At Christmas we went to the zoo.
This is near my mother, an excellent small zoo just the right size for people under five to enjoy a refreshing and adventurous day and not be quite tired enough to cry on the way back to the car. We saw lots of excellent things like a rhinoceros, and giraffes eating Christmas trees. There were monkeys. And an anteater. The giant tortoise was hiding and my nephew fed the ducks with shaky hands and nervous shrieking laughter. The coi, no dummies, tracked the path of children along the pond's edge waiting for the inevitable bounty. Sometimes they even beat the ducks.
Just before the ducks, and after the parrots, we walked around a corner and saw these.
Flamingos, subjects of a million pink plastic lawn tchotches, they've become some kind of shorthand for kitsch. When I wanted to annoy my fastidious neighbor I considered a pink flamingo for the front step. What was I thinking?
They are beautiful, so astonishingly beautiful with a thousand impossible shades of coral and pink and vermilion knees, the s-curve of their necks as they drank and the blackness of their beaks and the ripples of light in their feathers and the Seussian spindle legged feather puffs of them as they slept.
They sorta stuck with me, in this brilliant mind's eye picture, I haven't the words for it exactly, but this moment of breath lost, this moment of unexpected drenching beauty, this moment of expanded perception, these birds. (Not for the first time I realized that human beings can be oddly reluctant to fully embrace the beauty of the world and the wickedness too. We settle for the pink plastic lawn version too much. What is up with that?)
Naturally, I could not resist the exact deep glowing Flamingo coloured-ness of this. Because when you can express memory and perception in yarn, you so totally should.
Yes, that's the same yarn vendor Steph blogged last week. Yes, I am a sheep. Yes, you can bite me. (And yes, that is the vendor's picture. 1 million tries got me 1 million pictures of bright eye-searingly pink yarn. Nothing like the real thing.)
469 yards, 70% superwash merino, 30% silk. It is divine. The color is as brilliantly varied and yet harmonious as the inspirational feathers, and the silk is giving it the tiniest halo while I work with it. I want more. Given my history with socks (ugly, abortive, brief), probably not a fiscally prudent idea. But the desire is there.
Yes, Lisa, I said sock.
Really. It is even a bit bigger now.
A Loksin actually. Baa.
(In strict accuracy, I had long ago (January) decided that my next attempt at a sock would be a Loksin. I swear it.
(I find them perfectly charming, particularly once I stopped spelling them Loskin).
This was after a recent sock attempt that went awry. (I never told you. There was some gauge trouble. It was very sad. It is 'resting' now.)
It was just the flamingo yarn that moved me to start (and who could blame me?)
But one cannot deny the influence of strange outside forces upon one's behavior. No matter how much one might like to claim complete autonomy in one's desires and actions. (Ahem.)
So great yarn, great pattern, not-so great sock knitter. It is going. But nobody hold their breath or anything, I'd feel responsible if anything happened.