As in UnFinished Objects. Lambchop has a reason to look alarmed. There are six half finished socks. Four started sweaters. Four scarves, two fluffy, two warm. Something that I think was meant to be felted. Six or seven flowers that needed the ends sewn in. A poorly conceived icord and bead thing. The dresser, in the background, has some suspicious yarn things on it, but this all came from the table I use as my nightstand. Yes, just one spot. See? You feel better about your housekeeping already, don’t you?
Now, I know why I stopped on the sweaters- they got boring, or something went wrong, or some other sweater waggled it’s fibers at me. I even remember throwing over each and every one. But the socks: there are questions. Socks are meant to be boring. That’s why I knit them- round after round after round. A little mild excitement at toe and heel time, but soothing and repetitive. There is always a sock in progress in my purse. So, why? Why did I stop? When did one ziploc bag of sock yarn and size zeroes become more enticing than another? When did I buy so many sets of zeros? (losse knitter- have to size down.) I have no idea, but I plan to make amends and rekindle our fires. Women and Koigu first.