after the BlackLava photoshoot, jose and i hung out, bouncing from going to my favorite bakery, to coffee, to sarah's housewarming, to psychobabble because my tummy needed fresh mint tea.

he pulled out his journal; i pulled out my knitting.

"it's not odd to see a man knitt on the Bart in San Francisco," he said, after explaining to me that he once tried to knit a scarf for himself.

jose and i have this "hey, i can do that shit" attitude, and often find ourselves dabbing in arena to arena.

he wrote, also encouraging for me to write again.

"i don't know. maybe when i find the joy again...:

and he stared at my knitting as i told him stories- stories about betrayal. stories about things opposite of faith. stories of probably why i don't write anymore.

{tangent: isn't funny a knitted scarf exists with no cut ends? no sewn in spots. just one long piece of yarn, interlocking with itself to make this fabric. it exist on its own, imperfections and all.

but it also disappears when it unravels itself. one mistake.. gone...}

jose wrote this poem:

Knit

swiveling needles
nibbling a scarf into being
wagging tongue of looped yarn

windless banner of warmth
tugs, pulls, kinks
a delicate distraction

the one-upmanship
of shuttling fingers, swinging
fiddle of dwindling winter

string pieced into a thin strip
to don below chins, to billow
in the squinting cold from

October to snow to love's
ghost blown
but the flapping levity

of a thread wrapped neck
must bundle the crumbling tones
of our only throat.
--------------------

in an insomniac blur, i prayed with my knitting. each row dedicated to a person, each person gets one "hail mary" and one "our father."

nothing but good intent... to those who i love.. and to those who i don't get along with.

i finished 20 rows last night....

here's to warming throat chakras since i rarely use mine...

and for that wow factor: