It is so dark in the fall. There's about five minutes of daylight, and about umpty hours of total darkness, and everything in between is just a general dimness. You can't see what you're doing. You can't start a new project because all the yarn and fabric looks gray. Everything seems like it might just have to wait until the weekend, but weekends have become lazy, too. I keep thinking, "Yeah, I should do that," and then I don't, because it always feels like it's almost time for bed. It makes a person tend to put down her knitting and crawl lazily onto the couch beside the most pampered dog in the universe:
This little catdog, I swear. I am wrapped around her little paw. She mooches up, pushes all the pillows into a little nest beside my leg, gives a rattly sigh, and the next thing I know, I'm tucking a blanket under her chin, and telling her again what a good girl she is, how cute she is, how much I love her. Her head is like velvet.
When I am able to resist the lure of her lovely popcorn-scented feet and gentle snoring; when I am able to focus on something besides competetive baking shows on television, and then wanting to bake all the cookies, I knit a little. I'm working on Old Town by Carol Sunday, and it is the opposite of plain knitting. It is origami knitting. You cast on here, knit some, put some stitches aside for awhile, pick up some more stitches somewhere else. Turn and go sideways. It is bristling with markers, and it's one of those projects where you have to kind of spread out your notes and draw upon your knowledge and stuff. It is nice, though, to follow someone else's map for awhile, instead of doing my usual making it up as I go. It might be awhile before I make much progress. There is the cutest dog, snoring away on the couch right now.