digs digs digs.

thank you anonymous. it feels like i made a sweater but only part of one

first ever knitted finished object! a little cable sample swatch from my knitting workbook, in the only wool yarn they had at michaels when i stumbled in through the slush in January

It’s also interesting to note, though, that there may be a link between the novel’s queerness and and its reputation. The Big Sleep is often thought of as one of the very best examples of detective fiction; it’s virtually attained high art status, in a lot of ways. That status is, I’d argue, not despite the use of homosexuality, but because of it. In his 2011 book Art and Homosexuality, Christopher Reed argues that the avant garde has long used markers of homosexuality as signs of daring individualism. Sexual deviance can show that an artist is an original, unhindered by convention or bourgeois provincialism. Moreover, the mechanism of the closet can provide a powerful appearance of mastery and genius. The artist, through the deployment of homosexual codes and references, shows himself (or herself) to be “in the know”, and that knowledge is the mark of queer genius — an unusual and unconventional wisdom. All of this, I think, can be related to the critical success of The Big Sleep. Chandler’s bleak, decadent vision is in large part a bleak decadence of deviant sexuality — the filthy books sold by the gay man; the old General pining for his young acquaintance while rotting among the orchids; Vivian’s tragic love for her unnatural sister. The awareness of and manipulation of homosexuality makes the novel daring, adult, and knowing — an avant garde provocation rather than (or in addition to) a simple genre fable.

i have been wanting to reread mckinley's rose daughter, but im actually enjoying the feeling of wanting to reread rose daughter so much that i kind of don't want to cut it short by encountering the book again yet

That first morning, I noticed one of the four yearlings interacted more with the pups than the other three. I saw all seven pups surround him, trying to reach up to lick his face. He hovered over them as he wagged his tail. He looked like he was enjoying their attention. Then he lowered his head and regurgitated a few pounds of meat to them. The pups gulped down the meat as he watched. He went from one pup to another, sniffing all seven in turn, like he was checking on each one. Then he regurgitated meat for them one more time. Later he grabbed a bone and ran off with it. The pups chased him. He dropped the bone, turned around, and chased a pup, playfully nipping at its rear end. After that he played vigorously with all seven pups, sparring and wrestling with them. I saw him get behind a pup, lunge forward, goose it on the rear end with his nose, and knock it down. Seeing this made me wonder whether wolves have a sense of humor. I concluded that if this yearling did, other wolves would have it as well. I remembered hearing a definition of what’s universally funny: seeing someone fall down; tragedy is when I trip and fall.

We witnessed a peculiar and entertaining relationship between the island’s wolves and ravens. A flock of ravens often played leapfrog with the pack of fifteen as it traveled. The birds would fly ahead of the pack, perch in trees until the wolves passed, and then fly ahead of them again. Sometimes I watched ravens trailing wolves, flying directly along a string of tracks, in an effort to find them. Discovering a fresh scat in the trail, a bird would land, pick the turd apart for edibles, and resume its pursuit. Once when I watched the wolves attack a moose, the ravens swirled around in obvious anticipation. The wolves wounded the moose, and one bird sat in a tree and called as the wolves tried to force the moose to run. At every new kill, ravens would flock in the surrounding trees. As soon as the wolves stepped away, the birds would swoop in to peck at the carcass. Sometimes the ravens, like the wolves, would eat bloody snow. Quite likely the wolves’ leftovers were the ravens’ primary winter diet. One day, after the large pack had pursued an intruder wolf on the southwest end of the island, they crossed Grace Harbor and several wolves flopped down on the ice. Four or five ravens that had been following the pack swooped down to play. The ravens would chase the wolves, flying just above their heads. They would dive at a wolf’s head or tail, and the wolf would duck and leap at a bird. I watched as a raven landed near a resting wolf, walked over, and pecked at its tail. The wolf jumped up and lunged at the raven. I also saw a wolf stalk a raven, which lifted off above the snow at the last fraction of a second and landed again, just a few feet away, and waited for the wolf to attack again. As the wolves assembled and began traveling again, the ravens flew ahead and waited in trees for the pack to catch up and pass them. These efforts seemed more playful than hostile. I observed these encounters several times, yet I never saw a wolf actually touch a raven. Nor did I find any remains of ravens in the wolf scats I collected. Either the ravens were keenly aware of the wolves’ abilities, or the wolves had no real intention of catching the birds. Perhaps both. Each creature seemed to enjoy the games.