In terms of my knitting lately, I have not been feeling it. And I’ve been feeling that not-feelingness, if you know what I mean. Every project feels a little bit off, sort of like that great shirt with the itchy tag or the comfy shoes that unaccountably rub the knuckle of one toe. And I am feeling cranky and tired and thoroughly sick of projects that are nice, but that do not make my heart sing.
• Green and purple cape I’ve been trying to decode from the Japanese knitting book—you are history. I am done with your mind-boggling charts.
• Swing Cardigan in the delicious alpaca yarn in just the right shade of yellow green that was given to me by my college friend Christina—I am unraveling you and saving as much as I can of your yarn. I will no longer tell myself that if I slouch the right way no-one will notice the one-inch difference in the length of your sleeves. I will not pretend that I didn’t go crazily off-gauge at some point and then have to awkwardly rework the cable charts in hopes of winding up with a garment that fits.
• Creature Comforts Cardigan that is not a cardigan, damn it, but a pocketed shrug that looks like a potato sack when worn—I am turning the lovely oak leaf panel up your back into a throw pillow and tossing the rest of your without regrets.
• Anemie Shawl that I just started knitting two days ago—I am quitting you. Your pattern is lovely, your yarn is lovely, but combining them diminishes them both.
• Giant cabled entrelac stole—who was I kidding? Yes, if I work on you for hours a day, every day, I might finish you by the end of June, but, frankly, I do not love you that much. I am walking away.
I had dreams for all of you, but those dreams will never be. And let me tell you this, my little wooly friends: it’s not me; it’s you.