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Saturday November 28, 2015

No doubt—for at every level of society a worldly and frivolous life paralyses the sensibility and robs people of the power to resuscitate the dead—the Duchess was one of those people who require a personal presence—that presence which, like a true Guermantes, she excelled in protracting—in order to love truly, but also, and this is less common, in order to hate a little.

The Fugitive Volume VI by Marcel  Proust, Modern Library Edition p. 780

Posted by: Eugene Wyatt
11/26/2015 3:05 am

Ewe Lambs On Hay

After feeding whole oats, we kept hearing the ewe lambs say they didn't have enough to eat—they were starving; sheep exaggerate, they're actors, but you must listen to them and they don't tell you politely.  This happens when sheep are changing what they eat; in the Fall they go from pasture to harvested forage. It can be a difficult time of year for everybody. We give the sheep free choice hay (always available) and if the hay is nutritious the sheep behave as good citizens. 

But they weren't well behaved. They were loud. Thinking the hay was poor quality and to quiet the sheep down, we fed them an extra pail (~20 lb) of whole oats. After they finished, they hurtingly swore again—O our ears and hearts—"%b#a$a&a@a...". It was cacophony, a hundred voices that don't sing together—they know no chorus—it was sheep discordance—a sound riot and we knew we had to fix the situation. The next day we fed them another pail of oats (You can't feed a single additional pail of oats after feeding to ~100 sheep without them getting hurt trying to eat it; you must wait until the next day when you feed it with the other pails.) and after eating—they'd become calm sheep again, they ignored us and were silent—the beauty of silence. We were smiling at nothing.

Being cussed out by your sheep is no laughing matter.

Posted by: Eugene Wyatt
11/24/2015 5:52 pm
Labels: Sheep Journal

Gray And Dark Gray Heather Yarn

We loosely blend 25% of our Saxon Merino Citric Dyed Black with 75% of our Saxon Merino Natural White in the card of a spinning frame at the Green Mountain Spinnery to get the Gray Heather and once it's spun into yarn, we over-dye it with more Citric Black to get the Dark Gray Heather.

Our Heather yarn is spun in two strands that are twisted together into a Worsted weight which is 125 yd./2 oz. skein selling for $17.00 in the Heather Yarn for Gray and you can order the Dark Gray color in Special Orders.

Posted by: Eugene Wyatt
11/23/2015 6:27 pm

A Mould

Les Madeleines...

The resurrection at our awakening—after that beneficent attack of mental alienation which is sleep—must after all be similar to what occurs when we recall a name, a line, a refrain that we had forgotten. And perhaps the resurrection of the soul after death is to be conceived as a phenomenon of memory.

The Guermantes Way Marcel Proust, Modern Library Edition p. 111.

Posted by: Eugene Wyatt
11/22/2015 7:39 am
Labels: Les Madeleines

'Fashionable' People, 1899. Marcel Proust is in rear row, the 3rd from left.

The bonds between ourselves and another person exist only in our minds. Memory as it grows fainter loosens them, and notwithstanding the illusion by which we want to be duped and with which, out of love, friendship, politeness, deference, duty, we dupe other people, we exist alone. Man is the creature who cannot escape from himself, who knows other people only in himself, and when he asserts the contrary, he is lying.

The Fugitive Marcel Proust, Modern Library Edition, p. 608.

Posted by: Eugene Wyatt
11/19/2015 3:06 am

Renoir Orange Half And Half

We are halfway through planting garlic but it will rain tomorrow and Friday—when its raining you can't plant garlic. We wait and you wait with us—after the garlic planting we'll play with colors.

We dye these Half And Half's with colors that are on Sport Weight, Fingering Weight, etc. and here we see Renoir Orange which originally comes from Lace Weight.

This two ply is a Sport Weight (175 yards) priced at $21.00 for a two ounce (50 grams) skein. Renoir Orange Half and Half is available in Special Orders.

Posted by: Eugene Wyatt
11/18/2015 6:50 pm

 February Green Half And Half

This is a sport weight (175 yards) priced at $21.00 for a two ounce (50 grams) skein. February Green Half and Half is available in Special Orders.

Soon we will take the colors of one weight and make them available in another weight but only after we plant the garlic.

First things first.

We will have natural dyes and their lovely colors—now only on a singles worsted weight—on the two and three ply weights.

We try to please.

Posted by: Eugene Wyatt
11/17/2015 7:09 pm

Andrée admitted an affair with Albertine after she'd sworn the opposite a year ago; she was the fox who guards the henhouse and Albertine was the hen. 

It is desire that engenders belief, and if we are not as a rule aware of this, it is because most belief-creating desires—unlike the desire which had persuaded me that Albertine was innocent—end only with our own life. To all the evidence that corroborated my original version, I had stupidly preferred mere assertions by Albertine. Why had I believed them? Lying is essential to humanity. It plays as large a part perhaps as the quest for pleasure, and is moreover governed by that quest. One lies in order to protect one’s pleasure, or one’s honour if the disclosure of one’s pleasure runs counter to one’s honour. One lies all one’s life long, even, especially, perhaps only, to those who love one.

The Fugitive Volume VI by Marcel Proust (posthumous), Modern Library Edition p. 824

Posted by: Eugene Wyatt
11/17/2015 5:46 am

 Berry Sorbet Half And Half

The Half and Half's were hot at Rhinebeck.

Pictured here is a Berry Sorbet, one of many citric dyes available in this line. Dominique ties the skein tightly and then dips it halfway in the dye solution and holds it until the color in the solution is exhausted.

It is a sport weight (175 yards) priced at $21.00 for a two ounce (50 grams) skein. Berry Sorbet Half and Half is available in Special Orders.

Posted by: Eugene Wyatt
11/16/2015 7:12 pm

Buck's County Fur: The Tannery

On Thursday I went to Quakertown, Pennsylvania to pick up seventeen sheepskins from Buck's County Fur. Some of the hides were purebred Saxon Merino ram lambs; they were taken from Springfield Meats to the tannery the same day as they are near one another. Brian—the chief tanner—says, "Springfield does a good job."

These tanned sheepskins were worth every penny they were priced at; most importantly they were as fine as Saxon Merino lambs should be.

Posted by: Eugene Wyatt
11/15/2015 3:02 pm
Labels: Sheep Journal

Due to a chance disclosure, the Narrator suspects that his lover Albertine has had lesbian affairs; he fears that she plans to meet a lover in Trieste this coming Christmas...

How my whole life and its future would have been changed! And yet I knew quite well that this localisation of my jealousy was arbitrary*, that if Albertine had these tastes (lesbianism), she could gratify them with others.

And perhaps even these same girls, if they could have seen her elsewhere, would not have tortured my heart so acutely. It was Trieste, it was that unknown world in which I could feel that Albertine took a delight, in which were her memories, her friendships, her childhood loves, that exhaled that hostile, inexplicable atmosphere, like the atmosphere that used to float up to my bedroom at Combray, from the dining-room in which I could hear, talking and laughing with strangers amid the clatter of knives and forks, Mamma who would not be coming upstairs to say good-night to me; like the atmosphere that, for Swann, had filled the houses to which Odette went at night in search of inconceivable joys. 

It was no longer as of a delightful place where the people were pensive, the sunsets golden, the church bells melancholy, that I thought now of Trieste, but as of an accursed city which I should have liked to see instantaneously burned down and eliminated from the real world.

Sodom And Gomorrah, Marcel Proust, the Modern Library Edition p. 710.

* My emphasis.

Posted by: Eugene Wyatt
11/3/2015 6:51 am
Labels: Marcel Proust

The photo editing software I use, Adobe Lightroom, will no longer recognize the memory card from a Nikon D700 with 100's of newly taken photos on it. I'm stopped with the Nikon; I took the above photo with the camera on my iPhone, so I'm not totally stopped. But still...

Because my iMac didn't make the usual fuss about ejecting the card from the old reader gave me an idea: I went to Best Buy to buy a new card reader before I called. I imagined the person at the Adobe support desk would have asked me if I had replaced the card reader before calling.

I got it home and plugged it into a USB port on the back of my iMac then put the card in to be read...

Voila! The new card reader worked; it permitted Lightroom to recognize the photos on the card and edit them and it saved me from a long, stupefying and expensive telephone conversation.

Posted by: Eugene Wyatt
10/27/2015 8:09 am
Labels: iP6 CU

It's great to come home and find sheep.

Posted by: Eugene Wyatt
10/22/2015 6:29 am
Labels: Sheep Journal

And stooping over the bed, with her knees bent, almost kneeling on the ground, as though by an exercise of humility she would have a better chance of making acceptable the impassioned gift of herself, she lowered towards my grandmother her whole life contained in her face as in a ciborium which she was holding out to her, adorned with dimples and folds so passionate, so sorrowful, so sweet that one could not have said whether they had been engraved on it by a kiss, a sob or a smile.

The Guermantes Way, The Modern Library Edition, p. 440

Posted by: Eugene Wyatt
9/24/2015 5:38 pm

Alix bore the blow without flinching. She remained marble. Her gaze was piercing and blank, her nose proudly arched. But the surface of one cheek was flaking. A faint, strange vegetation, green and pink, was invading her chin. Perhaps another winter would finally lay her low.

“There, Monsieur, if you are fond of painting, look at the portrait of Mme de Montmorency,” Mme de Villeparisis said to Legrandin to interrupt the flow of compliments which was beginning again.

Taking the opportunity of his back being turned, Mme de Guermantes pointed to him with an ironical, questioning look at her aunt.

“It’s M. Legrandin,” murmured Mme de Villeparisis. “He has a sister called Mme de Cambremer, not that that will mean any more to you than it does to me.”

“What! Oh, but I know her very well!” exclaimed Mme de Guermantes, clapping her hand to her mouth. “Or rather I don’t know her, but for some reason or other Basin, who meets the husband heaven knows where, took it into his head to tell the wretched woman she might call on me. And she did. I can’t tell you what it was like. She told me she had been to London, and gave me a complete catalogue of all the things in the British Museum. And just as you see me now, the moment I leave your house, I’m going to drop a card on the monster. And don’t think it’s as easy as all that, because on the pretext that she’s dying of some disease she’s always at home, no matter whether you arrive at seven at night or nine in the morning, she’s ready for you with a plate of strawberry tarts. No, but seriously, you know, she is a monstrosity,” Mme de Guermantes went on in reply to a questioning glance from her aunt. “She’s an impossible person, she talks about ‘scriveners’ and things like that.” “What does ‘scrivener’ mean?” asked Mme de Villeparisis. “I haven’t the slightest idea!” cried the Duchess in mock indignation. “I don’t want to know. I don’t speak that sort of language.” And seeing that her aunt really did not know what a scrivener was, to give herself the satisfaction of showing that she was a scholar as well as a purist, and to make fun of her aunt after having made fun of Mme de Cambremer: “Why, of course,” she said, with a half-laugh which the last traces of her feigned ill-humour kept in check, “everybody knows what it means; a scrivener is a writer, a person who scribbles. But it’s a horror of a word. It’s enough to make your wisdom teeth drop out. Nothing will ever make me use words like that . . . And so that’s the brother, is it? I can’t get used to the idea. But after all it’s not inconceivable. She has the same doormat humility and the same mass of information like a circulating library. She’s just as much of a toady as he is, and just as boring. Yes, I’m beginning to see the family likeness now quite plainly.”

The Guermantes Way, The Modern Library edition p. 270-71,

Alix supporta le coup sans faiblir. Elle restait de marbre. Son regard était perçant et vide, son nez noblement arqué. Mais une joue s'écaillait. Des végétations légères, étranges, vertes et roses, envahissaient le menton. Peut-être un hiver de plus la jetterait bas.

—Tenez, monsieur, si vous aimez la peinture, regardez le portrait de Mme de Montmorency, dit Mme de Villeparisis à Legrandin pour interrompre les compliments qui recommençaient.

Profitant de ce qu'il s'était éloigné, Mme de Guermantes le désigna à sa tante d'un regard ironique et interrogateur.

—C'est M. Legrandin, dit à mi-voix Mme de Villeparisis; il a une soeur qui s'appelle Mme de Cambremer, ce qui ne doit pas, du reste, te dire plus qu'à moi.

—Comment, mais je la connais parfaitement, s'écria en mettant sa main devant sa bouche Mme de Guermantes. Ou plutôt je ne la connais pas, mais je ne sais pas ce qui a pris à Basin, qui rencontre Dieu sait où le mari, de dire à cette grosse femme de venir me voir. Je ne peux pas vous dire ce que ç'a été que sa visite. Elle m'a raconté qu'elle était allée à Londres, elle m'a énuméré tous les tableaux du British. Telle que vous me voyez, en sortant de chez vous je vais fourrer un carton chez ce monstre. Et ne croyez pas que ce soit des plus faciles, car sous prétexte qu'elle est mourante elle est toujours chez elle et, qu'on y aille à sept heures du soir ou à neuf heures du matin, elle est prête à vous offrir des tartes aux fraises.

—Mais bien entendu, voyons, c'est un monstre, dit Mme de Guermantes à un regard interrogatif de sa tante. C'est une personne impossible: elle dit «plumitif», enfin des choses comme ça. —Qu'est-ce que ça veut dire «plumitif»? demanda Mme de Villeparisis à sa nièce? —Mais je n'en sais rien! s'écria la duchesse avec une indignation feinte. Je ne veux pas le savoir. Je ne parle pas ce français-là. Et voyant que sa tante ne savait vraiment pas ce que voulait dire plumitif, pour avoir la satisfaction de montrer qu'elle était savante autant que puriste et pour se moquer de sa tante après s'être moquée de Mme de Cambremer:—Mais si, dit-elle avec un demi-rire, que les restes de la mauvaise humeur jouée réprimaient, tout le monde sait ça, un plumitif c'est un écrivain, c'est quelqu'un qui tient une plume. Mais c'est une horreur de mot. C'est à vous faire tomber vos dents de sagesse. Jamais on ne me ferait dire ça.

—Comment, c'est le frère! je n'ai pas encore réalisé. Mais au fond ce n'est pas incompréhensible. Elle a la même humilité de descente de lit et les mêmes ressources de bibliothèque tournante. Elle est aussi flagorneuse que lui et aussi embêtante. Je commence à me faire assez bien à l'idée de cette parenté.

Le Coté de Guermantes Gutenberg.


Posted by: Eugene Wyatt
9/16/2015 9:56 pm
Labels: Guermantes Way, Wit