The History in my Stars

I'm faced with a conundrum.

According to Ravelry, I started my Celestarium on June 16th of last year.

As of today, I am over halfway through the last chart, which means I'm about 75% through the whole shawl. I'm on track for finishing it in the next few weeks.

Tens of thousands of stitches have been made by my hands. Hundreds of beads placed. Countless hours of my life put in to it. 

My knitting skills have improved vastly from when I started this shawl. My understanding of my particular tension is better and I no longer have problems with laddering. I know that I am a looser knitter than when I began. 

Which is why I'm debating frogging Celestarium and completely starting over.

Looking it over, you can see the vast differences between where I started and what I'm currently working on. Like the rings in a tree, each section is a snapshot of my knitting skill at that point in time. If I were to start it over, the end product would look significantly better. A more unified and consistent work. Not to mention, a better showcase of my knitting skills.

Ripping it out, though, is a year's work lost. A year of learning, mistakes, and improvements will have no physical record of ever existing. It would only be acknowledged in my knitting skills from here forward and only by me. Every item made from now on will only be possible because of what I've learned from my past projects. 

But Celestarium was the entire reason I wanted to learn how to knit. I fell in love with it when I first discovered Ravelry and had sighed wistfully over it for the longest time, never thinking I'd be able to do it. But I did learn and I did start it. Wouldn't I be better served by starting from scratch and doing right by this pattern so close to my heart?

I have to decide what kind of knitter I am.

Am I an artist striving for that perfect piece?

Or am I a storyteller who speaks through my knitting, mistakes be damned?

Am I willing to lose all of that work to have something more beautiful at the end of it all? To push myself for a better end result to do right by this pattern? To prove that I have the strength of will to acknowledge my shortcomings and do better the second time around?

Or do I let it tell a story? My story. Do I let my mistakes and growth show? Do I acknowledge to the world that this shawl is not perfect, in fact far from it, but there is a journey contained within it?

Every mistake, every inconsistent stitch, every ladder tells of someone who is still learning and striving to perfect her art. Every yard of yarn has passed through my hands as I have wandered about my little corner of the world. This shawl has been to loved ones' homes, travelled along on trips both near and far. It's been held and touched by dozens of people.

But it also tells of a knitter who did not know how to fix her mistakes when she made them. Or was too lazy to tink back to correct them. Many late night knitting sessions show themselves in sections with inconsistent stitches as I struggled to keep working.

So, who am I?

Storyteller or artist?

About a quarter of the way through chart D on my Celestarium shawl! #knitting #knit #yarn #yarnporn #yarnaddict #stars #knittersofinstagram #beads

A photo posted by Ashtan Albright (@ageeksgirl08) on Jun 18, 2015 at 12:39pm PDT

In the end, I realize that in my heart of hearts, I care more about the story.

Celestarium will never be perfect, no matter how many times I try to knit it.

And that's okay.

I am the keeper of broken and imperfect things. I am the finder of overlooked treasures waiting to shine. The perfection that some people crave has no place in my life. And my work will always reflect that.

This shawl's journey, from conception to completion, is an important piece of my history. I can show it to any other knitter and they will be able to see and understand more about me than any words could.

So onwards we will travel, towards more experiences and memories all wrapped up in wool.

Back to Our Regularly Scheduled Program

I figured between my broken needle and my empty wallet, my poor socks were doomed to the abyss known as my work in progress basket.

Silly me forgot that I have amazing friends.

Mikayla, the darling, ordered me a new needle and had it shipped right to my home. It wasn't supposed to be here until Monday, but....

We're officially back in business.

Struggles

It occurs to me that for being a knitting blogger, I'm terrible at actually getting enough knitting done to show off here. I don't really have an excuse, but maybe this glimpse into my typical day will give you some idea of how I operate.

I present to you "Yesterday."

Try to go back to sleep after John goes to work. Fail miserably.

Resign myself to staying awake, despite feeling tired enough that murder seems a sensible punishment for anyone who looks at me.

Waste three hours catching up on reading the archives of Yarn Harlot's blog while debating if I want to try and catch up on Critical Role.

Get urge to knit and start looking at patterns.

Stumble upon this and realize just how much of an amateur I am. Send to knitting friends so they, too, can also both be amazed and horrified.

Remember that I have a hank of red lace weight with enough yardage in my stash to complete that pattern, but that it was supposed to be for a different shawl. Actually, two different shawls. It is a huge hank.

Start trying to talk myself out of making the Magnum Opus up there.

Call in reinforcements to talk me down. 

Find and purchase this alternate pattern instead.

Realize that it's after noon and that I should probably appease the badgers that are apparently living in my stomach first.

Remember that I got soft pretzels at the store the other day and have a delightful lunch out of a couple. Reaffirm that yellow mustard is the only real topping for soft pretzels. 

Ultimately decide against watching Critical Role since one of my favorite twitch streamers was starting soon.

Waste an hour watching and chatting before I remember that I want to knit and have just bought a new pattern.

Start digging through the stash and decide to use the Malabrigo lace that had been purchased for a completely different pattern.

Debate over color order for a while.

Realize that I would have to go dig out needles, beads, stitch markers, and hunt down a cable.

Decide that the pattern is most assuredly not being worked on today.

Switch gears and decide to work on John's socks instead.

Waste another half hour looking at sock patterns.

Middle sister asks if I mind if she came over to play Skyrim. Tell her no, I don't mind. She pretends I told her that she can't come over at all, making me worried that I upset her. 

Decide that I really need to look into the return policy for children. I mean, Emmy was my 4th birthday present. Maybe mom still has the receipt.

Ask Emmy nicely to bring me a glorified coffee milkshake from McDonald's, because it sounds good, damnit. 

Fight with ball winder and try to wrangle John's sock yarn into submission. End up having to hand-wind over 200 yards of yarn.

Emily shows up with no drink in hand. Give her a pouty face and send her out to fetch me one. 

Decide that maybe I will keep her after all. 

Finish winding yarn and realize that I have to go find my needles. Do so, cursing a bit.

Cast on using logical inferences about the size of John's feet.

Get a couple of rounds done and look at sock funny. Realize that it looks awfully small. Reassure myself because he's got tiny ankles.

Stop and look again. Confer with knitting friends and laugh because I'm always so paranoid.

Notice that my nail polish looks pretty damn good with this yarn.

Get hit with a wave of "everybody hates me because I'm so annoying and no one ever wants to talk to me again." Post these thoughts to facebook. Get immediate reassurance that I am, in fact, not as terrible as I think. 

Say goodbye to John on skype chat because it's time for him to go to practice. Ask him before he leaves if he minds grabbing me something to eat on the way home because I had a craving.

Continue to reluctantly knit on the socks, afraid to get too far with them in case they don't fit, until twitch streamer ends.

Sit socks aside and proceed to make dinner for the rest of the family. Not done out of any feelings of love, but out of survival. They were looking at me like one looks at a pound of bacon. 

Realize that I am going to have to wash dishes. Curse at husband quite a bit. Dishes are his job.

Make a seemingly delicious meal of fettuccine alfredo (jarred sauce, you twits. I don't love my family enough to make it from scratch) with the leftover sautéed mushrooms and onions from yesterday's patty melts and homemade garlic bread.

Listen to the happy growls of satiated pack of slobbering beasts family members.

Decide to sit downstairs with Emmy and watch her kill dragons. Continue to knit half-heartedly and finish cuff.

Get excited because other favorite twitch streamer is starting. Watch, chat, and knit until John comes home.

Get excited again because he brought food. Eat dinner and tell him to go wash a foot so I can try on this sock.

Resign myself to the fact that I actually have to touch his foot. Question why I ever thought knitting socks was a good idea.

Barely get sock over heel, but realize that it's loose around his ankle. Think maybe that it's something to do with the fact that the sock is only two inches long at this point. 

Confer with knitting friend, who suggests toe up instead for better customization. Laugh at her because I don't want to frog this stupid thing.

Send him off to do dishes and knit another inch. 

Try sock on again. Same results. 

Confer with knitting friend again. Marvel at the cartoon character-like proportions of my spouse. Try to come up with a thousand different solutions.

Realize that I am, in fact, going to have to frog.

Rip sock apart.

Sit knitting aside and mutter dark thoughts.

Eventually shower and go to bed.

Wake up this morning as John's leaving.

Try to go back to sleep after John goes to work. Fail miserably.

Resign myself to staying awake, despite feeling tired enough that murder seems a sensible punishment for anyone who looks at me...

Travel, Transphobia, and Too Many Colors

I've been wrangling with myself on how exactly to organize this post.

Do we do the usual and go chronologically, which means tackling a heavy topic in the middle of the post? Or do I handle that first? Or do I wait until the end?

I suppose chronological has served me well so far and will do so again.

So, going back two weeks ago, we had a special birthday party to attend. John's grandma was turning 102. I wasn't exactly thrilled about going because the majority of that side of the family... let's just say that stating that they "dislike" me is putting it mildly.

Quick aside, ever wonder why this blog is called "Black Goat Knitting"? Well, John and myself are kind of considered to be black sheep of the family due to our atheism. We've also been accused of being Satanists. Which, according to the highly reliable source of the "Satanic Panic" during the 80's means sacrificing goats or some other such nonsense. Put two and two together and there you have it.

Anyway, off to the party I went, if only to support my husband.

It did give me a chance to give my mother-in-law her birthday present.

Say hello the the Golden Tree Shawl.

Made with Malabrigo Worsted in colorway Butter. The pattern is the Lonely Tree Shawl on Ravelry.

This shawl is quite significant to my knitting skills in two ways. 1.) I finally learned and mastered the damn picot bind off.

And 2.) I knit the pattern exactly as written. No modifications whatsoever. It was scary.

At the party, things were going alright at first. I was being mostly ignored, just as I had hoped. I was giving off a "don't really want to talk to you" vibe and I think they got that. It just so happened that the party was same day as the Pulse tragedy, so we were weary of snide comments being made about "them damn homos and filthy Muslims." (That part of the family is just filled with the kindest people!)

Well, just as bigots are want to do, two of John's aunts started a discussion bashing transgender people and how horrible having to be politically correct is.

I looked at John, he glared right back. We both stood up and went to confront them.

I couldn't tell you exactly what I said. I don't think it was particularly coherent. As much as I'd like to think that I'm good at handling confrontation in person, it's much better for me to be able to write my thoughts out before presenting an argument. No such luxuries in this case! I do remember saying the phrase, "It's not being politically correct! It's being right!"

John spoke much more clearly and did a friggin amazing job. We shut the whole room down. Once we had spoken our piece, we turned and walked away.

We left not too long after that. We both were rather drained, disgusted, and wanting to get back to our home. Our safe place.

I doubt we've heard the end of it, but for now I'm proud that we stood up against these people.

On Wednesday, the lovely Allen came over for a dinner visit. Seriously, I cannot tell you how friggin jealous I am of their style. They were rocking this polkadot dress number that had me three shades of envious.

This past weekend, John and I went to Origins Game Fair. The original plan was to go Friday through Sunday, but the universe laughed at us and said no. We ended up just driving down on Saturday for a day trip. It ended up coinciding with the Columbus Pride Parade.

We decided to watch part of the parade before heading in to the convention. Rather than overload everyone with a bunch of pictures from it, you can check out my (terrible) photos HERE.

We were a little hesitant to attend due to recent events, but I'm so glad we did. Besides a few of the usual religious zealots swearing up and down we'd all burn in hell, the general atmosphere was one of happiness and oneness. There was the understandable sadness and anger as well. We didn't stay for the whole parade, seeing as it lasted for 3 hours. But I was happy to see what we did.

We had a great time at the convention. One of my dear friends was a volunteer, so we hung out with her quite a bit. I blew most of my portion of the fun budget on one thing. No regrets.

We picked up:

- The Sherlock Holmes RPG (that's where my money went) and it included the core rule book, a DM screen, a book of additional scenarios, case log notepads, and two special dice for the game.

- Playmat for Boss Monsters

- 6 new minis including a griffin, a dragon tortoise, a bulette, and a Cthulhu-headed shark

- A mini Om Nom from Cut the Rope

- A new dice set that I created

- A d30

- The commemorative Origins 2016 d6

- The expansion for a game that we went to buy, but was sold out

Not pictured:

- Said game that the maker ordered a copy off of amazon and had shipped to us

- My big ol' Bulbasaur plush

- The D&D tote bag that Kayla snagged for us the next day

We also had the absolute pleasure of meeting Mr. Chris Perkins, principal storywriter for Dungeons and Dragons.

He signed our Player's Handbook and we had an absolutely lovely chat. It wasn't until later that I realized that we forgot to ask for a picture with him. Oh, well.

Saturday was also Worldwide Knit in Public Day. I had packed my sock into my bag, but when I went to pull it out, I discovered to my horror that I managed to break one of my damn needles.

Here's a WIP shot of them, though.

I'm REALLY loving knitting these things. I already have plans for another dozen pairs.

I had John pick out some yarn from Destination Yarn since I promised that he gets the next pair. This is what he chose.

This is the colorway Desert Night. I'm excited to see what it works up like.

Until my new replacement needle comes in (shout out to Mikayla, who is an absolute dear and bought it for me because I was having a down day) I'm itchy to work on something else. Browsing through my favorites on Ravelry, I stumbled upon Foxy Paws.

Now, I haven't done a lot of colorwork, but there's something about this pattern that is just screaming my name. And the best part is I can do it all from stash yarn.

But that's the problem.

And where I need your help.

See, I've got too many awesome colors to use. And I need help picking out what combo to ultimately work with. Below, I'll show you the base colors I've picked and the colors I'm also considering adding. Please leave a comment below with your favorite. Whichever ends up with the most votes will be what I end up using!

Here are the BASE colors:

OPTION ONE:

OPTION TWO:

OPTION THREE:

OPTION FOUR:

So once again please leave a comment below with BASE, ONE, TWO, THREE, or FOUR below. Think you have a better idea? Tell me in the comments!

And do so soon. My hands are itching for some fun.

Snapshot

Earlier tonight, John called his dad.

It was Father's Day, and he hadn't had a chance to call yet.

Because he had been busy all day.

Taking care of me. Taking care of Alex. The dogs. The cats.

He had mowed the yard, picked up after the dogs, and swept the sidewalk.

He had held me this morning as I cried in the shower and worked through my post-con emotional roller coaster. And insisted that I should just relax today and take care of myself.

He had drove clear to Canton and back to get us all dinner.

He stood in the hallway as he talked, letting his food get cold.

I heard his exasperated tone; saw him lean against the wall in exhaustion.

I heard his responses to heated questions.


When I looked out and saw him standing there, I snapped a quick photo.

Something about him standing there struck me.

I knew that when he was done with the phone call he'd be angry, upset, and hurt.

That he would be a little more broken than before.

Because he would have been told once again that one aspect about him made him into an uneducated and damned person.

That he would burn in hell for all eternity for daring to not blindly following his parents' lead.


His family doesn't see what I see.

The kind man. The thoughtful man. The selfless man.

Their son who does his best to help take care of his parents.

Who plays tech support to technology that belongs in a museum.

Who helps unload yet another piece of clutter or knickknackery in his work clothes because he hasn't even had a chance to make it home yet.

My husband who works full time to make sure that we are taken care of.

Who, after working that job, helps Alex with her homework every single night without a single complaint.

He patiently answers any questions she has about anything her brain can come up with.

He gives her his full attention every time she talks to him and strives to learn about what interests her. Just so he can have better discussions with her.

At her last teacher meeting, John sat beside me, listened to everything that her teachers said, and asked questions. He wanted to make sure that he was doing the best job possible tutoring her at home.


He takes care of me. And that is the biggest understatement that has ever been uttered.

He has stood by my side for nearly 10 and a half years as I've lived through and learned to deal with my mental illness.

He understands when I am out of spoons and need to step back inside myself for a while.

He doesn't complain when he has to pick up the slack in regards to housework because once again my depression has tackled me and left me in bed, barely able to function.

He deals with the panic attacks.

The outbursts of anger.

The good days and bad.


He is not perfect.

He does not claim to be.

In fact, he is often quite harsh on himself.

He has issues with self-worth.


I just wish I could make those thoughts go away.

I wish he could see what I see.

The strong, capable person.

Who overcame a background of hate and has since replaced it with a deep well of knowledge and compassion.

The man I have come to rely on and cherish.

Who has filled my life with laughter.

This beautiful person that I love.

Orlando

Just fyi, this is more of a brain dump than a well thought out and reasoned post. I apologize for a lack of eloquence on my part. It's hard to write when your heart and head hurt.

I'm sure that all of you are already aware of the tragedy that occurred at the Pulse gay nightclub early this morning in Orlando, Florida. More than 50 people dead and just as many injured. Committed by a man with a vendetta against anyone who considers themselves a member of the LGBT+ community.

Senseless violence.

Wasted lives.

Just because you dare to love someone.

Or be someone different.

Or don't subscribe to antiquated notions of orientation or gender identity.

Or hell, even just allying yourself with these people.

How fucked up is that?

I won't even pretend to know exactly what it's like to be hated, shunned, and potentially harmed over my sexual orientation.

On the surface, I present to the world as a heterosexual person in a long-term, committed relationship with a man.

I didn't really come to terms with my bisexuality until a few years ago. And seeing as I've only ever really had one long term relationship and that is with my husband, I never had to go through bringing home a partner of the same gender.

But I am out as bisexual to most of my family. They have been accepting of it. Going so far as to say that as long as I was happy, that was all that mattered.

Sometimes I wonder if that would have been the case if I would have fallen in love with someone of the same gender instead. But my heart tells me that they would have loved me (and her) all the same.

I am extremely lucky in that regard.

But what if I hadn't been born into such a loving and accepting clan?

It's not too hard to imagine.

I've seen the news articles about the discrimination. The hatred. The violence.

I've heard the stories, told by survivors, some barely understood as they sob and choke on their words.

Others, spoken in a dead voice, with a long stare off into a terrifying memory.

And still others having to have their stories told by others, because their own voices have been forever silenced.

People have been thrown out of their homes.

Disowned by their families.

Lost jobs, lost friends.

Been threatened, been beaten.

Been driven to self-harm and suicide.

Been murdered.

For being themselves.

I could have been one of those people, if born in a different time or place.

By a fucking quirk of being born into the family I have, I have never experienced any of this firsthand.

And that is a sobering thought.

I don't have my usual light-hearted quips to try and help people smile through the pain.

I can only offer this perspective.

I'd like to think that this upswing of bigotry and violence are the death throes of a vile and dangerous ideology.

That maybe, just maybe, our generation can be the one to tell our grandchildren that we fought for and won equality for our LGBT+ brethren.

Then they can laugh at their silly old grandparents who knew people who actually thought that just because you were a different race, orientation, or gender meant something.

It's a very small, very tiny little light of hope.

To those of you who stand, once again, on the wrong side of history.

Love is going to win in the end.

Your outdated and backwards way of thinking is on the out.

You know deep inside that no matter how much hate and violence you spew, no matter how many of us you maim and kill, that You. Will. Not. Win.

We won't back down. We won't be silent. We will stand strong and we will fight.

For each other. For our future.

For equality.

For love.

My Brain: A Cautionary Tale

Spock: I know that we want to work on some knitting. But our depression has been pretty bad this week. We should take it easy and just work on something simple and fast.

Beaverly: MAKE THE THING WITH THE TINY NEEDLES AND FUSSY, THIN YARN AND LEARN SOMETHING ENTIRELY NEW THAT WILL LEAVE US FEELING FRUSTRATED AND HATING OURSELVES WHEN WE DON'T GET IT PERFECT THE FIRST TIME!!! WHEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!

Spock: *sigh*

Huh. Would you look at that? It appears I'm actually understanding how to do the thing Beaverly wanted.

Hello, first sock.