the office on a Monday morning. We've been enjoying ourselves, and that is the way it should be.

The days will become more compact with less time to fit all desired activities in. I've been taking my dog Cecilia to the creek to splash in the water. Bugs are lazily swatted away as we sway through the humidity, me in shorts and flip-flops, and she panting, looking for friends. Soon there will be leaves underneath our feet. There will be sweatshirts. The water will be colder. We'll look more neat. We will be more reserved.

To tell the truth, fall is my favorite season for it's weather and aesthetics. I enjoy the need to bundle up once the summer heat fades. I love coming in from the cold, the need to become warm so snugly met by a blanket, a fireplace, some tea and a loved one.

But I still grieve for the loss of yet another summer. While not a serious issue, the final days of summer often bring to mind a list of things I haven't done and the need to get going on them. Whether it is the practical need to vacuum the seats of my car, or something more personal, the summer seems a good time to not worry about a damn thing. And not surprisingly, in that realm of stress-free goodness, wonderful things do happen, as made clear by the memories already forming of this summer now coming to an end.

And so in response to the question, "have you had a good summer?" I answer yes. Of course I'm amazed at how fast it has flown, and sad at its departure. But it's done it's job. And I'm ready for something new.

sick/myself, some years ago

Sick. Aching body and head, feeling weak, feeling so tired. I've cast off today as a productive one. However, while sitting making hot tea, the dogs perfect angels at my feet - almost as though they understand I need peace - and a lot of time on my hands, I went upstairs to retrieve four or five movies, in the hopes that I just might stay in bed until tomorrow.

But on my way back down, I paused and inspected some storage boxes in the hall. Several old journals were piled up in one, and I added them to the stack.

I've kept a diary since I was 10 when one was given to me as a present. Then I recorded the serious dramas of which teachers were strict and how much homework I had. Honestly, a good deal of page space was given to the woes of homework demands. I moved on to talking about, even talking to, boys, in my pre-teens. Commentaries regaring three-way call tricks in which I'd call such and such, asked if he liked what's her name, what's her name being on the line the whole time without such and such knowing a thing. The brilliance of three way calling for teenage girls. That, along with an obsession with horseback riding. Pretty cool kid. These were the things I wrote about, and I wrote often.

As I got older, and especially in college, this habit tapered a bit. I suppose I found other things to do with my time. I've got some of the more recent journals here, and the whole collection at home. Amusingly, from the trouble with fourth-grade history to the search for a career in my early twenties, the journals remain consistent in their sparsity of detail and overabundence of emotion. I was...am constantly trying to figure things out, I suppose.

A few choice selections I thought I would share:

March 2, 1999 (I travelled abroad the semester before this had a rough time adjusting to life in Boston after my return)

I haven't felt very happy in a while. I've been back at school having a wonderful time. A great time. Except for the happiness issue.

July 18, 1999

Life Goals:
-adopt a greyhound
-live in Maine
-be on the radio

October 20, 2001 (this was after I met J, but still living with the ex - at that time current - boyfriend)

Trivially, really, I want to become a little more in shape so these jeans don't feel so tight. More importantly, I'm going to need to make some major decisions.

a rainy weekend and J's new hobby

It was a rainy weekend, but the boyfriend and I were happy to be stuck inside, rearranging our house in all sorts of ways. We got some Chinese lanterns to put up. We found a place for my newly-framed print from the Met. But most importantly, perhaps, was that despite the rain, J has found a new hobby.

I was peacefully reading on our living room couch late Friday afternoon when I received an urgent, “Baby LOOK!” from the front door. When I arrived outside J pointed out a praying mantis sitting in a flower bush, lazily munching on a dead butterfly. “Gross,” I told him, and I meant it. I’ve never liked those huge green bugs, with their jaunty gait and smug little faces. But for my boyfriend, this was the beginning of an adventure. This was the beginning of an education.

He quickly procured my digital camera and began not only taking pictures of this beautiful act of nature but also of a variety of other insects. He researched on the internet and was able to identify the “Hummingbird Moth” which imitates the actual bird, and the species of our plant, which attracts such a plethora of bugs.

And this was the weekend of all weekends for such a hobby to arise. The things that were in store!

A dead squirrel in the front yard sent J on a mission that yielded even more than he could have hoped. He had to get rid of the thing without me seeing it, thank the lord. And he did so in a very gentlemanly fashion, guiding me around the atrocity with hands over my eyes when I came outside.

But J’s disposal of the creature led him on an amazing search of the woods behind our house. After he’d done the job he forced (and I mean forced – I didn’t want to explore the rainy forest after the squirrel incident) me to come see the green meadow and “secret” path to the creek that runs behind our neighborhood.

It was easier, he concluded, to thrash through the woods than go down the street (a thirty-second trip) and access the creek the way everyone else does. In addition, he had taken a good number of pictures of the creek’s risen water level due to all the rain, documenting, once again, the wonders of nature.

He says he’ll be forging a way through the wilderness soon. For now I will continue to use the nice wooden stairs at the end of our block.

But the best was yet to come.

While moving a box from the garage into the kitchen, J suddenly exclaimed, jumped back, and his eyes grew wide when a tiny creature fell to the floor. A black widow spider, the real deal, had entered our household. He showed me the hourglass pattern on its back, and we looked up pictures on the web to confirm.

Spiders have never bothered me much, even this one, especially after reading that while black widow bites are rather unpleasant, they are rarely, if ever, fatal, and don’t tend to cause permanent damage. Besides, J had cleverly caught the thing under a glass on the floor.

Why? Pictures!

He got a number of good ones, cautioning me each time he left the room to view his snapshots on the computer that I should watch the dogs so they wouldn’t release the thing from its see-through confinement. Finally, after the wildlife was properly documented and saved on the computer, J killed our spider. I felt a little sad, it having been so brazenly used for our viewing pleasure, and so quickly disposed of. But then again, who wants a bite which invokes cramping pain and nausea?

Later on in the weekend (the specific timing of each unique find escapes me) I spotted another big spider (of the non-poisonous sort) in a gigantic web outside the front door. I had just gotten J to leave the house after a number of attempts – “Are you ready, yet? Ready to go, baby? I’m down here. I’m ready. Are you ready to go yet?” – when I, in a moment of poor judgment, pointed the insect out.

“Look,” I said.

Hushed silence. And then a long breath and quick response.

“I’ve GOT to go get the camera,” he said. Damnit.

But after several brilliant shots of the evil-looking spider suspended in its web, we were off, a rich catalogue of our experience in the residential neighborhoods of Carrboro now safely ensconced in J’s hard drive.

The next day, the huge spider, like the black widow and murdered butterfly before it, was gone. Luckily, we’ve got the pictures to prove it. There is, I admit, a good deal of interesting wildlife all around our new digs. I saw a snake on the sidewalk when walking the dog the other day and failed to tell J until several hours later.

This was a mistake, marked by a look of utter confusion, and of course the question, “Why didn’t you tell me?”

the bartender

He was absolutely the most suave man anybody had ever met. Dressed all in black, with a silver bottle opener tucked neatly into his faux-leather belt, the bartender made his rounds, checking on customers as if each were the only one in the place. It was quiet, for a Thursday night, but he would not let one drink go empty, one pretty girl's cigarette go unlit. He walked with a slight swagger and spoke in smooth, one or two word phrases like, "Oh yeah?" (with a mischeivous smile) or "Nice," used to punctuate a funny story. Sometimes he would wink after that one. "Niiiicceee." Wink. That's how you get the girls.

The above is a hopeful description - as in one I'm sure the actual bartender in question might have hoped for. He would see no tinge of sarcasm in this description. In fact, to make fun of this bartender to the point where he noticed it would, I'm sure, bring about pain too harsh for me to even think about. The strange thing is, I like this guy.

Last night after a few beers a friend and I decided it was time for a glass of wine, and an inevitable headache the next day (which did, on schedule, arrive). We chose the aptly named "Pub" for its charming decor. Christmas lights hang outside around a plastic covered dining area. The inside is smoky and "mysterious" with a bar surrounded by several tables and booths. On our only other trip to this pub my friend and I had planted ourselves at the bar right about where we ended up last night.

Again, the conversation with friendly strangers was effortless. We talked about fishing with our new best friend to the right, a gentleman who inspired the subject when he produced a picture of himself with a monstrous fish he had caught. To the group in back of us, more our age, the conversation was one of casual shouts more than anything really meaningful. "Drink!" "Woo!" Stuff like that.

My friend and I, experts in the art of baring our innermost thoughts and worries when out together, interspersed our deep dialouge with observations of our magical surroundings. Fake pine-tree vines climbed about the bar and over liquor bottles. "Is it Christmas?" I asked the bartender, probably one too many times - two times, being too many.

The bartender laughed though. His nonchalance about the place brutally clear; he made it so. The food? Not so good. The crowd? Pretty tame tonight. The red wine? May have been uncorked several weeks ago. His mission was clear. This was an ultra hip bartender in a mediocre bar - or at least, this was the persona being thrown in my face - "thrown," of course, in an extremely subtle way. This was his way.

He had an act. He had his black shirt tucked in neatly and his hair styled. He really did look after his customers, the bartender, and although he mentioned several times that this was an unusually small crowd, I got the feeling he liked it that way.

But I liked him. I liked this bartender because he made me feel cool. He made me feel like my friend and I, having our late night glass of red wine and deep, neverending talks, were special. He made me feel justified in making fun of the Christmas decorations in August. He made me feel like I could just go this bar alone, sit, and spill my worries, because that was his job - to listen - as the bartender.

I probably won't do that.

The last time my friend visited this particular "Pub" the bartender was a different sort. He was wearing safety goggles and encouraging us to attend '80's night. When we inquired about this other bartender and the famed "'80's night" to Mr. Suave, he scoffed at his competing co-worker, muttering something like, "Sure, he's always got some crazy thing going on..."

For last night there was no talk of Dixie's Midnight Runners or The Cars. Last night was about a mysterious man all in black who provided us with a hip attitude in a Christmas-decorated pub in a strip mall, a chance to talk, and red wine that had been opened for the least amount of time.

letter to Stephen King

Dear Mr. King,

It is with great regret that I write to inform you I will no longer be reading any of your acclaimed works. This is made all the more regrettable as I have only read one of your books in the first place.

My recent experience with _The Stand_ left me restless, unproductive, and angry. Please let me explain.

It was with excitement that my boyfriend handed me the book, even after my proclamation that I did not like books about "horror and magic" etc. "This one's not like that," he said.

I began my experience enjoyably enough. I've always had a soft spot for incurable life destroying illnesses that produce large amounts of bodily fluids aptly described by an author or witness. Each time someone around me would cough or sneeze, I'd mutter "Captain Trips?" under my breath, sharing a delightful little private joke with myself.

The first inklings of my personal horror were innocent-seeming. I started wondering, from time to time, what I would do should the world be suddenly unpopulated, only a few souls to cling to, and rotting corpses all around me. I dreamt about it, sure, but the thought did not take over my regular lifestyle. Not yet.

I had a free weekend. Here in North Carolina, the summer days are filled with excellent activities such as cocktail drinking, swimming in the pool and taking leisurely walks. But I decided to stay indoors, all weekend, and read your book. Did I mention it was the unabridged version? Thank you so much for rereleasing that monster with so many additional pages of utter despair and completely dense paragraphs. And come to think of it, perhaps I should reword my above sentence, "decided to stay indoors." It was not a decision, but a mandatory demand placed upon me by my own, wearily addicted brain.

It was not long into my weekend-long reading frenzy that I started to actually physically worry about Frannie's baby. I drifted in and out of sleep on the couch in our living room (my night's sleeping disturbed, now, by thoughts concerning the future of the human race).

Harold Lauder danced through my fitful naps. If only he had tried a bit harder. The "dark man" sat upon my chest, asking, over and over again, why not choose the devil? And I endlessly compared Mother Abigail to a real 113 year-old woman I had recently met who remarkably fit her description. Had I met a messiah and let the experience slip through my fingers? I didn't know anymore. My dreams were filled with questions I could not answer. What would I do? Who would I choose? How would I deal? How much grief can be forced upon one society?

There were more uplifting sections, of course. I enjoyed greatly Glen's sarcastic wit. The dog, Kojak, was a phenomenal creature, and I projected Kojak-like expectations on my own pets. If I were dying, slowly, in the wilderness, would you bring me a dead rabbit, and wood to build a fire? Their answers were blank, questioning stares. More pertinently, I'm sure they were thinking, why have you not fed or walked us? Maybe you should get off the damn couch?

Characters in the book starting wetting their pants or puking on what seemed like every other page. Other worldly occurrences began to take place. Mixed in with the cast of every day Americans, there was now a hint of what I commonly think of when I hear your name, Mr. King. Good and Evil. Randall Flagg smiles and birds drop dead off telephone wires.

I finished the novel Sunday evening. I was left tired and questioning. Things never change, do they? The policemen want to be armed. Humans make the same mistakes again and again. And I still couldn't get out of my head the image of a United States covered with rotting corpses. Larry Underwood and the tunnel scene. I had to make myself answer the question...would I have been able to do it? Would I have been able to walk through that dark space of death?

I suppose this is the problem. Somehow, with your talent, you got me too involved. I knew a little too much about the situation to deem it imaginary. And so, I believed and had to face the possibility myself.

It was only upon reading the last words that I was able to free myself from the grasp of _The Stand_. And even that night there were a few more dreams. But upon entering my house from the porch, after thankfully closing the book forever, I found my boyfriend getting ready for dinner. We ate real food (not sustenance from cans due to an electricty shortage brought on by a rapidly spreading lethal disease). Neighbors and their children walked through the streets. This is my world.

The characters in your novel faced a great adventure and learned about themselves and the human race while they were at it. I'm glad I had you, and them, to describe it to me and take over my every waking thought for several days. But I'm glad to be back. I like my hairdryer. I like my shelter from the winter snow. The doctor's office.

Am I grateful for the experience? Somewhat. But I'm taking a break, for good if I can, from your wonderful writing, Mr. King. You have enough readers as it is, and apparently my imagination can't handle so realistic a portrayal of destruction and redemption through holy signs.

Don't get me wrong. You have my admiration - absolutely. We just see things differently. If I want pessimistic philsophy in the future, I think I'll just pick up some Nietzsche. I'll probably nod off quickly after doing so, and enjoy deep, dreamless sleep.

One more thought - I know you are from Maine and include the state in many of your works, including _The Stand_. My family and I have always chosen the Maine coast as a vacation destination. Now, when passing through the quaint towns, I will probably look beyond the seagulls and ice cream stands, the wild blueberries, and thriving wilderness, to a deeper, darker remembrance of ghastly and demonic plague-inflicted death. Thank you for that.

Respectfully yours,

Cara Maria Rotondaro