Best Provisional Cast On

This post is a bit of a departure for me. Yes, it is about knitting. You cast on when you put stitches on your needle to begin a piece of knitting. A provisional cast on is a method of leaving stitches “live” so that after knitting “up” from them in the normal way, you can start again at the bottom and knit “down” from the stitches you cast on. There are some good reasons for needing a provisional cast on: adding a collar or a hem, grafting a border or building out from the middle on a lace project. There are also some bad reasons (in my mind) like using them everywhere because you have a pathological fear of seaming. Anyway, I am working on one such seamless pattern now and have had a little, shall we say, provisional cast on drama, so I am writing this post more as a memory aid to myself, because there are a numbers of methods out there and some are better than others.
There is this one, from Knitty and the Yarn Harlot. Like all provisional cast ons it involves waste yarn. The waste and actual yarn are twisted around each other and then the actual yarn gets twisted around the needle. It isn’t bad, and I have used it on a lace project that I am working on now. All that twisting can be cumbersome, and the stitches can be loose and even, which is why I think it is better for lace. Interestingly enough, it does not look like it is the provisional cast on the Yarn Harlot has used herself here:
provisional cast on

That looks like it might be a crochet cast on, which is my favourite. There are a couple of ways of doing it. Techknitter suggests that you crochet a chain and then pick up stitches in the bumps. It works but it is a little bit cumbersome — it is telling that techknitter’s preferred way of doing a provisional cast on is by simply knitting for a few rows in waste yarn, beginning with the actual yarn and then, when you need the live stitches, just snipping the wast yarn and unravelling it (That actually may be what the Yarn Harlot has done in the photo above). I think the easiest crochet provisional cast on is the method described by Woolly Wormhead (yes, the names are great, aren’t they?). Instead of making a chain and then picking up stitches from the back bumps, you turn the back bumps into stitches by cricheting the chain right onto your needle. It means you can used a crochet hook that is closer in size to your needle and waste yarn that is closer to your actual yarn, meaning that the provisional stitches will be less noticeable once you come to use them. You can quickly and easily unzip the crochet chain once you are read for the live stitches.

Which brings me to the last provisional cast on, one I do not recommend, from Wendy Bernard. It begins with a long tail cast on done with actual yarn (forming the loops of the stitches) and waste yarn as the second yarn. It has the benefit that the set up is really easy while all of the other options have a set up that is more time consuming and cumbersome. The problems emerge when you are ready to use the provisional stitches. After I unpicked the waste yarn from the bottom and began knitting, I found my whole row of 2×2 ribbing was askew. I am not sure what I could have done to fix it — when I pulled out the needle, I found that none of the stitches were truly “live.” It may be that I do my long tail cast on in a different way than others do. BUT even if the long tail cast on worked as promised, I would still not recommend this method because of the tiresome unpicking of each bit of waste yarn that is necessary. Each stitch must be picked out one by one with a needle, and you have to keep snipping off the end of the waste yarn or it gets to difficult to pull it through. All this wok to avoid seaming two inches of shoulder straps. So not worth it.

48th International Congress on Medieval Studies

…Or Kalamazoo for short. Just got back yesterday evening after missing it for the past two years. So of course I had to hit the book exhibits, hard. And I found some treasures, new and used. I got Bill Klingshirn’s edition of Caesarius of Arles: Life, Testament and Letters — not a bit too soon because I am teaching that tomorrow. I also got a translation of Aldhelm’s Prose works, and the poetry is coming in the mail, as is Chris Wickham’s The Inheritance of Rome: A History of Europe from 400 to 1000. I found two books from my doctoral advisor, Jocelyn Hillgarth; one of his oldest, The Conversion of Western Europe 350-750, and his latest, The Visigoths in History and Legend. Kate Cooper’s The Virgin and the Bride, Susanna Elm’s Virgins of God (yes, you are detecting a research theme), Leah Shopkow,’s History and Community, another former teacher, Edouard Jeauneau’s Rethinking the School of Chartres, Matthew Bailey’s translation of Las Mocedades de Rodrigo — the Youthful Deeds of the Cid (because I am tired of taking it out of the library), and Bonnie Mak’s How the Page Matters — which has perhaps the best “medium is the message” cover ever — round out the total. But I am perhaps fondest of all of the tote bag I bought fro the University of Toronto Press. Look Ma, no horns!:

U of Toronto Press
U of Toronto Press

We are the Beaver

I wasn’t going to post a Canada Day song today, I really wasn’t. I thought I had run through all the good ones. But then I saw this. And, well…

Happy buttertarts, everyone!

The Only Life You Could Save

The Journey

One day you finally knew
what you had to do, and began,
though the voices around you
kept shouting
their bad advice —
though the whole house
began to tremble
and you felt the old tug
at your ankles.
“Mend my life!”
each voice cried.
But you didn’t stop.
You knew what you had to do,
though the wind pried
with its stiff fingers
at the very foundations,
though their melancholy
was terrible.
It was already late
enough, and a wild night,
and the road full of fallen
branches and stones.
But little by little,
as you left their voices behind,
the stars began to burn
through the sheets of clouds,
and there was a new voice
which you slowly
recognized as your own,
that kept you company
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world,
determined to do
the only thing you could do —
determined to save
the only life you could save.

—Mary Oliver

Leftovers

The leftover goose bones and trimmings from Christmas were made into stock and into that I put the leftover stout from making my birthday cake and some leftover cauliflower (erm, I don’t even want to think about when I first bought that) and leftover Swedish cheese from Christmas Eve, and pureed it all, and I ate that a few times, and then added to it the leftover broth from simmering the beans and sausage to make cassoulet for New Year’s Eve, as well as the last spoonful or two of the cassoulet. And now I am eating it, along with pate and Finn Crisp from Christmas Eve. And it is so good.

Happy 2012

2000 Miles

Just in time, here is my other favourite Christmas song. The line I like the best is the one about, “Diamonds in the snow. Sparkle.” Every time I hear it, I remember being in university the winter it came out, and walking back to residence late at night after some Model Parliament party with my current boyfriend at the time. It was one of those dry, crisp frigid nights, and as the snow winked and blinked at us, he said, “Look! The photographers are taking our picture.”

If you, like me, have never seen the video before now, beware. It rivals “Safety Dance” for bad. Chrissie Hynde as a Salvation Army girl? But the song is worth it.

Christmas Wrapping

I managed to do most of my Christmas shopping in only one day but even that was too much. By the time it was over I felt like I couldn’t stand to hear another Christmas song as long as I lived. Part of that was a consequence of two hours trapped in my hairdressers chair listening to the Christmas channel on the radio. No, I have no desire to rock around the Christmas tree, and I do not hear what you hear. Don’t get me wrong — I like Christmas carols. Just not Christmas songs.

But there are two songs I make an exception for, and by a weird coincidence, both are by bands that originated in Akron, Ohio. Maybe I’ll get to the second later this month (and I bet you’ve already guessed which it is) but the first is The Waitresses, “Christmas Wrapping.” It has been running through my head all month, perhaps because this is the first Christmas I have spent with no family other than my son.

So deck those halls, trim those trees
Raise up cups of Christmas cheer,
I just need to catch my breath,
Christmas by myself this year.

Then I pay more attention to the words: “Had his number but never the time. Most of ’81 passed along those lines.” ’81? ’81?! This song is thirty years old! Am I even thirty years old? Clearly I must be. Oh dear, when did that happen?

There seems to be no video of it (we are almost pre-video for this song) so I present you with the synchronized Christmas lights version:

Christmas Wrapping — The Waitresses

In a quiet way, unwind
Doing Christmas right this time.

Love and Work

Here’s another poem, also first published in the New Yorker, I think in 2004. I don’t think it is difficult to understand why it speaks to me, and why I saved it all these years…

Love and Work
by Rachel Wetzseon

In an uncurtained room across the way
a woman in a tight dress paints her lips
a deeper red, and sizes up her hips
for signs of ounces gained since yesterday

She has a thoughtful and a clever face
but she is smart enough to know
the truth: however large the brain may grow,
the lashes and the earrings must keep pace.

Although I’ve spread my books in front of me
with a majestic air of I’ll show her,
I’m much less confident than I’d prefer,
and now I’ve started oacing nervously.

I’m pouring over theorems, tomes and tracts.
I’m getting ready for a heavy date
by staying up ridiculously late.
But a small voice advises, Face the facts:

go on this way and you’ll soon come to harm.
The world’s most famous scholars wander down
the most appalling alleyways in town,
a blond and busty airhead on each arm.

There is an inner motor known as lust
that makes a man of learning walk a mile
to gratify his raging senses, while
the woman he can talk to gathers dust.

A chilling vision of the years ahead
invades my thoughts and widens like a stain:
a barren dance card and a teeming brain,
a crowded bookcase and an empty bed…

what if I compromised? I’d stay up late
to hone my elocutionary skills,
and at the crack of dawn I’d swallow pills
to calm my temper and control my weight,

but I just can’t. Romantics, so far gone
they think their lovers live for wisdom, woo
by growing wiser; when I think of you
I find the nearest lamp and turn it on.

Great gods of longing, watch me as I work,
and if I sprout a martyr’s smarmy grin
please find some violent way to do me in;
I’m burning all these candles not to shirk

a night of passion, but to give that night
a richly textured backdrop when it comes.
The girl who gets up from her desk and dumbs
her discourse down has never seen the flight

of wide-eyed starlings from their shabby cage;
the fool whose love is truest is the one
who knows a lover’s work is never done.
I’ll call you when I’ve finished one more page.

My Soul

I found this poem while I was in graduate school in Toronto in the 90s, in one of the New Yorkers lying around the PIMS Common Room from their subscription. I have returned to it over and over again since that time (sigh), and I am putting it on my blog so I can find it more easily, darn it.

“My Soul is a Light Housekeeper”
(Error in the printing of the line “My soul is a lighthouse keeper,”
by an unknown female poet.)

Bored with the high drama of watching,
I see myself bound always to your absence,
sending out my pure circle of light so you
will know where I am, and how close
you might come to disaster. Imagine, love,
the tedium of this watch. On almost every day
nothing happens. And isn’t it wrong to yearn
for a great storm just to feel important?
I’ll let you go, then. Why shouldn’t my house
be my own, and my soul its keeper?
This work I needn’t take so seriously
since I’ve learned what pleases me, the light
of late afternoon through that window,
the intricate cobwebs I won’t disturb.
I know you don’t want to think of me
not always thinking of you, brave and imperilled.
I’m sure you’ll write to say: How can you change
so completely? You’re not the woman
I thought I knew. And I’m not,
but understand, dear, it wasn’t such a great change.
Imagine you could have seen that side of me
at the beginning, when we walked
for hours along the shore, and you were so certain
I was yours just because you loved me.

—Lawrence Raab, from The Probable World (Penguin Books, 2000)

Another Year, Another Used Book Sale

There’s a sameness to this season, always — the turn of the leaves, the chill of the air, the encroaching dark. Even the beginning of the university year feels like an ending. And this year, like last, I also marked the end of a relationship whose time had passed.

But there are compensatons, like the extra week of summer that appeared out of no where last week. And the annual used book sale. As always, I present a photo of my haul. I am most excited by the five Rowan magazines I got for 10 cents each, and Ekaterina Sedia’s Secret History of Moscow, which I have been seeking for a while. The books are all used and have been read before by people who came to their end and discarded them. But they offer a new beginning to me.

Book Sale 2011