Knerdy Knitting
where spelling isn't as important as awesome

An Essay in Three Parts

Part the First:  Nerd

Like most slang, the word “nerd” has no firm definition. It means different things depending on the location and age of the speaker. So perhaps the definition I will give here is more of an explanation, and it is important to know that it is coming from a twenty something living on the west coast of the United States.

“Nerd” has two sister words, “geek” and “dork.” Together they describe a certain subset of the population that doesn’t fit with mainstream expectations. “Dorks” are the most socially awkward of the the three. They are inadvertently rude, or speak in non sequiturs, or give too much personal information. They are clumsy and drop things. They dance in particularly unappealing ways. They may not have adequate personal hygiene. Dork is the most insulting of the three, and is rarely used positively.

Geek is the least insulting the three. It has widely been reclaimed as a mark of pride in one’s intense specific knowledge. Traditional geeks are knowledgeable in the hard sciences and mathematics or literature based on the hard sciences and mathematics. But the term can describe those passionately interested in any subject, including the soft sciences, music, film, and food. Geeks may have been ostracized as children for their interests and consequently poorly socialized. This is not an requirement, however. Geeks band together as adults, rejoicing in shared information about their favorite topic.

What, then, is a nerd? Nerds are so detail oriented that they have trouble functioning socially. They like facts, numbers, and statistics. This allows them to do very well in traditional academic systems, which in turn may lead to negative social interactions as a youngster. They are the most naturally logical of the three, but because they don’t see the bigger picture logic is not always to their advantage. Nerds do not understand insinuation, often have trouble with irony, and don’t take hints. “Nerd” is an insult, but can also be used as a friendly reminder to not be so myopic.

We now have half our definition.  Knerdy knitting is awkward, goofy,  intense, out of context, or just plain strange to the other kids.

Me:  Hi Dad, how’s it going?

Dad:  Oh, fine.  Anything new and exciting with you?

Me:  Mostly I’ve been working on a baby sweater.

Dad:  For you?

Me:  No, for a baby.

Dad: I mean, for your baby.

Me: *flashes of horror at the thought of being pregnant* NO!  It’s for a friend’s baby!

In Dad’s defense, this was shortly after I gained twenty pounds, left grad school, and started knitting like a fiend.  So in his world view, I am clearly going to have a baby.

Sometimes I forget that knitting has cultural connotations.  And that others, even those closest to me, will make incorrect assumptions about who I am because of my knitting.  Knitting is old fashioned, and so they may assume I am traditional in other ways.  Knitting is a time consuming and costly way to obtain clothing, and so they may assume that I am rich and have a great deal of leisure time.  Knitting is the work of grandmothers, and so they may assume that I’m a nurturing, mothering, femme woman.

But knitting is just a tool, a technique.  It’s pulling loops of string through other loops of string using two sticks.  All these values come from the observers, not from the knitting itself.  Knitting can be anything.  It can be a statement against mass produced, mass marketed clothing.  It can be a medium for showing love and protective feelings.  It can be a way to kill time.   These are the meanings I find in my knitting.  Luckily for me, knitting is a creative processes that produces socks, not infants.

Stick right needle through loop.

Wrap yarn around needle.

Pull yarn through.

Straighten everything out.

Lie down and rest before next stitch.

As will become clear as this blog progresses, I have a wonky brain.  Different doctors say it has different afflictions, but basically nobody has a good name for it or knows what to do about it.  My symptoms got unmanageable when I was around twenty and for the last eight years I’ve been figuring out what that means about the rest of my life.  Working full time is out.  Getting the advanced degrees I’ve dreamed about is out.   During bad times, participating in the consensus reality is out.  But (so far) knitting is never out.

It can take a lot of effort.  Knitting a few rows can leave me so exausted that I can’t stand long enough to shower.  And it isn’t always fun.  More than once knitting has been the focus of an irrational breakdown.  But I keep coming back to it and I keep working with it.  Because just like the meds and the light box and the exercise and the therapy, I think the knitting helps.

It’s something simple to fill the time when I can only do simple things.  The pull of the yarn between my right hand fingers is grounding.  I might be feeling all sorts of strange sensations that result from a misprocessing brain,  but this gentle tug is real.  I can see the yarn, I can see my fingers, and when the yarn pulls I feel it move.  Knitting is repetitive, using mostly muscle memory to make the stitches, which keeps my “lizard brain” distracted for a while and gives my “human brain” time to rest.  And when it’s all done, I have something to show for my effort.  Yoga might get me flexible legs, but knitting gets me killer socks.

Even though going through mohair by hand is lots of fun (see Goats), I wanted to go faster. So one of my goals at OFFF was to get a pair of hand carders. It turns out they are fairly expensive, but I found one pair that was half the price of the others. They were used, apparently for “Dark Wool” as they have a masking tape label to that affect attached to them, and their former owner is deceased. Her friends were selling some of her things at their booth.

Just as mortality inspires other forms of great art, mortality affects knitting and knitters. No, we do not knit little stuffed Death dolls. (Though that is a good idea.) But a common was to describe a yarn stash is that it exceeds life expectancy — that there is no way the knitter will use all this yarn before her death. And what starts out as a joke can become very real. I have only been a part of the knitting community for a short time, but I have been to two “give aways” following a fiber artist’s death. In both cases I didn’t know the knitter personally and the relatives of the knitter were trying to give things to someone, anyone, that would use them. I knit, and so they gave me yarn. But I also eat, and they didn’t push silverware on me with nearly the same intensity.

Knitting is such a huge part of knitter’s lives. It becomes more than playing with string, more than the pragmatic need to keep our loved ones warm. It is a reflection of ourselves and our lives. When our lives end with projects unfinished it’s like cutting off a song half sung. Even non-knitting relatives recognize this and feel the hunger to see the projects finished. Nature abhors a half-knit sweater.

After I die (…and I will die in the middle of lecture when I’m 96… all my students will get automatic A’s due to the trauma…) I’d like to think that Pirate Boyfriend would bring all my yarn and needles and books to Wednesday night knitting. That people would fight over the hand painted sock yarn and try to figure out from my Ravelry queue what projects I was intending for what yarns. I’d like to live on in the stitches that they make. I would like a Knitting Wake, where my yarn is divided and my patterns scattered to the four corners of the earth and the spirit of my knitting is laid to rest.

Because if you don’t, I am so haunting your asses.

Just a small sample of all the cables.

When I saw this pattern, I instantly thought of my Dad. He’s way into yoga. Particularly, the kind of hot yoga promoted by Bikram. I call it his Nazi Yoga. It’s the same thing every day. It’s in a really hot room. One day he even collapsed during the session.

And it’s a vital part of him keeping happy and healthy.

So I picked out a mercerized cotton yarn called Plymouth Yarn Fantasy Naturale Solid. It’s in a really nice blue — his favorite color — and is machine washable. And I began to knit. And knit. And knit. It’s a bag. I thought it would take a couple weeks or so. A month at most. But it’s been a month and I’m only two thirds of the way done with it. I blame the cables.

I have a little practice with cables, but after this project I’ll have a lot. It’s a three by three cable twist, first to the front and then to the back. And it takes for-freaking-ever. If I had known, if I had the experience to know, I would not have started this project. But now I’m two thirds of the way done and Dad knows I’m making him a yoga bag for his birthday. Which was two weeks ago.

It’s always a little sad when something I do for fun becomes something I have to do. Knitting should not be work. But then again, knitting shouldn’t be 27 inches of cables. So there you go.

So my spinning wheel made a strange thunking sound. I say “made” because I fixed it. Through the Power of Science. I’m like that.

Every time the treadle came down it would make this strange thunking sound (STS). It was a little disconcerting, every time my foot came down hearing this sound. But it came that I would just spin to the Ramones instead of Vivaldi and the STS fit right in. I didn’t think anything of it because it always made that sound. The woman I bought it from said it always made that sound. I thought that it was normal to have a STS.

Then it got louder. Then the footman (the stick between the foot treadle and the big drive wheel) would fall suddenly when the treadle went down. At OFFF, Amanda and I tried to figure out what was wrong. We determined that the leather strap between the treadle and the footman was pulling funny, making the footman and the treadle slap together on the downward stroke. Ah ha! Problem solved!

So when the wheel stopped working entirely, I knew what to do. Thought I knew what to do. I tightened the screws to the leather piece. This did nothing to help the wheel. “Oh shit,” I thought, “My wheel is broken. I must contact the local yarn store (LYS)!” Then I remembered the kind of people found at the LYS. The chance of finding someone that knows I am an Autumn — highly likely. The chance of finding someone that knows what a Philips screwdriver looks like — less likely. I was on my own.

Those that know me can attest that I have a tendency to Freak the Fuck Out. This was nearly one of those times. I was going from “broken wheel” to “never fixed wheel” to “never spin again” to “dying alone in a ditch.” That’s my style. I was near tears. But my years of training as a physicist came through. I can solve any mechanical problem with the Power of Science!

I carefully went through the scientific process of making theories from observation.
How is the wheel behaving strangely? — The treadle won’t spin it.
No really, describe the problem fully. — Ok then, sometimes when the treadle goes down it doesn’t spin with the wheel.
No, really really describe the problem. — When spinning the drive wheel with the treadle, although the drive wheel is always spinning clockwise, sometimes the top of the footman falls counterclockwise.
Well when you put it like that, it seems the footman and the drive wheel aren’t connected. — That makes is sound so easy.

Somehow, the pin that connected the drive wheel to the axle had gotten worked loose. I pulled the axle apart. The hole for the pin with completely filled with grease gunk. This part hadn’t been working for a while. I cleaned it out, wiggled everything back into place, and tried treadling again. It worked! First try, and it worked! Thanks, Science!

So what can we learn from this little story? That my scientific training is more powerful than my Freak the Fuck Out biochemistry. Which is a nice thing to know.

Sheep are ok, I guess, but goats are great!  They have rectangular pupils!  They give delicious milk for making even more delicious cheese!  (And nun goats make even more delicious cheese!)  My favorite book as a small child was about a goat pulling a cart!  So clearly, goats are a superior animal.

Therefore, when I got the opportunity to buy some cheap mohair, I jumped at it.  I should not have jumped.  It is beautiful, sure, but it’s still in the lock and hasn’t been well washed.  So I’ve been picking away at the locks, breaking them up and brushing out as much dirt as I can.

Notice the pretty orange in the top corner.

It takes a lot of time, but I’ve found it’s almost as relaxing as spinning itself.  I open the front door, which faces west, and sit in the afternoon sunshine and brush through my mohair.  The cats play around me and sniff the wool suspiciously, and all is right with the world.

What this yarn will become is a mystery.  I’ll have about 350 g of the orange stuff, and it’s spinning up about fingering weight.  A shawl?  A scarf?  A something?  Something tells me it is going to be much more fun spinning this stuff than wearing it.  So I try to pretend I don’t care what it’ll become.

So, I have had a livejournal for many moons.  I never use it, as nothing interesting happens to me.  At least, it doesn’t seem interesting until someone mentions I should blog it.  When I hear this, I immediately agree and resolve to blog it and many other interesting stories very soon.  Very soon never happens.  Maybe this is because I am forgetful.  Maybe it is because I suspect these events aren’t interesting after all.  Maybe this is because I am scared of writing in general, and the Blank Page in particular.  Whatever it is, the livejournal is not used.

But this blog will be used!  This is not because knitting is more interesting than other parts of my life.  In fact, I suspect that the college friends that read my livejournal would be more interested in my real life than my knitting life.  This blog will be used because I don’t care if anyone reads it.  I just like blathering on about yarn, and this will provide a place where I won’t drive people crazy with it.