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I Play the Needles by Irena V., Ontario

As all regular kids, I attended a kindergarten. Every day, you had to stand on the table so that mom put on you layers upon layers of clothing, then walk past some grey fences, and tethered, barking dogs (at that time, we lived in a little country town, and I somehow do not remember that we ever had to go to the kindergarten during the summer). In autumn, you have to gather fallen poplar leaves to make garlands to hang them up in the kindergarten; you must learn some useless poems about girls and boys, eat your scheduled meal, and of course, nap in the middle of the day!

But among all the horrors of our local kindergarten, there was one thing that captivated me every time I saw it: piano keys. Usually, we sang songs, seated on little chairs, somewhere below the piano, which stood on a raised platform near the window. When our nanny played it, we looked at the piano keys from the bottom up. It was magical watching the piano keys rising and falling under the pressure of her fingers. I started to attend the music conservatory. In a few months, I understood that to be heard, you must play the same page, or a few bars, for hours and hours on end, until it sounded as it was written.

Sometimes, when sitting on my favourite sofa, I knit a large piece of knitwear using a monotonous and complicated pattern, it begins to seem that it will never end. My brain feels as it is about to explode, and then I go to the kitchen to drink or eat something chocolate, but then again and again return to my needles to continue challenging my will and depleting my supply of chocolate. All this reminds me of doing my music homework: it must be done, otherwise you will have to sell your piano at half-price, having wiped away a thick layer of dust off its keys. It seems as if I play the needles, and I like it!

 

A Story of a Crime, or About Aesthetics
by "invisible", Wyoming

Several days in a row, each morning, I commit a crime: I eat one or two apple turnovers obviously with a cup of Columbian coffee. I know and feel that I’m not alone in this, but the feeling of guilt following my deed, torments me for the next 10-15 minutes meaning that my feeling of shame is the strong one. And so, on the second day of eating these criminal pastries, I found out that those of them which were in the refrigerator (I’m afraid that some of the highly developed ants will reach my turnovers earlier than I will, and I keep all baked goods in the fridge; I’m not a bread addict, and a very small amount of this harmful substance for the feminine part of humanity lies in my refrigerator and does not have the time to loose its puffiness), so, those that were heated in the oven after having been frozen, do not invoke in me any special, warm and aesthetic feelings when I eat them, like those turnovers that I just bought and which have not been exposed to the vaccinating cold. And although this story has absolutely no relevance to knitting, I made a resolution - no matter how delicious you may look on the outside, your internal beauty is reached only by a long vacation at the beach, struggling to retain your food supplies from invading “candide” such as ants and reading news about extraterrestrial civilizations and Antarctic ice breakage. OK, I better go and do some sit-ups.

 

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