Crazy Lanea

Will sue to avoid goblins

I love Norway, I love old crumbling structures, and I love this guy.  This guy refuses to remove a falling-down building on his property because he doesn't want to offend the Nordlys living there.   Where I live, one developer after another illegally removes old, healthy trees and nothing happens.  In Norway, "the darkworld spirits said no" is looking to be a worthy plea. 

Having read my Scandinavian mythology, I've got to say, Mr. CrazyNorge (no relation) may be hedging his bets, but he may, well, he may have read his mythology too.  I wouldn't want to piss off any Nordlys either. 

Right--book review back-posting commences now. 

Praisesong for the Widow

Praisesong for the Widow by Paule Marshall

This is another one of those books I allowed to languish on my to-read shelf for far too long.  I found Paule Marshall's books thanks to Virginia Fowler, with whom my big brother and I both studied in college.  If you haven't run into Fowler's work, well, run into it soon.  She's one of the most fascinating people I've ever met, and she taught me to really learn and study.  Ginny would make strong students shine, drag scholarship out of the laziest of students, or she would fail them--those were the three options in her class.  I think I value my As from Dr. Fowler more than I value being accepted to present papers at conferences.  Any idiot can convince a conference organizer that their paper is worth hearing--only someone who really works hard can get an A from Dr. Fowler.  I should send her a fruit basket.

Praisesong is the story of the cultural epiphany of a widow.  Our hero, Avatara "Avey" Johnson, is a widow and mother.  She has a complicated relationship with her activist daughter and mourns the degradation of her marriage, which suffered under financial strains and then withered as money replaced love and passion.  Avey goes on a cruise with some friends and ends up ditching them to forge a connection to her culture.

There are some sections of the book that could be tightened up a tiny bit, but the close of the novel (novella?) is masterful.  Avatara reconnects to West Indian culture in a gorgeous ancestor ceremony.  Very few writers can write ritual well, but Marshall pulls it off.  She takes us to a scene most of us will never see, she treats it with reverence, but she also reveals the humanity of it all.  I won't say more--just go read it.  Read it read it read it.  It's a great book.  Read it now.  It's small--read it twice.

Tree-Talk: Memories, Myths and Timeless Customs

Tree-Talk: Memories, Myths and Timeless Customs  by Marie France Boyer

This is a sweet little snack of a book.  It contains photographs of famous ancient trees the world over, and stories explaining folk rituals practiced at or near the trees. 

The only downside, and it is a qualified downside, is that several of the trees photographed in India have swastikas on them.  No, they're not Nazi symbols in this instance--they're sun signs blah blah blah, but I always find the things jarring.  I think most people do. 

Zap!

It's official--my old computer is no more.  Fried.  Cooked.  Crispy.  Roasted beyond repair.  The damage was apparently done while I was in beautiful Walker Valley New York for the KR Retreat.  I use a surge suppressor, so it should have been safe, but it wasn't.  I'm annoyed, but the thing was seven years old, couldn't be upgraded because the case was too small for any of the processors on the market today, and had already endured a major dog-hair induced surgery (Kayo had managed to fill the case with his fur back before Scott and I switched offices--an excess of dog hair will indeed do strange things to a computer).  So now I need to buy a new computer.  Scott and my Step-Dad Jim are urging me towards a lap-top, and I am being indecisive.  Shocker.

So, that's the long way of saying you shouldn't be worried if I'm posting a bit less for a while.  We're down to one computer in the house for now. 

We had a lovely holiday, cooked and ate great things with family, and then got to spend time with friends who were in town visiting their families and with lots of our local nearest and dearest.   We got to meet Saxon in person, we had some great Moroccan food, courtesy of the perfect combination of initial blind faith in a recipe I found on the web mixed with my sudden distrust for said recipe, which ended up serendipitously producing exactly the right tagine for my tastebuds.  We ate the famous chocolate hazelnut torte of the Danes (don't worry Christine--the recipe will remain secret), I got to see a friend who I had lost contact with a decade ago, and then I got to beat the boys in a fun strategy game.  All in all, a wonderful long holiday weekend.

The mitered-square sockyarn blanket is growing, as are the kilt hose;  print o' the wave is still stalled; some Rowan yarn is whispering to me about swatching for Scott's sweater; and folks are hinting pretty loudly for handknit gifts.  We're going for a long weekend in the mountains in a few days, armed with books, yarn, boots, great music, and our wonderful dog.  Ahhhhhhh.  I love every bit of autumn, even its waning. 

The Kalevala

The Kalevala transcribed by Elias Lonrot, translated by Keith Bosley

The Kalevala is Finland's great national epic.  And I have a huge honking crush on Finland.  Do you think Finland will ask me to prom.  Ohmygodohmygodohmygod!  Finland is so cute!!!  Right.  Where was I?  For those of you who love to read for free, there's a copy of the Kalevala available online here.  I can't attest to the quality of either translation--I don't know the first thing about Finnish.  Well, I know how to say one really inappropriate thing in Finnish, but that counts for nothing.  I'm absolutely sure I first found out about the Kalevala from my friend Karhu (who taught us said inappropriate phrase).  He speaks Finnish, of course, and can recite chunks of the Kalevala.  And he can joik (which is sort of like yodeling), and knows a ridiculous amount about all things Saami.   

Unlike the Iliad or some of the other great epics, The Kalevala wasn't a whole narrative a few hundred years ago.  It was a series of separate stories that had been preserved through the oral tradition.  Elias Lonrot gathered them up and ordered them into a narrative whole.  The work made a huge impact on Finnish people, and helped spur the Finnish nationalist cause according to many historians. 

The Kalevala is largely the story of Väinämöinen, who is a god/bard/poet/musician/magician and his brother Ilmarinen the smith, who is also a god/magician (smiths are always gods in ancient myth, the world over), and who created the Sampo, which is a magic, well, something that really matters.  It's the magic grindstone from which fortune flows, it's the bright lid, it's possibly some sort of nautical tool or part of the sky.  Here is one of the descriptions of the Sampo:
On one side the flour is grinding,
On another salt is making,
On a third is money forging,
And the lid is many-colored.
Well the Sampo grinds when finished,
To and fro the lid in rocking,
Grinds one measure at the day-break,
Grinds a measure fit for eating,
Grinds a second for the market,
Grinds a third one for the store-house.

There is a wonderful creation myth at the beginning of the Kalevala--if you don't want to read the whole immense thing, at least read the creation.  Ilmatar, (I think that means all-mother) the Maiden of the Air, gives birth to Väinämöinen, Ilmarinen, and Lemminkäinen, the God of magic.  There are eggs involved.  It's gorgeous.   

Fiber arts also come up repeatedly in the myths.   Several of the Finnish goddesses have connections to fiber arts, and they pop up within the narrative, tools in hand and with a touch of advice: 

When spinning-time comes
and cloth-weaving time, don't go
to the village for wrinkles
beyond the ditch for guidance
to the next house for warp-thread
to a stranger for reed-teeth:
spin the yarn yourself, and with
your own fingertips the weft
make the yarn lightweight
the thread always tightly spun;
wind it into a firm ball
on the reel toss it
on to the warp beam fit it
then set it out on the loom.
Strike the reed smartly
and raise the heddles nimbly
weave homespun caftans
and make woollen skirts
from one strip of wool
the fleece of a winter sheep
from the coat of a spring lamb
the down of a summer ewe.

Pretty good advice, no?

A great deal of material and myth unfolds in the book: Ilmarinen and Väinämöinen feud over a woman, clash with the villains Joukahainen and with Louhi the Hag of the North, who steals the Sampo, seek  Lemminkäinen's aid . . . it's a huge tome of myth, but it's wonderful.  And it's also a great primer on oral tradition.  The memory tricks lay themselves out on the page.  People recite the entire Kalevala every year in Finland.  One of these days I'd like to be there to hear it.  In the meantime, I'm just trying to shove a good portion of it into my head.  I've been reading it for over a year, and I'm not likely to stop.  Some people sleep with a Bible on their nightstand.  I'll keep the Kalevala there with the Tains instead. 

No boughs have withered because of the wintry wind

No boughs have withered because of the wintry wind
The boughs have withered because I have told them my dreams.

That little bit of cave-dwelling miserable beauty is from Yeats, whom I love.  I stuck it out there because I'm starting to trot out wool poems over on Eating Poetry.  Check it out if you're so inclined.

Remember all those promises about pretty pictures and words words words?  My computer just up and died.  Nicely played, oh Dell P.O.S.  You heard I had some money saved, eh?  Well, maybe all my talk of reducing and limiting consumption was bunk, huh.  Did'ja ever think of that?  Maybe I'll just go and buy a shiny silver laptop like those other knitters did.

I'm handling this as calmly as I am because yesterday was a three-hawk day.  Some people like to shop.  I like to see hawks.  I also bought a touch of yarn because my mother and the Hunt Country folks ganged up on me, and I think maybe there were torches threatening the yarn.  Anyway, I now have all of the Bearfoot.  You canna have annym so dinna ask.

So this will be quick and dirty, since I'm borrowing Scott's machine.  Let's just go from now back to then, with a minimum number of words.   I'm working on:

A mitered-square sock-yarn blanket.  Because I cannot help myself.  And because I lie to myself, claiming to be patient.  I am not patient.  I am short-sighted, and view tiny acts of completion (like, say, a single square) as victories.  I have, like, 13 gold stars: one for each square I've knit.  I'll run out of yarn pretty soon.  And then make excuses to knit socks even faster than I already try to so I can use the leftovers in the blanket.  I will not buy the blanket yarn.  I will not buy the blanket yarn.  I will not . . .

Also:

Freaking never-ending kilt hose.  I'll be done one day, I hope.  And then I'll just have to pray that none of my kilt-wearing friends talk me out of them. 

And:

A recycled cork-board

Which is really close to finished, thanks to Bo-Ro, who set me up with a bajillion corks.  Scott and I are clearly not drinking enough wine.   Once I'm done with it, I'll make another one.  I'll tell you how to make one, but realize that I feel like I'm insulting your intelligence.  Save corks, buy frame, attach backing, attach corks, hang somewhere, stick things to cork-board with pins. 

And also:

It doesn't look like much yet, but that's a moebius strip, which I started at the KR Retreat in Cat Bordhi's class (love her), and which will be the top of a fantabulous felted bag.  The yarn is a hand-dye from the Youth Program (that's what they're called)  folks whose tent abuts the Tuatha tent at Maryland Sheep and Wool.  The bulk of the bag will be made with Lopi.

The color inspirations for the bag?  Walker Valley, NY.

Lichen, and birch trees.  And pines that open up like doorways

And mingle their roots with mosses and mushrooms.

I have no other worthwhile pictures of the retreat.  My brain was too busy learning people to remind me to photograph them. 

And Samhain . . .

Oona's wearing a tunic I made for her about a decade ago.  That  band of color at the top is all embroidered.  Thousands and thousands of stitches, there.

Assembled masses, in what will eventually be the long hall (those peeled poles are part of the soon-to-be-walls, not assaulted living trees).  It was so cold we gave up all pretense of doing things right and just got warm and stayed warm.  And once warm, we got weird.  I think Bodwin brought the gummy eyes. 

They were put to good use.

Whoops

Accidental blog break there.  I went to the Knitters' Review retreat up in Walker Valley, New York, last weekend, and it was wonderful, and I promise to tell you more about it.  And we're trying to get ready for some family and friends who will be in town over Thanksgiving (will you be in town?  Will you come hang out with us?  We'll cook for you, you know.  And possibly drape yarn over you, if that's your thing.  Or just mix you up a Marconi or two.  Or beer--beer is also available). 

I've had to deal with some medical stuff lately, so, you know, distracted and tired and overly busy about explains it.  I kept vacillating about whether to mention it here or not, but it's taken up so much of my brain for so much of my life, I felt disingenuous staying mum.  Not mentioning it is like not mentioning that I knit.  Anyway, no need to get in a tizzy, but I seem to have some kind of mysterious undiagnosable inflammatory/auto-immune something happening, and I had to go get a bunch of tests done in the hopes that someone would finally stick a name on the illness this week.  Well, not so much.  To this day, confused doctors try to distract me from seeking a diagnosis by saying "Look!  A monkey!" and running out of the room.  I don't know any more about what is wrong, but I know that my kidneys, heart, and lungs are fine (YAYYYYYYY!), which erased my biggest worries, and that my regular doc wants to bury her head in the sand instead of connecting the dots.  Sigh.  So I get to struggle with doctors over the next few months and hope to find a really smart one who likes a challenge.  But my Mom, Wonder-Nurse (aka flood-bringer) is on the case, and she will browbeat people into, well, doing their damn jobs if need be.  Worst case scenario?  Someone sticks the word "idiopathic" on my chart. 

But the weekend is almost here, and my kidneys are ok so I'm having some wine and making a lovely dinner, watching the (lame) sixth season of the Sopranos, and knitting on a moebius.  I will make good on promises of photos and stuff and nonsense, much of it having to do with sheep, with a possible foray into the wonders of birch trees, and possibly some blather about nalbinding needles.  Ooh, and a cake recipe I promised to some knitters. 

Kicking Cancer's Ass: The Lime Project

I was just packing to head out for the Knitter's Review Retreat (not to rub it in, but, well, I'm a gonna rub it in just a tiny bit.  The awesomeness of finally getting to go to this retreat!), when I got an email from my dear friend Jeanne that just made me well up.

In case you're newish here, I freaking hate cancer. I want to corner it in a dark alley and kick it's ever-hating ass.  Seriously really really hate cancer.

And also, my Celty-girl friends have been known to make a calendar or two in our day and in our way.  Soft spot for indie calendars, here.  There's one in the works now, but that is not our subject today. 

Our subject is the Lime Project.  In short, a knitter and potter named Heather was diagnosed last year with Hodgkins.  She is fighting it, and she's winning, but the medical bills are destroying her financially.  So her friends got together to make a cheesecake calendar (the nudie kind, not the foodie kind) and sell copies to help Heather out.  All proceeds go straight to Heather.  If you're not into owning a copy of the calendar, you can make straight-up donations. 

So consider giving Heather a hand, won't you? 

Equal Protection?

I'm backfilling some book reviews, like I do. 

And frankly, Virginia has broken my heart.  I normally keep work and politics off the screen here.  Most people have jobs they don't love, and most people have political views that they can fight with their neighbors about for hours on end.  I don't want that here.

But I don't think I can let yesterday's election pass without comment.  This Commonwealth, where I've spent most of my life, just voted to scar our constitution with bigoted, hateful language that will enshrine homophobia in our Capitol, denying equal protection to a minority that deserves protection and equality, and rip rights away from hetero couples who have chosen not to marry for whatever reason.  It makes me heart-sick. 

I'm trying to console myself with the knowledge that 43% of Virginians said no to the amendment, but it's cold comfort.  The bigots won, and they're going to continue to harm people I love, simply because of who those people love.  Traditionally, we amend constitutions in the US to expand freedom and improve the lot of citizens.  Not lately. 

If you think it's ok to discriminate against homosexuals, don't bother to tell me.  I don't want to hear it. 

Land of Women

Land of Women: Tales of Sex and Gender from Early Ireland by Lisa M.  Bitel

When I buy a book with a big old Síle na Gig* on the cover, I expect to like it.  Not so much this time around.  It had its good parts, but it also has some big problems. 

First, there's a problem with the title.  It should be "medieval Ireland."  Early Ireland, to me at least, implies pre-Medieval.  Gimme some Iron Age, damn it. 

Secondly, the author did a good amount of research in the Vitae,  medieval legal tracts like Cain Adomnain, and some mythology.  But oh, what a mistake she made in interpreting the myths.  Frankly, she made a blunder that most Freshman students would make just once, and then they would be so ridiculed by any prof worth even a teaspoon of salt that they would never make it again.

Let me make this clear: There is almost always a huge span of time between when a myth, saga, or epic is composed and when it is transcribed.  Huge.  Hundreds of years.  Imagine how much any society changes in hundreds of years.  Sadly, Bitel conflates the Ireland of the Táin Bó Cúailnge and the Ireland of monks in the scriptorium copying the Táin Bó Cúailnge.  That conflation allows her to make some huge errors in judgment about what the Ireland of the Tain was like for women.  Of course it does. Ireland changed utterly in the span of time between 100 BC or so to the early Christian era.  Tribal systems collapsed, external influences from pre- and post-Christian Rome filtered across the water, invading Northmen found and sacked Britain and Ireland.  Hundreds of years, left out of the explanation.  Badly played, dearie.  Sloppy.

In Old-Irish texts, we know that the monks did not understand the Irish they were transcribing.  It contains linguistic forms that were out-moded and ill-understood by the early medieval period.  Scholars far more qualified than I have dated the language of the Irish epics, and identified the periods in which they were composed.  Doing one's homework is truly all that's required for those of us who wish to interpret mythology.  So do it, damn it.  Sheesh.

I get that many scholars want to focus on Patrician Ireland in their studies.  But, as in all forms of scholarship, once you pick your specialty you either need to stick to it or you need to do huge gobs of extra research and work when you decide to branch out.  I don't think Bitel did.  I think her mind remained ensconced in the context of Patrician Ireland, and that prevented her from better understanding the Ireland of the sagas.  More's the pity. 

All that said, I'm glad I read the book.  Bitel makes a lot of great points.  But I think her mistake in dates wrecks her thesis, and that's a shame.  She could have moved the debate forward with this book.  Instead, she negated her own opinions.  She's wrong when she rails about how powerless women were in ancient Ireland, and she's wrong because she messed up her dates and neglected her studies. 

* Pronounced Sheila nuh Gee or Sheila nuh Gig (either option with a hard g, by the way).  It means either hag on her haunches, or hag with her breasts out, or one of many other things depending on who you ask.  Most of the Síle na Gigs in Ireland date from the 12c onward.