New York jaunt

Up, up, and away ....


from the western desert to the eastern megalopolis. New York.


It was a quick trip. No time for sightseeing, except for the city streaming around me as I kept my schedule.


I was there for this ... an energy policy conference ... hosted by the New York Times. Here's T. Boone Pickens, speaking in a panel moderated by Tom Friedman.


And also this ... several days of dissertation research at the Rockefeller Archive Center ... which is in an opulent Rockefeller family mansion in Westchester County. I wish I could show you some of the documents, which were the real gems of the place. But here's a peek at the house itself, with a crystal chandelier and painted wallpaper in the dining room.


I came home with several hundred document photos. And dozens of pages of single-spaced notes from the archives. And pages of hand-written notes and ideas sparked by the conference.

Also, sock knitting from all the travel time.


Also, a cold. For all its charms, New York is also a clammy, crowded, sunless germ-incubator.

So I was greatly relieved to be winging my way back to Arizona.


Which laid out its beauty -- a glorious sunset and dramatic topography -- to welcome me home.

Shelter Scarf, Part II: New Years

Wow. The last two weeks have passed in the blink of an eye. I've been sitting on this post all this time, weighed down by the burden of a deadline, never having the time to work out the words.

And what an adventure to share! For New Years, we drove west, west across the desert to celebrate the turning of the year in Joshua Tree ...


to bask in the sun, work our muscles, feel fingers on rock ...


That was Mountain Man, of course. And here's me, with my handknit, scarlet Cliff Dweller chalk bag:


We had plenty of sweet, quiet downtime in camp, too.


And on New Year's morning, I finally bound off the Shelter Scarf. Ta-Da!!


Very pleased with myself. I think this scarf is so damned cool and clever.


It's knit lengthwise, from one ribbed edge to the other, using horizontal cables that form interlocking circles.


Pattern to come ... someday. I have plans. But it'll be a while, I reckon.

Anyways, one more knitting anecdote from this glorious weekend. By the end of the weekend, I was worn out of climbing and intense sunshine. So while Mountain Man and his friend climbed one last hard route (Bird on a Wire -- they're tiny specks in the middle by the dark spot):


My friend and I stayed in the cool shadows of the valley. And I taught her to knit:


Long tail cast-on. Learned lightning-fast by nimble climbers' fingers.

Joshua Tree

Friday night, end of a tiring week. Six hour flight to Phoenix. Then a four hour drive, barreling through the desert to midnight, towards a big moon on the horizon. All to wake up in the magic of Joshua Tree ...


There were two things about this weekend that were especially remarkable. The first was the mercurial weather. It was by turns blazing with sunshine, swept by wind, and even chilled by snow. Snow in Joshua Tree is a beautiful thing to behold.


The second mind-blowing thing was that an adaptive climbing clinic was going on literally right in the backyard of our campsite. We had so much fun hanging out with them, watching the climbing, and learning about this awesome community. We also spent a morning climbing with Jeff Erenstone, who runs an orthotics and prosthetics clinic in Lake Placid, and got to learn a little about the technology and rehab that goes into this. Way cool.


As for me, when my fingers weren't scraping against granite, they were working bamboo needles and alpaca yarn. I started a cardigan on the trip there ... I don't know how it'll turn out, but it's meant to be a seamless, rolled-edge, raglan cardigan. No pattern. Just futzing around. By the end of the weekend I was done with the yoke -- now it's downwards for the rest of the body and then I need to pick up the stitches for the sleeves.


Love this place. the intensity of the desert. the haunting Joshua Trees. the strangeness of the rock outcroppings. the beauty.

Rhinebeck

yarn, resplendent

smiles, shawls

goats

sheep

wabbits

Ravelry fanatics

autumn memories

train socks

After finishing up my business in Boston, I took the Acela train down to Washington, DC. What a civilized way to travel! Six and a half hours of peace and scenery. I watched the morning sun glitter on the Atlantic Ocean. I spotted a great blue heron standing among reeds, and a young eagle flying with a wriggling fish in its talons. And somewhere along the way, I pulled out a pair of socks to work on.


The socks are improvised toe-up socks with slipped stitches, short row heels, and two variations of ribbing at the cuff. Yarn is Fleece Artist Sea Wool in "Midnight." They're for my sister.

These were the infamous socks that I'd started on the trip to India. I worked on them everywhere, even while riding a camel, but I most associate them with our epic overnight train ride from Jaisalmer to Delhi. By that point, I'd finished one sock and was at the heel of the second. But I could not for the life of me get that damned heel right.


I was knitting in bad light, in motion, with a hungry stomach, a caffeine-withdrawal headache, and frayed nerves due to horrible and unpredictable train delays. I kept making mistakes that I wouldn't catch until hours later.

By the fourth time that I had to rip out the heel, I burst into tears and banished the socks to the bottom of my bag. It was, shall we say, not my best moment. It's taken months to work up the courage to pull them out again. But now you know why it was fitting to re-start them on a train trip and why I'm so relieved to have them finished.


Do you know what I realized as I was sewing in the ends? The parallel lines of ribbing at the top evoke train tracks for me. It's a subtle reminder of the journey made by these socks.

And keeping in the poetic train vein, have a listen to Feist + Ben Gibbard's haunting version of Train Song. My sister introduced me to it some months ago for us to sing together, and it's been running through my head as I wrote up this post.

reflections on color

One of the most enduring memories that I have of India is COLOR. Intense, outrageous, exhilarating color.


And that photo is straight out of the camera, folks. No enhancement, no adjustment. It's pure, saturated, living color.

That kind of color is everywhere you look -- fabrics, bangles, spices, fruits, everything! -- in every possible hue and texture. For someone who tends towards neutrals and timid earthy colors, it was thoroughly invigorating!













But here's the thing about cliches like "India is bursting with color." It captures the truth. It does. But it's not the whole truth. What's concealed by the cliche -- what you never see in artsy vacation photos and coffee table books -- is that, at least in the winter, the air pollution is so horrendous that everything is actually rather gray.

For example, take those famous blue-washed houses of Jodhpur. When you're close up, they do indeed looks beautifully and mysteriously blue. But here's what the overall view of the city looks like, through a haze of pollution:


Or the Taj Mahal ... which I remember when I first saw it in summer 1998 as a sparkling white monument against a beautiful blue sky. Here's what it looked like in winter 2009. It was mid-morning, and the sun should have been shining brightly, but it couldn't even break through the haze:


Delhi was even worse. I was very happy to be there and bask in the warm, wonderful glow of family. But outside, the air was cold and gray, dingy and oppressive.

When I finally arrive back to Phoenix, it was a breath of fresh air (literally) to walk outside and gaze up at green leaves and fresh grapefruits set against an azure sky.


This trip has really provoked thoughts for me on the nature of colorfulness. The colors here seem so simplistic compared to the saffrons, magentas, and turquoises of India, but I'm so grateful for getting to see them in this clear light.