A word is elegy to what it signifies.

I have failed, failed, failed you, Reader. I wish I had more knitting news to report, but, alas, my progress has been limited; I have not quite shaken my desire for rote stockinette. I'm working on the March Basic cardigan with the yarn I reclaimed from my Wicked, and it's going along fine. I finished a pair of stockinette Trekking socks and have started another in Knit Picks Felici, color Provence.

I knit another Odessa--it's a brilliant pattern for sure, and I can see myself knitting more of them in the future. I gave it away before I photographed it, though; I did it in a very, very soft Berroco Jasper, color Brown Santiago (3810), and was mildly disappointed at the murkiness of the colors. I thought the self-striping would be more apparent. The pattern is luckily charming enough on its own. I hope.

What made me think of you, Reader, is that I'm feeling the faint stirrings of desire for lace, of all things, and have been admiring the Seascape stole and shopping for laceweight in a deep, rich blue. What I really ought to do is knit myself an earflap hat against the coming winter--coming slowly, of course; thanks, global warming--or concentrate on my sweater, but I've been feeling a bit anxious that I haven't challenged myself enough.

But of course I'm thinking about knitting again because I should be thinking about books and poetry and teaching, and I'm off again now, with sincere apologies. Next time there will be pictures or blood.