knit
knit knit purl. knit knit knit purl yarnaround.
knit
knit knit purl. knit.two.together. knit knit knit purl.
Knitting needles are supposed to
“click.” That’s always in novels, about how some character’s needles “clicked.”
Miss Marple, Madame Defarge, it doesn’t matter whether she’s a spinster
detective or the secret record keeper of a revolutionary outrage. If there’s a
woman knitting in a book, her needles click.
My
needles don’t click unless I make them.
Of
their own accord, my needles don’t make any sound at all except when I cuss.
The
only sound of knitting is in my head, and it goes knit knit knit purl. knit
knit knit purl yarnaround. knit knit knit purl. knit.two.together. knit knit
knit purl. Of course not always those stitches in that order. Now yarn, it
makes a sound, especially when the ball is wound a little too tight.
“Fuuuuurze” is the sound it makes until enough yarn has been pulled out to
loosen the ball a little bit. It’s that sound that can make your teeth tingle
if you listen too close. So I try not to listen.
Knitting
is silent, and isn’t that the point? The sounds are around you. There’s the
occasional car passing out on the highway, going too fast, even the ones just
doing the speed limit. That shepherd mutt in the next block, barking, bored and
angry on its chain in the dust. In the summertime the cicadas yelling at the
whole world, angry as hell, they’re not sure about what, but they’re damn sure
going to tell us all about it. (Anybody ever nominate a cicada for political
office? They’d fit right in and be about as much use.) The sounds are around
you, but when you’re knitting, you don’t have to listen. The inner sounds are
the ones that matter.
knit
knit knit purl. knit knit knit purl yarnaround.
knit
knit knit purl. knit.two.together. knit knit knit purl.
