Poem Published

Tomorrow I am very excited to see my very first poem published in the flesh. Farrago has been lovely this last year, and although I really haven’t been submitting as much as I should have, I am excited about this little poem that I have been harboring on my laptop for a long time.

Wash

after the rain

we fold our clouds

like they were sheets

and hang them

from the powerlines

we  spread our arms

out

to catch the cool

and press it to our faces

grasp

some filtered whispers held

in drains

we’ll listen

left to drip dry

bare

and slowly lift away


The Softer Side of Banksy

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There is no competition in craft. With hook and thread and winding wrists, thoughts can be looped between fibres with purpose. Between your hands you find creative refuge. You should share it with other people, this is crocheting, knitting, craft — art without frames and best loved when felt against skin.

You will need:

Materials:

–       Some scrap yarn – don’t go out of your way to buy the best baby alpaca blend that you can find, the dregs of string at the bottom of your craft basket will be perfect.

–       4.5mm crochet hook or 6mm knitting needles, depending on the ply of the said yarn residue that you have now mustered and untangled.

–       Some thoughts to strain through your fingers.

–       A location to plant your finished yarn bomb. A good excuse to take the dog for a walk too, he’s been getting twitchy.

–       One darning needle to keep on hand.

Method:

Make

Yarn bombing has been floating around for a while, maybe ten years, when people started to get sick of their cold cities and its sterile casings. You’ve seen it around, and at first not understood it—messages of tangled thread planted in trees and stitched to park benches. And then, you saw it again and understood it. Across the Internet, tanks were being covered in hand knitted blankets; crafters across the world were speaking up, painting the habitual grey with yarn. Concrete cracks filled with spills of colour. You wanted to take part the first time you heard the term ‘craftivism’ and it made you smile. That was the point, the driving curiosity. Hidden messages to find.

 

A slipknot is how all crochet projects begin. Now bring the string and loop it once around your pinkie. Hold it tight across your ring finger and the middle finger. Your index finger is there to grasp the slipknot that ravels into the work. The string must be taut, but still malleable for the hook, pivoting around and between the empty spaces that hold the string. Move the hook first under the thread and twist it. Angle it just so, so that once rotated by a fraction, the hook can grab the string and pull it under and into the work. Let your left hand ease its tension, once you do this, the string will slip easily through the gaps between your fingers. Pull the string through the loop already perched onto the hook; you have now created a new loop. The piece has increased in size only by a fraction. But you know how to create fluidity in your work, your fingers can move across loops and needles like a pissed-off cat’s tail. Back and forth, hardly aware, your method is motion.

Repeat the process. Breathe in the same rhythm as your hands. Mesh your tormenting thoughts between the small ponders beneath the hook, create something.

Plant Bomb

The piece is still fresh in your bag, damp in the patches where you held it tightest, the humidity from your palm lines perspired into the yarn. Your piece, the yarn bomb, can live in your bag for minutes or days. You browse for the spot where you will plant it, a place that will keep the yarn bomb safe and almost unnoticed—a statement of goodwill for people to find only by surprise. Crowded public squares you soon realise will devour small sacrifices in moments. ‘We do not want this here,’ they will say. For your work, you will look for the small crevices of the city, and plant your stitches of thought alone.

Today, a bag of bread bounces against your thigh as a dog lunges against the lead in the suburban Queensland heat. Everything is saturated under the green of the Poinciana trees. The muted cicadas roar behind your eyes. You stop and stand next to a stop sign. You watch with critical interest, as cars trickle by in occasioned pauses. You want to add something to the colour and to the heat, change the atmosphere. You dig in your bag and find the yarn bomb, a rectangle of meshed yellow and blue hooks that you have made just for this. You remove the small pieces of tissue that have felted themselves like Velcro to the fibres. You find the long tail that has been cut far down from the cast-off mark. Your dog heaves in sprays of wired fur, so you try to hold him tightly between your knees. Now you are yarn bombing.

Wind your craft around the public space. Wrap the small square around the metallic sheen and pinch the material tight and firm against the pole. Note how the tiny fibres of acrylic will catch against the freckled metal. Finding the eye you pull the cast-off tail through the darning needle. The dog is trying to dig through the plastic that encases the bread at your feet.

In quick, definite stitches, the ends become woven together, tightening against the stop sign. Cars continue to stop beside you, but no one looks through their windows, nobody bothers. You tuck the loose end left from the needle away into a fold of the work. You step away and your name claim disappears. The piece belongs to the world now and the bomb does not slide down. It sits, comfortable. You are satisfied. A few quick photos, to document your badass university days and then it’s time to walk away. You pick a piece of crust from the bread and give it to the dog as you leave the craft waiting in the world.

Visit

You come back to the site months later. The stop sign is exactly the same. Though the weather around it has changed. At first you think that that the yarn bomb is gone. A flutter of disappointment parks itself inside your chest.

Walking closer however, the blue and yellow soon show up in the grass below. The bomb has sunken to the bottom of the stop sign’s base. Dirt is growing into the seams now, the colours changing into greyer shades. You pull your piece off of the ground and try to shimmy it back to its original position. The fastening seam has almost come completely undone. You don’t have a darning needle on hand, so you use our fingers instead. You space apart the stitches and re-weave the fraying thread. Looking closer, you notice the cigarette burns singed with precision into the rib. The piece is tightened again. And you leave it again.

Disappear

The next time you visit, it has almost been a year. The yarn bomb has disappeared completely. No marker that it was ever there, no floundering message. You are only left to assume that a piece of you is floating somewhere in the world.

Because I Can’t Meet Famous People

I struggle to meet people. Not just people, I mean people. Famous people. Getting past the barrier can be easy enough with a little persistence; it’s the encounter that cripples. And yet, despite my track record, I still fantasize.

 

Placing myself in the line of inevitable disaster—standing in lines for CD signings, drooling at book launches and trembling in the front row of a gig—I wait and rehearse the countless topics that my idol and I can and will relate to. In my dreams we will chat easily, even breezily, maybe we will squeeze in some physical contact — a hug perhaps? I will leave an impression. They will write a song about me. I will become a charming anecdote recited to the crowds before a final song. We will be best friends forever.  

 

I have always been in denial of my fan girl status. I have never associated myself with the girls that fight with savage thirst to be in the line of eyesight of the person on stage. Only 5’1’’, I have become wary of mosh pits after one too many near-death experiences battling with the other fan girls. I have lost competitive confidence. There are better bands to die for than the Kooks, I reassured myself at one unfortunate festival, trying to crawl away under the frenzied heels of fans. It is through my blatant refusal that I don’t see myself as just a fan. I am different, I tell myself. I am worth more. The idols will know this when they meet me. As my claustrophobia has become more severe, so has my satisfaction with the smallest encounters. Yes, he looked at me. Yes, we made eye contact. Yes, he is aware of my existence. The high can last hours into the night as I recount and eventually reshape the story to my own thrill.

 

I first realised that I had a problem when I was fifteen-years old. The year when most teenagers realise music plays an integral part to their identity. The BackStreet Boys were hidden in my cupboard as I looked for new bands on Triple J. One morning, I dragged my brother and friend out of bed at four in the morning to swoon at the Brisbane Powerhouse. Triple J was holding a live breakfast show for their Reach Around Australia event. Josh Pyke was playing. This would be the first time I would see him in the flesh. My first acoustic love, I understood his songs as if he was singing them to my youth only. His name became a mantra—I chanted it over and over while the light turned pink and grey over the river.

 

The powerhouse was an old transformed electrical power station in New Farm. Outside, the brick and concrete building towers into the Queensland humidity, half in ruin. Inside however, the concrete is cold with occasional scrolls of vintage graffiti. The building was recreated into a performance area for artists, years ago. The large vacant spaces and textured walls prided in the abstract atmosphere.

 

I managed to squeeze my way into the side of the crowd, my friend pressed firmly at my side. Excited, I was standing on an elevated stage in the powerhouse’s main foyer against the rails, trying to glimpse Robbie, Marieke or the Doctor. When I saw him pass below, I ignored the dangerous buzz that began to vibrate into my unslept subconscious.

 

Him. Him. Him. Him. Him.

 

 I stared in catatonic shock as Josh Pyke found a corner only a few meters away to tune his guitar. I had come, vaguely prepared for this moment. A CD and a sharpie clutched in my hands, I don’t remember how exactly I manoeuvred through the crowd or found the stairs that led directly to where he was sitting. I had somehow managed to drag an unimpressed friend behind me for moral support. She was there to see the Grates, not Josh Pyke.

 

Suddenly he was there, and, I was there too. But it was only in that moment, too late, that I realised my alarm, the buzz in my head turned into a siren of panic, I did not want to be there anymore. I could not be there any more. My bowels tightened, ready for instinctual flight, yet somehow my legs had become soldered into the floor. I was unable to move in present time. And now Josh Pyke was looking up from his guitar. Tired in the early morning, his eyes were still puffy. He wore a blue flannel shirt with sunglasses perched on top of his head. I remember staring at his beard. He was looking at me.

 

Say something.

 

Fuck.

 

Say something!

 

Watching myself flounder, I felt the English language slip into the black hole of my throat.

 

Do something!

 

I handed him the CD and pen, and stared. Now nervous, Josh Pyke took the CD and began to sign it. I grinned. And then, I didn’t know how not to grin.

 

“Hi,” I whispered.

 

My cheek began to twitch, I tried to relax my face, but it was stuck. My body lost motor ability as I desperately felt for any word to string together a sentence, let alone a sentence of worth.

 

“Hi,” He said, trying to calm the mood, “What’s your name?”

 

“Hi.”

 

Another beat paused.

 

Fuck.

 

“Katty” I spluttered. I began to tremble. My cheek was still twitching. I became aware of my mouth moving as he signed the CD. Maybe instinct was taking hold. Maybe my heart was taking control of my incapacitated brain. Maybe now I would be able to say something profound and to the effect of ‘your music means something to me.’

 

“Hi.” I whispered.

 

He handed back the CD. I stood staring for another long moment.

 

“Ok?” he smiled, clearly disturbed.

 

“Ok, thank you.”

 

I walked away, still grinning. My friend leaned, against the stair rail. Her arms were crossed, cool.

 

“That,” she said, “was embarrassing”.

 

After that, the day gleamed in ways that I had never seen it shine before. I drew sketches of Josh Pyke for weeks on every piece of paper I could find unmarked. I kept my signed CD by my bedside table to fall asleep and wake up to. I had made an impression.

For Marzipan the Cat

This is a piece that I wrote some time ago for my ominous creative non-fiction class. When I first heard about the Astor Theatre in 2011 and the resident pet Marzipan, I was determined to ‘journey-plan’ my trip to that theatre and make friends with that damn cat at whatever cost. Unfortunately, the occassion never arose. I could convince no one to join me at one of the many Grease sing-a-longs at the theatre, and slowly 2011 turned into 2012 and then again into 2013—funny how that happens.

Then in March my friend texted me to let me know that Marzipan had sadly passed away. I was dumb-founded for a few days after that. A missed opportunity of the worst kind. In any case, long story short, I went to the theatre that same month to write and pay tribute to Marzipan the cat. I let a lot of time passed as I wrote this article, and so, for many people, the passing of Marzipan has faded into newsworthy irrelevance. But I thought it would be worth showing here.

 

Marzipan

Photo: Loz Dalton – The Age, 25 March 2013

 

Marzipan the Astor Cat

There’s a reoccurring theme in the Astor Theatre. Amid the rounded pleather seats and faux velvet chairs, something that needs to be pinned behind the layers of peeling paint, the eclectic range of pastel pinks, minted greens and mustard gold. A weird sense of haunted kitsch descends. For the solid brick, art deco cinema, placed firmly on Chapel Street, everything that is wrong is suddenly right, clichés are reinvented here and simply experiencing it once, will never do the moment justice. Much like the cult classics that the Astor brings to life, the theatre refuses to fade into social irrelevance.

Gathering on the pavement, a line has already snaked across the foyer floor. It’s a double feature event tonight- two movies for the price of one.  The soft hum of a non-descript 80s techno beat joins us, warming the mood. Looking up I notice the budded lights below the Astor Theatre sign. The nostalgic sense of the golden age of cinema flashes in warm halos around the crowd. People are excited. I’m excited. It’s a John Hughes tribute on a Monday night. Ferris Bueller’s Day Off followed by a fix of Sixteen Candles.

This is my first time at the Astor Theatre. My first time entering the foyer and inhaling the faint must. I know that I am not the only person here, buying a ticket to a movie that I have already seen multiple times—but the movie is only part of it. We’re all here for Matthew and Molly it’s true, but what’s more important is that we’ve come to see them here. The Astor has called us to attendance. With only one screen to share one or two movies a night, the theatre has created an event.

But despite the allure of the stairs leading to the theatre doors above, I feel disappointed. I’ve arrived a week late. Immortalised on the wall, I read the cards and touch the flowers that have been laid at Marzipan’s paws. With blown up photos commemorating the Astor Theatre’s prized pet, I am surprised by my own emotion evoked by the photos. I feel overwhelmingly miserable, actually. I missed the cult classic calico cat.

Behind the ticket booth I talk to Anne Zomer. Linger long enough in the foyer and the crowd will slowly disperse into the Astor’s single theatre. Alone, you can hear snippets of the movie, the resounding opening titles that seep in whispers below the doors. An alarm bell shrieks into panic, just to let everyone know that the movie has officially started. The sound of the bell unnerves me, the space, suddenly made larger by the splintered echo. Another eerie feature of the Astor set to scare the bejesus out of unsuspecting victims.

Zomer is hesitant at first to talk to me about Marzipan. I later realise that this was perhaps not my own insensitivity of approaching a subject still so raw, but because words suddenly become feeble when trying to describe the genuine significance of a silent pet. “What do you know about Marzipan?” she asks me instead.

Marzipan lived at the Astor Theatre for 21 years—she was born here. As the story goes, one day in 1992 a stray calico cat somehow managed to sneak into the old Theatre and proceeded to climb into the bio box. It was there that the stray was later discovered with a newly delivered pair of kittens. The Astor decided to keep Marzipan, calico like her mother. The two cats lived together in the theatre for a while, until one day it was just Marzipan. Since the death of her own mother, Marzipan had reined supreme over the Astor Theatre, coming and going as she pleased and sitting on whichever patron she pleased, whenever she pleased. In the end, the peaceful passing of Marzipan was a relief to Zomer. After all of the years the cat resided next to a traffic blown road, it wasn’t the vicious Princess Highway and Dandenong Road intersection that took Marzipan, it was sickness, old cat age.

Zomer is well fitted to the theatre. Older, her quiet demeanour portrays friendly efficiency as I watch her deal tickets to the movie’s latecomers. “The movie started two minutes ago,” she reassures them behind the glass of the booth. I crane my head to look further inside; movie posters are pinned along the wall, tributes to vintage classics and favourites. The posters are there, I realise, as much for the Astor’s employees as the paying ticket holders. Zomer was after all a patron long before she began to work at the Astor. With grey ringlets that fall carefully around her face, Zomer’s black spectacles balance on her nose to frame kind brown eyes. There’s a moment, she describes in her own experience, a moment and feeling when a pet that was once loved so much finally dies, “they become larger than life for a while”. It’s barely been a week since Marzipan’s death, and this is where Zomer is at the moment. The Astor cat’s presence still lingers, and will linger Zomer assumes “for a long time to come”. But Marzipan was not her cat.

Zomer sits behind the counter, kind but guarded, we are alone in what feels like the entire establishment. There are so many unnamed doors in the building it is hard to tell how infinite the Astor actually is, a fact probably only discovered by Marzipan herself. Zomer’s green and silver bangles snap together as she leans forward, she has “lost track” of her time at the Astor, all she is sure of is that, though it “has been a while” she “wouldn’t work anywhere else”. And she is blunt to add that she received “the same response from Marzipan as all patrons”. That was the way with Marzipan after all; somehow she became more than one person’s cat, more than the ‘Astor cat’. In the end, Marzipan, embodied a movie-going experience, and in that sense was quick to be owned by all movie-goers. She was old enough to be shared across generations. There is something special about working at the Astor theatre for Zomer, something special in the relationship between the patrons and the theatre itself. “People come in here,” Zomer describes, “and they are awestruck.” There’s a sigh of relief, a feeling of familiarity and friendship when someone exclaims, “I haven’t been here in ages!” A rapport is created between patrons and the Astor Theatre’s foundations. For 21 years, Marzipan was a strong part of that, simply because “everyone knows her”.

After her death, the Facebook page dedicated to ‘Marzipan Astor Cat’ announced on March 25:

“For Marzipan’s many friends it is with much sadness that we say that she has gone to stalk the great cinema in the sky. She sits on the laps of angels now. Rest in peace, our furry friend and thank you for the delight you brought to all who visited The Astor”.

The page’s cover photo was then changed to a picture of sunrays in the clouds, resembling heaven. The social media site was quickly filled with messages of remorse and condolence for the theatre, and nearly 500 ‘likes’ on the announcement. One of the more ironic moments that come with using a social media site that is only able to ‘Like’ things. With 2,226 friends, Marzipan’s death sparked a response that quickly flowed onto the Astor Theatre’s blog itself.

“While alive she met more people than the Prime Minister ever will and was better liked.” Simply and matter-of-factly stated Graeme and Lucile on the blog.

While other comments, stung with a feeling of bittersweet regret. As is common in memorialising a friend. Comments posted across the Internet rang of people trying to confide their last messages to Marzipan.

“Farewell Ms. Marzipan,
You were always a dignified and welcoming presence on the couch and strolling the foyer. You will be missed by me and I’m sure thousands more.” Philip Byrt

What is to come next is unclear. Zomer admits that Marzipan “was a part of the Astor so much”. With stories tightly bridged together in a wave of celebration and remorse across both Melbourne and its Internet community, it almost seems as if Marzipan has become a fable of some sort. For myself, I will never get to share my adoration for all things small and all things cat with Marzipan and because of this, I can’t help wonder what shine of the Astor I have never known, without the creak of a mischievous cat behind my chair.

 

Finding a row to sit in front of the Astor’s screen, there are simply too many seats to choose from. Yet the crowd continues to file and fill the space well. Close together, friends yell out to one another from across the aisles. A golden curtain, so thin it could almost be a moss green, conceals the screen. A man on a microphone introduces our double feature and reminds the audience to turn off their phones. The noise dims with the lights to a preparatory bustle as the audience settles into the dark. Of course the man with the broadest bare shoulders finds his seat in front of mine, his blond topknot an added feature as he miniaturising the chair and girl that clings to his arm. But at the Astor, with a screen as large as this, the man soon fades into the foreground of many heads and obscure hairstyles. When Ferris Bueller takes the screen he is all I see, he fills my consciousness completely. This is how movies should be shown.

There are stories I hear of Marzipan, roaming the aisles of this theatre, lurking behind the fake palm trees sprayed with fairy lights. She would wait, Zomer tells me, until the most heightened moment of the feature, until the suspense was just ripe in the audience, before launching herself into someone’s lap. She would brush against ankles, the tip of a tail wisping just enough to raise the hairs on the back of your neck. She was anyone’s friend who would act as a slave for a couple of hours, try to move while she occupied your lap and a thigh full of nails would apply from the feline.

There was a time that Marzipan was feared to be gone for good. Last year, the cat went missing. With the busy intersection and tramline always lingering in the back of the Astor’s mind, Zomer thought Marzipan was surely dead. Nevertheless, posters for the cat were pasted across the busy Chapel Street. After a short time had passed however, the Astor received a call. It was Marzipan, safely found across the intersection in a temporary home. She had relocated to a local Chinese Laundromat. That was the last adventure Marzipan was known to have had. Contented on chewing moth wings that she found in the corners of the Theatre. Marzipan’s health was something to slowly dwindle away along with an injured hip.

“Some [other] cat may appear one day” Zomer shrugs, and suddenly, I feel absurd for asking the question. Insensitive to even suggest the replacement of a cat that was older than I, and with many more Facebook friends. Zomer’s eyes move to distract some tears “They’ll always be welcome” she adds and smiles. After all, Marzipan was the second cat.  But “the fact that she was here was pretty special”.

Holiday Books

Well, I was hoping to read a long, long list of books this holidays but as is always the case for my holiday ventures, time has simply petered out!

I did manage to read one book though, The Shadow of the Wind by Carlos Ruiz Zafón. A hearty 500 page novel, The Shadow of the Wind brings the reader back to why we love books in the first place. Gothic and eery, the novel uses my favourite genre, magic realism, to entirely absorb its readers. If I could only read one novel for the entire holiday, this was definitely worth the pick.

I discovered it through Sarah Kay. She suggested that everyone should read it here on the Teds Blog with some other Tedsters, and like the obedient admirer that I am, I rang my mum to discover an old copy waiting for me on her shelf.

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Published!

So this semester I have been very excited. Finally after two and a half years in Melbourne studying writing, I have finally been brave enough to start submitting my small stories and poems. And well, they’ve started to be published.

This is a big deal to me, because ultimately this is what I want to do. I want to write and craft and all of those little things in between. The fact that someone actually wants to read my stuff is a little shocking, but very rewarding.

I tried to find an article on Rookie that really resonated with me. But despite how hard I tried to search for the article and random key words I couldn’t find it! I wish I could remember the author’s name. Regardless, she was talking about publishing and the moment after. She said, take a moment to congratulate yourself and enjoy the buzz of the byline essentially, and then, get back to work. It’s that simple, and I feel like no truer words have been spoken. Well that’s an exaggerated cliché isn’t it! But god I wish I remembered her name!!

In any case, here are two of my published works to share with you blogosphere, just for you!

The first was an article that I wrote for Farrago at the University of Melbourne. They didn’t have any room for their magazine to publish the piece, but they did publish it online. So really, It will remain timeless haha! 😉 You can read it here if you want. It’s called Life of a Yarn Bomb, and talks about my own small experiences with the ephemeral artwork.

The second piece is a short story that I wrote for my short fiction class two semesters ago. The piece was just sitting on my computer when I first heard about the Monash University Undergraduate Prize for Creative Writing. At first I did absolutely nothing about it. I thought of my story and then did nothing. It was only when they extended the submission date that I felt pro-active enough to give it a go. And hey! It paid off! For the first time ever, my piece was shortlisted in the top 15 stories out of nearly 400. Far out. I was actually, genuinely convinced it was a mistake. But sure enough, the shortlisted entrants were published into a Penguin e-book in conjunction with Melbourne’s Emerging Writers’ Festival, and here it is, in the virtual flesh. Like I said, far freaking out! I’m allowed to be excited in front of you, aren’t I dear blogosphere? 

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Hmmm

So my ambitious ambitions to write and craft everyday seem to have petered to a halt after the very first day! Ain’t that just typical. Truth be told blogosphere, I find you very intimidating, and so have kept my mouth shut to observe you instead. But I have always been one for mid-year resolutions, and here is mine to finally figure out a voice in my writing, and to actually blog for some confidence.

So, as I have observed in MANY craft blogs lately, there seems to be some damn dandy craft ladies out there. And I have every wish to be just like them. However, there is a problem. My projects don’t often work. In fact, my projects often fail. They sit in a bag in a corner of my room kissing dust. But here’s the thing, I still love them. I admire all of my projects, because it’s not the finished product that I look for. Once finished, my projects end up in a bag, just the same as my unfinished projects. I don’t know why this is, maybe secretly I am self-conscious of wearing my knitwear, or maybe my finished projects turn out just as lumpy as my unfinished ones. I don’t know.

I finished knitting this jumper last year, but little did I know an alpaca blend for a jumper is just that little bit too soft. Meaning, I was pilled before I wore the jumper for a week. I still keep it in my drawer, but whenever I wear it, I feel like the rolly edge and stretched neck makes me just plain anxious. Nevertheless, I loved making my first jumper, I loved it so much that I hung it up to my music hero, George Harrison, so they could bond, loved together.

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In any case, I thought the results were more than worthwhile. So in tribute to George and the lumpy green jumper, I have decided to devote much of this blog to both my knitting mistakes and achievements, because honestly, how many knitting feats am I going to conquer here. We’ll be waiting a while for me to actually define a knitting achievement in the first place!!

I have recently started knitting another jumper. It is lovely. The pattern I mean. Who knows how the actual jumper will turn out. I’m on holidays back in Brisbane, and so am trying to rip through the knitting before I am sent back to the university mines and am unable to fit a stitch in between tutorials.

With any luck, the jumper will look like this!

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But I’m slightly worried about the size. Usually I would prefer to go the smallest size, but after measuring myself I was sure that medium would have to be the go. Now I just pray it won’t be too big and lest sacrifice some of the gorgeous yarn I bought just for the occasion. The yarn I bought was a little expensive, as it always happens to be. But after finishing 10,000 words all due on the SAME day for my assessment (Thanks Melbourne Uni!) I thought that I deserved a treat ultimately. The yarn Is Noro Silk Garden Sock yarn, and what I initially thought would be a speckled cream, has turned into divine changing oatmeal hues. So we’ll see how it turns out. Regardless, I am determined to post it here, just to prove that mistakes can be beautiful.