A crochet a week. Part 2

Judging by how inconsistent I get when it comes to scheduling, I think it’s safe to say that I’m not gonna be fulfilling my quota of crocheting a piece every week. 

For week 2, I managed to finish the granny square. And in a fit of sudden creativity spike, threw in a small pouch to store (aka protect from frequent smashing) my pendant as well. 

  

Granny square pattern (7″ Nordic star) from Here. It was almost a failure cause I did not pay the attention needed on the gauge and  tension. My tension was pretty much inconsistent throughout and the last round was crocheted much tighter resulting in the whole thing bunching up from the inner rounds T-T

At the end I just pulled hard on all sides to make it appear “square” -ish..

  

Mini pendant pouch crocheted on back loop only. I used the foundation crochet tutorial from All about ami (her site is a serious treasure), then inserted a draw string on top. It was pretty much straight forward (also do take some time to appreciate me trying to make it look homemade by again neglecting the ‘mind your tension!’ rule). 

 

…now I think I’m gonna skip two weeks and spend my days talking in my head and watching Brooklyn Nine Nine.  

A crochet a week, for the lazy feet

 

This is part on my personal weekly challenge: to produce a crocheted thing every week. 

Week one: a spring bunny. Pattern by All About Ami. (The bunny is sitting on my second week project, to be revealed soon hah).

Why not everyday? Or every two days? Umm… My short attention span has it’s own attention priorities. Sure it’s simple and actually can be done in a few hours if you’re a seasoned crocheter. Which lies another problem: I’m not seasoned. My age is seasoned, not my crochet skill. Though a lot of practice will fix that problem unlike the first one. 

Some updates -slash- goals regarding my life recently: 

  • I’m currently catching up on GoT season 5 (tiny spoiler alert!). 1 episode at any other day. Sometimes 2. Okay sometimes even 3, whatever. I have no self restrain. It’s been a rather interesting development, especially the first episode. I watched episode 1 on HBO Malaysia, and they omitted the entire scene of Margaery and Loras conversing because, wait for it, there’s a scene of Loras fornicating with that TallBlondandHot dude from The Brothel (capital T and B cause it’s the only brothel that matters). hahahaha damnit censorship! 
  • On my way to crocheting my first ever granny square. And because I’m dull, grey color seems like a bright idea. 
  • Currently struggling on finishing A Room Full of Bones, by Elly Griffiths. I keep telling myself that it’s ought to be a very interesting book (judging by the synopsis), but the more I read the more I feel frustrated by the writing style. I have put down many books halfway and I’m trying to shed this habit. But this book is making it hard for me. Yeah but charge on, Arle! 
  • On one hand I’m still looking for a job. On the other hand I’m too lazy to leave my comfort zone. Such dilemma… I get thrown under a lot of judgements over my laziness (especially by the highly motivated who can’t comprehend the joy of just laying around daydreaming about nothing while simultaneously feeling depressed for enjoying such jolly frequent occasions), but what can a girl do when a girl is just…a blah kind of…girl.
  • The one thing I’m not lazy about is obssessively looking up aquaponics, gardening, crocheting, cat memes, reblogging Tumblr posts, and other assorted interests. Yes they are all one. The one internet browser to rule all of my random shortsighted interests.
  • Assorted interests. 

After Dinner

We sat by the balcony

My legs propped on your lap.

A cigarette in my hand

Quietly studying each other’s shadow.

Then a burp.

We peeked at each other, grinning.

“..du wutz”.

Our laughter sliced through the warm night.

The neighbor above poured water down to shut us up (and the cigarette).

On Ian and the wheelchair man

Ian remembered it to be a sunny day. The island sun shone unclouded and hit directly on his back. He was wearing a black long sleeved shirt -a testament to his terrible fashion choices. It was supposed to be a fun day. Hanging out with your buddies over a few beers or maybe healthy activity like cycling? Sounds fun, eh? Whatever. Ian dreaded cycling. He could never finish a cycling session unscathed. Something’s wrong with his balance among all the wrong things in him. It seemed like the vehicle he’s rolling with in his life path likes to swerve to the left over the border often, if not always.
He would probably order a cup of fancy coffee in a hipster cafe lined with street arts (those seemed to be fairly popular judging from the rate of small cafe establishments blooming and shutting down like flowers over the seasons, all embellished with some sort of art on the wall that’s got no context whatsoever). The coffee would probably be too thin, taste bland, and smell like it’s been dunked in leftover dish soap water.
But he digressed. He’s on a mission of winning back his friendship.
The people he’s determined to win back were a few meters ahead of him. Apparently they were leading the way to a food court.
An old man was at the parking lot, wheelchair bound. Ian squinted to have clearer view of the frail, dark skinned Chinese uncle slowly rolling the wheels with his fragile weathered brown and wrinkled hands, he turned a hundred-eighty back facing the exit where a small raised platform separated the parking space and the road. The wheels rolled down in retaliation whenever he tried to push them up against the platform.
Ian walked pass him whilst trying to catch up with his friends. He stopped momentarily, turned on his waist to look at the old man.
“You, uh, wanna go out?”, he made a spiral motion that ended up pointing out with his index finger before halting abruptly in embarrassment. Way to insult a man on a wheelchair, bro.
The old man nodded; silently pointed at a spot shaded from the harsh midday sun.
Ian’s shirt was stuck to his sweaty back as he pushed the old man out across the street. Eyes squinting against the sun rays, he felt like the sun actually glared angrier and angrier at him. For the umpteenth times he cursed himself of always forgetting to bring sunglasses.
“Here, here”, the old man said in a tired whisper, pointing a wrinkly finger at a location he picked, under a shaded tree.
His hand reached out above his head behind him, as if trying to reach for this strangely awkward helpful guy.
It lasted a second too long as Ian processed the gesture, and what to do of it. By the time he raised his hand to shake the old man’s, he already dropped it down, scratching his own head. Ian cursed his indecisiveness more than he did on usual basis.
“Thank you”, the old man on the wheel chair said.
Ian told him it’s no problem, standing very very still behind him.
He never quite took a good look at the old man. Their eyes never met. He turned his back and ran back to the building.
For the last time he looked over, the old man was still there. Head tilted aside, his limbs hanging lifelessly.
There’s a heavy lump in his throat.
The heavy lump was still there as he chewed on his salmon tamadon. Even the misoshiru was not able to wash it down. He was slightly annoyed at how salty the food tasted. But he kept going; mother drilled the lesson of never wasting any food deep in his subconscious.
The rest of the day was one slump after another. His coffee did taste bland and thin with a hint of soap. He got on a bicycle and bumped into a food cart. He apologized profusely for the wrong reasons. He went home and found even the water in his shower had turned warm. He went to sleep feeling sticky with sweat because the old electric fan had decided it was a good day to shut down and be done with it all.
Ian used to read Rilke. How to cope with the feeling of being left by loved ones. How to befriend your death. Love life, cause by fully embracing life you also embrace its other side of the coin: death. He thought he’s ready. 30 years. Such a young age, one would say. But Ian was tired. His melancholy had no place in this corner of world he walked on. Nothing was going good. Nothing was going on. 30 years.
He thought about the old man. How old was he? 70? 80? He was small, all small bones and no meat. He could still see the pair of legs in his mind, hanging short above the ground, barefoot; head titled aside as if it was heavily burdened. With what, he did not know.
Ian used to read Rilke. To learn how to love the life he hated. To learn to accept the fact that he’s there, be there. Rilke taught him to accept death like an old friend when the time comes.
He was never taught to accept age like an old pal.
What’s it going to be like to be old? Old and wrinkly and shrinking into his bones. So old that even to move you have to had someone pushed you around. So old that you could no longer pee standing up.  So old, that people are disgusted by the sight of the loose skin around your neck, that people mutter ‘why don’t you just go already’ under their breaths. So old you couldn’t work couldn’t walk couldn’t talk in clear  voice couldn’t have anybody who would want to spend their time talking to you.
So old that you’re more a nuisance than a human being.
Rilke never taught him how to appreciate old age spent bedridden and unloved. Or maybe he did, but Ian never caught on. Too busy trying hard to love life.
He groaned.
So much. So much could have been done within the 15 minutes exchange. Why didn’t he talk more to the old man? Why didn’t he spare some of his unimportant time asking question and trying to understand? Why didn’t he offer the man something to eat? Water to quench his thirst? Shoes to wear? Clothes to cover from the sun?
Why didn’t he look, even once, to the eyes of the old man?
Was he ashamed?
Was he disgusted?
Was he angry?
At whom? Of what?
He could have done more. So much more. It could be him in 30 years if he survived that long. What’s it going to be like to live that long, like that old man? Was he happy with his life? Was he ready to embrace death like an old friend?
That night, he fell asleep with a heavy weight in his chest. He dreamed of an old pal. He couldn’t wake up no matter how hard he tried to paddle away.

On being constantly a little sad

‘Why do you look sad?’, a traveler once asked me. It was in the middle of a beach party. We each had a can of beer in our hand, the speakers blaring music from a German rapper I never quite caught the name on, and I was not talking. I don’t remember what I was looking at, or thinking of.

I think I replied something like: ‘Can’t we all have a little bit of sadness on any good day?’.

I told him I wasn’t sure what I was being sad of at the moment. Maybe it was just the way my expression settle. Like resting bitch face, except this is resting sad face. He smiled a beautiful rosy-lipped smile and said he did not quite understand, but he would try to.

Few days ago I received a comment on a recent picture of me saying ‘you look happier these few days’. The picture shows me back facing the camera with hand thrown back like a halfway aborted back bend.

Maybe I do have a sad default expression. Maybe it’s the way my pent up emotion manifests itself. But I often peer in and knock, trying to search for the source. I always feel fine, nothing needs to be unplugged there. Or maybe the search makes it okay; by sorting through the emotions one by one, analyzing and overanalyzing them, you come to a conclusive decision that all these aren’t worth being sad for.

But the sadness will always be there. It’s like an anchor, a solace, a drug you can’t rehab yourself from. Sometimes you learn to appreciate happiness from within the blanket of your sadness.