Thursday, February 22, 2007

The Yarn of Yarnnation #1

I was beautiful and I knew it. No one could tell me otherwise. I was to be all the rage. Not only did I carry the name in yarn, I was chunky and chunky was sexy. My color was that of royalty and desire, my texture cried out to be touched. Those poor balls of yarn that were placed next to me, I almost felt sorry for them. . .almost.
I was, naturally, given a prominent place to display my glory. I shone, waiting for the proclamations of love that I knew would come.
The attention came, the little people, they ohhed and ahhed, they were permitted to touch me, to fondle me even. I soon grew weary of the shallow adoration, but I knew that with fame and beauty came "the burden." I tolerated it as best I could, but each time someone mussed my perfectly arranged strands, I longed for the time that a true knitter would see me for what I was. . . perfection in yarn.
I waited, never doubting my own magnificence. I watched as the lesser colors left our shared stage where I was the star, knowing that I simply intimidated the common knitter.

Then, then came that most dreadful of all days, a case of mistaken identity I am sure. I was taken from my stage and placed in a basket- A SALE BASKET! I was being put on sale? I promply displayed all my charms, sure that this travesty would soon be noticed and corrected. Really, how dare they? I was traumatized, I couldn't believe this could happen to me of all yarns. I was tossed about with common and course yarns, cotton, and even some synthetics. My tresses were displaced and disheveled beyond repair. Only my ball band, though ripped and tattered, kept me from tying myself in knots. Day after day I was left there, and I was close to hysterics when a face I knew pulled me from the basket. Yes, it was one of the servants, one of those girls who had straightened and smoothed me on my stage day after day. At last, I had been rescued, the silly girl had realized her mistake.

But wait, where was she taking me? No, my stage was the other direction, no impertinent girl, not into a bag! And then it hit me. . . into a bag, this servant girl was taking me home. I had been purchased, on sale, by an employee. My humiliation was overwhelming. It soaked into my very core.

I ended up in another basket, not on display, not even on someone's needles. I sat in a basket with other tattered balls of yarn for months and months. My despair festered and grew until it began to ferment into something else. . . rage. I was the diva of yarn, I would not allow myself to be treated with such a lack of respect, not without recourse. She would curse the day she threw me into any basket! I knew what I must do.

And then my chance came at last. She had been rummaging through the basket, and at long last pulled me out. I was cast on and the ribbing commenced. At one time I would have flowed into that springy fabric with glee, but now, now revenge was my only pleasure.

She worked me into a cropped vest, deep ribbing, a shawl collar. All in all, a fairly nice garment. I cooperated, I was patient. Simply splitting on her needles or some such silliness would not satisfy my burning anger. I could wait. Finally, she bound me off, and the hour was at hand.

I strained every fiber, twisting and contorting each ply to my will. This vest would never fit right, I would be sure of that. She would never be rewarded for such despicable treatment of me, the most glorious of all yarns. She tugged and she blocked, but it was all for not, I would not submit. She studied me, wondering where her needles had gone array, and I laughed to myself, knowing that there was not a mistaken stitch to be found.

In mere days she gave in to the frustration that signaled my triumph! Never, never again would she treat me with such disdain. I had taught here the awful lesson that comes with neglecting a star.

My angry justice burned hot inside of me for some time, how long exactly I could not say. I was drunk with self satisfaction. When the fire of vindication began to dim, I realized that I was again in a basket. A different basket this time, not a basket of lovely, if somewhat disheveled balls of yarn, but in a basket of misfit and forgotten projects. It was then, slowly, that the realization of what I had done began to set in. I asked myself, "now what was to become of me?" For weeks and then months I sat in that lonely basket, never speaking to the other projects, the collective depression was too deep for conversation.

I began to think that I had been too rash. What does it matter when and by whom you are purchased, and how you are stored? My basket wasn't so bad, warm, dry and not a moth to be heard of. I had been knit into a lovely garment, but I had thrown away my chance to be worn, admired, and serviceable. I thought that perhaps I would be given a second chance, I tried to correct the ugly contortions I had subjected myself too, but in vain, the damage was done.

After a very long while she retrieved me from the basket. I dared to hope, but my hopes were dashed when she threw me into her washing machine. I was tortured, first scalding water, then icy cold, and all the while, being beaten and battered. My weakened fibers matted and felted within minutes. I shrunk to less than half my original size, now a stiff and ugly bit of fabric. She pulled me from the washer and I cried when she laughed at my misshapen shape. She didn't notice the tears as she rung the water from me.

I was left to dry, and then she came with scissors. She cut me into many small shapes. I was despondent, nothing mattered anymore. She began to sew me into a bag of some sort with much difficulty. I knew it would never work. Even in my felted state my fabric would not lay flat, but even so, I was grateful to her for trying.

Again, I ended up in the forgotten project basket, cut and stitched, even with a little needle felting to try to hide my sins, but still useless to anyone. I had been a beautiful yarn, but my pride had destroyed me, I could blame no one but myself.

My life ended when her mean little dog escaped her attention for a moment. He pulled me from the basket, tore my needle felting away from me, and proceeded to chew and tear at me. She found him some time later, snatched me away from him with hardly a scolding, gave me a sad look and tossed me, unceremoniously, to my grave.

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